Page 1 of April 5

Prologue

TWENTY YEARS EARLIER–

Sirens grew louder. Jagger stared down at the man who'd killed his dad, Bruce "Baller" Corbin, last month. The hole in the man's forehead was only a dot, while a river of red flowed out the back of his skull and painted the asphalt.

"Come on. We need to get out of here." Ruger smacked Jagger's shoulder. "Shake it off, and let's get the hell out of here."

He'd seen men die. But he'd never taken a life before.

"I hear them coming." Ruger pulled the nine millimeter out of Jagger's hand. "It's done, man. Let's go."

He'd stood at the door of the crematory while his dad was incinerated, swearing vengeance on the one who had shot Baller on his way home from the clubhouse.

The man went by the name Trader. He sold women and drugs and had a vendetta against Havlin Motorcycle Club for kicking him off the streets of Beaverton. Now, he was dead because Jagger shot him.

Ruger yanked Jagger by the back of the vest. "Come on."

A wave of relief swept through him. He'd done it.

He turned away from the body and jogged, keeping up with Ruger.

"They're close," shouted Ruger.

"Keep going." He looked behind him as he ran.

It was his crime. Ruger came with him because he was the one man he trusted with his life. He also knew Ruger would let him take the man down for killing Baller without talking him out of it. An eye for an eye.

A police car rounded the corner ahead of them. Red and blue lights flashed, urging them on. Their bikes were another block away. They'd never make it.

Ruger pointed, cutting down an alley. Jagger followed, knocking down garbage cans as he weaved between the two buildings to slow the police.

The cop car ran over the cans, not stopping.

"I'll stay back. You go," he shouted.

Ruger caught Jagger's gaze. "I don't leave a brother."

"We're not going to make it."

"We'll make it." Ruger panted. "I have to make it."

Jagger ran faster. He had no one depending on him. Ruger had Katrina. She was just a baby who needed her dad.

A patrol car careened to a stop in front of them, blocking their escape. Jagger turned, prepared to run in the opposite direction, and found every exit blocked. He looked up at the sides of the buildings. There were no ground-floor windows.

"We're fucked." Ruger grabbed Jagger's vest. "You think they found the dead body?"

He never answered. Someone had to have seen them. That was the only reason the cops would be after them.

"Stop and put your hands in the air," came over the loudspeaker.

The driver's side of the cop's car opened, and a pistol barrel pointed at them. It was the end of the line. They weren't going to get out of here.

Jagger put his hands up. "Tell 'em you weren't here. Tell 'em you walked up on me afterward."

Beside him, Ruger raised his arms. "Too late. I'm going down."

Jagger looked at him and frowned. "What the fuck are you talking about? I shot him."

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