Page 35 of Savage Fire

Odin reached out and slapped his hand to Stone’s shoulder, a silent sign of support. Of brotherhood, even between clubs on different sides of the law.

The rest of Church was spent discussing which of the several highly trained security specialists at Savage Protection would be assigned to keeping their eyes on key points of interest to the Medevs. Bars, restaurants, clubs, and strip joints they owned, operated, and generally just hung out around. They didn’t hide where they congregated, and Grimm knew that some of the police were on the take with the Medevs, but the Savage Raiders had such a stellar relationship with the LVPD, it only took a few calls to get the dirt on the current Medev operations in the city.

Not having a reason to deal with them before, the Raiders had largely ignored the Russian brotherhood, choosing to stick to their own legal, highly lucrative endeavors. Now, however, they were gonna crawl up the Bratva’s ass so far, they’d be tasting motor oil and leather every time they swallowed.

No matter how long they discussed their plans, what to expect, the truth rang like a death knell over the clubhouse.

War was coming to Las Vegas.

And the Savage Raiders MC were right smack in the middle of it. Sure, they could ignore it and let the Colombians and Russians gang up against the Italians, but then the whole of the MC would be guilty of letting innocent people get hurt. Get killed. They couldn’t do that. No man who ever wore a Raiders patch could call themselves a man if they didn’t act. So, the Savage Raiders were wading in.

It meant that they needed to call in the nomads and shore up their defenses. While the five nomads currently marauding the roads of the US wouldn’t add enough numbers to face down a whole Cartel, Fang knew each man had a specialty that Odin would utilize. The Raiders weren’t large in number, having only a total of twenty-five members, but they had allies, including the Stonecutters MC, which had another twenty brothers, though they couldn’t spare more than a handful at one time. And the current roster of Raiders brothers were all well-trained. What their brotherhood lacked in size, they made up for in strength.

If the Russians and Colombians brought war to Vegas, the Savage Raiders would ride into battle on chrome stallions.

Shit.

War.

Fang sucked in a breath to clear his weary mind. War meant that, once the Mendozas and the Medevs realized the Raiders were rising up to push back, the Mendoza’s and the Medevs would push just as hard. The women were the most vulnerable. Skathi, Fae…Tessa. Fang knew to the depths of his soul that the Colombians had no issue with hurting women and children, using the most vulnerable of them to make a point. To pierce to the heart of a man’s weakness. Fang could remember many a time when Jose had used a wife or child to make an example. To punish. Rape, torture, beheading. All so he could play the powerful drug lord and leave devastation and fear in his wake. The Russians…those motherfuckers were as cold as the artic ice from where they were born.

Once Church was over, Fang decided to hit up the gym, Savage Fist, to beat the shit out of a heavy bag to blow off some of the tension, anger, and self-loathing that was boiling in his guts.

“I hate you….”No one hated him as much as he did.

“I’m dead to you….”He’d never felt more alive than when he was with her. His heart. His Fire. His Tessa.

Tessa had gutted him. Eviscerated him. Cut the heart right from his body. And he didn’t know if he’d ever truly recover. Throughout the morning, he’d received more than twenty texts from his Bees, each one checking in on him, or telling him they were thinking about him, or offering to provide him stress relief with their cunts or mouth. He’d ignored every single one, not in the mood to deal with them. If he ever would be again. He wasn’t a complete ass—though Tess would disagree with that notion, and right now, he would too—so he knew he couldn’t blame them for the outcome of his fuck up the day before. It was all on him. He only had himself to blame for being such an arrogant, ignorant, heartless motherfucker.

His cell ringing tore him from his thoughts, stopping him from mounting his bike which he’d parked as far away from the clubhouse as possible because he didn’t feel like gabbing with any of his brothers are they all scurried from Church.

UNKNOWN CALLER….

That wasn’t unusual. As the manager of the MMA gym, he often got calls from fight promoters and MMA agents looking to use the club-owned gym or his connections to organize a fight.

Answering, Fang wasn’t prepared for the familiar and unwelcomed voice on the other end of the line. After the first utterance, the whole of him locked up, his breath catching in his chest.

No. It motherfucking couldn’t be.

“Hola, hermano. You’re a difficult man to pin down.” Jorge motherfucking Calderone.

Growling, Fang barely bit back a curse. “You promised. I am dead to you, Jorge. I am dead to all of you. To you, I do not exist.” The more he spoke, the angrier he became until each breath burned, until each pulse in his veins roared.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Slick and Ringmaster look his way, their expressions curious. Alert. Thankfully, they didn’t move toward him, because none of them—none of them—could know what the hell was going on.

How could he tell men, his brothers, who’d he’d lived and fought and killed with that he’d been keeping a secret as monumental as being a former member of a Colombian Cartel. They’d never trust him again. They’d drag his ass into the desert, make him dig his own grave, then put a bullet between his eyes.

And Odin would be the one to pull the trigger.

Mostly, the brothers all kept things from their pasts to themselves. But he could guaran-damn-tee that none of them were once high-ranking members of one of the bloodiest, deadliest flesh-peddling Cartels in living memory.

“If this were anything but important, I would have left you alone,hermano,” Jorge replied, his tone edged with calm, icy, malice. Jorge never did like it when people talked back, especially when he believed he had the upper hand.

Fuck him! There was nothing in his life in any way attached to his old one, the one he thought long dead and buried—because he’d been promised it was so. Apparently, Jorge’s word was as good as dog shit.

The sound of the door opening at his back made him turn to see Hound exiting the building, a cigarette already placed between his lips. He gave Fang a chin lift and proceeded to light it, ignoring Fang’s presence.

But in that moment, something clicked on in Fang’s brain.

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