Axle didn’t waver. Violent and vicious, with sharp features and dark eyes, he was a crack shot and always the first to draw his weapon in a fight. And although Jagger shared Axle’s need for vengeance and retribution for the wrong done to the club, he couldn’t in good conscience condone the execution of a man when there was, as yet, no evidence of his guilt.
“We have to make a statement.” Axle’s face twisted in a snarl, and he glanced over at the gathering crowd of angry bikers. “Everyone will expect it—our mother chapter, rival MCs, the Russians, the Mafia, the Mexican cartels, even the Triads. We do nothing, and they’ll smell weakness. He’s gotta pay a blood price for what he’s done to our club, and I’m willing to collect it.” He gave the unconscious biker a hard kick in the ribs, drawing murmurs of encouragement from the crowd.
Jagger cursed under his breath and holstered his weapon beneath his cut. He maintained his leadership position by using coercion and power to impose his will on his brothers. Drawing his weapon on Axle, as he was tempted to do, would suggest he could no longer control Axle by force of will alone—an admission of weakness that could cost him his presidency, even his life. He fisted his hand at his side and glared “My club. My call. If you shoot him, it’ll be the last fucking thing you ever do.”
Axle stood motionless above the fallen biker, sweat beading his brow as he toyed with his gun, no doubt weighing the chance to be the club hero against the very real possibility Jagger would make good his threat.
Jagger’s pulse pounded out each second of delay. Axle had been a thorn in his side far too long, but until now, he’d been smart enough never to openly defy Jagger, preferring instead to skulk resentfully in the shadows, making underhanded attempts to erode Jagger’s power base. Tonight, however, the emotionally charged situation was clearly an opportunity Axle couldn’t pass up. He had finally shown his hand. But Jagger hadn’t held the presidency for five years without knowing how to deal with snakes like Axle.
“Step away. I’ll deal with him.” Pointedly ignoring Axle’s weapon, and without waiting for Axle’s compliance, Jagger crouched down beside the unmoving figure. Small for a Ninja rider and thin … almost delicate. He carefully rolled the unconscious biker to the side, and his fists convulsed with suppressed rage when he saw the Black Jacks MC patch, a jack from a deck of playing cards with a skull for a face.
Zane muttered a curse. Wheels let out a long, low whistle. Even Jagger startled. The Black Jacks and the Sinner’s Tribe had been engaged in a feud over territory for years. But two years ago, the high death toll had drawn the attention of federal authorities and the national media, driving away the illicit underground black market that was the bread and butter of Montana’s outlaw MC operations. In the interest of self-preservation, Jagger and the Black Jacks president, Viper, had called an uneasy truce. The Black Jacks took control of Montana’s drug trade, and the Sinner’s Tribe took over the more lucrative contracts in illegal arms trafficking. With both clubs claiming dominance of the state, the occasional skirmish was unavoidable. But for the most part, the truce had held.
Until now.
Axle cocked his gun and gestured at the two-piece patch on the fallen biker’s cut. “He’s wearing fucking Jacks colors. Outta my way, Jagger. The feud is back on.”
“He’s not a full-patch brother.” Wheels shot Axle a pleading look and then slid his gaze to Jagger. “He’s missing the bottom rocker. He might only be a prospect doing what he was told to do. You can’t just kill him.” Wheels edged closer to the fallen biker. “We don’t even know if he’s the one who set the fire.”
“We can do whatever the fuck we want.” Axle shot Wheels an irritated glance. “The Sinners are one-percenters. You know what that means, prospect? It means we’re the one percent of bikers who don’t follow fucking civilian law. We make our own rules, follow our own codes, and administer our own justice. And the penalty for burning down our clubhouse is death.”
Jagger pushed himself to his feet, taking advantage of his six-foot-two-inch frame as he loomed over Axle. “Last I heard, I was the president of the Sinner’s Tribe. That means administering justice is my call. And after talking to Gunner, I’m not convinced the Ninja rider is the man who torched our clubhouse.”
Axle’s face lit with bitter triumph, and he offered his weapon to Jagger, an insulting gesture, since he knew Jagger was carrying a gun. “Doesn’t matter. He’s a Black Jack. In a matter of honor, one Jack is as good as the next. So do your duty. Give us justice. Revenge. Show us what you’re made of, Oh great leader.”
Jagger took the offered weapon, removed the magazine, then stepped forward and smashed the butt of the gun into Axle’s head. Axle dropped to his knees, then slumped on the ground.