Page 119 of Dagger

I swallowed the bile rising in my throat as I burst through the doors to the parking lot and hurried toward my bike. “Brain buckets on!” I instructed, grabbing mine from the handlebars of my bike, which was parked in my regular space. “Nobody rides without one. We’re goin’ fast, boys. Speed limits won’t apply today.”

Cash strode to his bike, parked next to mine. “Let’s move,” he bellowed.

An engine roared to life. I glanced over my shoulder to see Kit already speeding out of the compound.

I shoved my helmet over my head and pulled my chin strap tight. “Need you here, Son. One of us has gotta stay. This could be a trap, and they might attack the clubhouse.” I turned to Abe. “Please, brother, you stay, too.”

Cash opened his mouth to argue or tell me to fuck off, but I spoke first, effectively cutting him off. “I’ll deal, Son. I won’t let you down. If Shotgun’s ratted us out, I’ll bring him back for you to deal with.”

Cash’s hand went to the top of his head in despair. “Look after my woman and boy, Dad. Please.” The heel of his handmoved to his eye, and he pressed down to stop the moisture from escaping. “If they die, I’ll follow ‘em.”

“Nobody’s dying except those sick fucks,” Atlas gritted out before bellowing, “Let’s fuckin’ ride.”

The parking lot filled with roars, and without even bothering to get into formation, we shot through the gates and sped up the road leading out of town.

The clenching of my chest took my breath away, and I prayed to God that I didn’t have a damned heart attack on the side of the road.

A part of me was going crazy, thinking about what could be happening, but I still couldn’t quite believe Shotgun might be a traitor to the club. He was my brother; we’d stood side by side, fighting the good fight. Nothing could sway him over to the dark side.

Could it?

My thoughts went back to the day I forced Colt into the ring.

I remembered that same morning, storming out of Colt’s room and going straight to the bar where Shot sat drinking coffee with some other brothers. He took one look at me and could tell by my expression that something had gone down.

My voice was hoarse when I told them about our brother and Freya. Then, the second I told him Colt was a Fed, he snarled. The other brothers were pissed, and rightly so; one of our own had been lying to us for months, but Shotgun seemed to take it personally. It was Shot who suggested taking something into the ring that would knock Colt on his ass.

And I did it gladly.

Even after the shit hit the fan, I never blamed Shotgun for any of it. It was my decision, and I took responsibility for it. But thinking back, Shotgun stood at my back, whispering shit about how a real MC prez would deal with betrayal.

Did it influence my decision? No. My intent was always to beat Colt’s ass in the ring.

Did he encourage it? Yes, he loved every damned destructive minute of it.

And I had to ask myself why.

Colt had always been good to the brothers. He came from money and helped the club and brothers out countless times, even Shotgun. So why would Shot want to see me beat his ass?

Where was his loyalty?

What had Colt done to make Shotgun want him beat to shit?

I thought back, wracking my brain for a sign or anything that would explain what Cash, Breaker, and Atlas were so adamant about.

After the fight, Shotgun started to act like the big man, milking the attention he got for standing by my side and acting as my second. He went too far one day, disrespecting Atlas when my SAA gave him an order. I had to call him in my office and tell him a few home truths, which he didn’t take kindly to.

That day seemed to be the catalyst for Shotgun pulling away from the club. I understood, Shot had his pride, so when I called him in and told him in no uncertain terms that if he spoke to Atlas like a cunt again, it’d be him in the ring getting a beatdown, I expected him to lick his wounds.

Except that was months ago, and instead of getting over it, Shot withdrew more.

Something slithered through my gut, weaved up my chest, and into my throat.

Swallowing it down, I concentrated on the road ahead, clearing my mind and getting into fight mode, because one thing was for sure…

If Shotgun hurt our women, he was a dead man walking.

Chapter Twenty

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