Tank knocked on Jagger’s office door, and Jagger called out for them to enter. Over the years, Jagger had transformed the once lavish office—decorated in old-world style with floral wallpaper, a massive cherry desk, matching built-in bookshelves, thick carpets, and a crystal chandelier—into something more fitting of a biker president. He’d kept the desk and bookshelves, but he’d had the prospects rip off the paper and paint the walls white. Now framed prints of motorcycles and scenic bike routes decorated the walls, and the patio doors leading out to the shooting range had been stripped of their heavy brocade curtains, allowing the light to flood in.
“I’ll hear you out,” Holt said to Jagger, without preamble or hesitation.
Jagger lifted an admonishing eyebrow, glanced over at Zane who lounged in the chair in front of his desk, and then back to Holt.
“You and I have some things to discuss, T-Rex. I’ll speak to you alone.”
“I’m staying.” Zane folded his arms, leaned back in his chair. He always had Jagger’s back, even when Jagger didn’t want him. There was nothing Zane wouldn’t do for Jagger. He was Jagger’s rock, his shield, and his support. Where Jagger went, Zane followed, protecting him so he could focus on the important business of running the show.
Holt had it in him to be a leader. Tank had seen it in the clubhouse and in the bar and in Hacker’s office. A leader needed a man at his back. A man he could trust. Holt might not realize it now, but he needed Tank, just as Jagger needed Zane.
“I’m staying, too.” Tank folded his arms and leaned against the wall, just like Zane. If that’s what Holt needed, that’s what he would be.
Jagger and Holt shared a look—not the look a biker president would give to an upstart junior patch who had stormed into his office demanding details of his plan, but the look of an equal. Jagger nodded, and Tank pulled the door closed.
“You coming back to the club?” Jagger nodded at Holt’s cut folded neatly on a table beside his desk.
“No.” Holt took a seat beside Zane, although Jagger hadn’t asked him to sit. Tank tried to hide his discomfort. It was going to take a while to get used to the new Holt who no longer shared the awe and reverence Tank held for Jagger and the senior patch members of the club.
“But we may be able to work together to bring Viper down. I have other things needing my attention at the rally, and I can’t be everywhere at once.”
Jagger studied Holt for a long time, assessing, considering while Tank sweated it out at the back of the room. What would happen if Jagger pulled on Holt? Or decided to beat him up and toss him out of the room? Where would his loyalties lie?
“This is my club,” Jagger said. “I’ll share our plan, but I will not be second guessed. I will not be challenged. I will not be questioned. You are in or you’re out. If you’re out, you stay out of the way.”
Holt shook his head. “I’m not after your club. Hell, I don’t even know if I want to wear a cut anymore.”
“I’m beginning to think you shouldn’t wear it,” Jagger drummed his fingers on his desk. “There can only be one leader.”
In that moment, Tank knew what would happen if Jagger pulled his gun.
There was only one man he could follow.
And it wasn’t the man who had given him his cut all those years ago.
TWENTY-SIX
Naiya squeezed the trigger on the Colt Defender Series 90 semi-automatic pistol. Her first shot missed the target. But the next two shots hit not too far from the center. She turned to Shaggy, standing a few feet behind her, and grinned.
“You were right. It does have a smoother trigger pull, and it’s easy to shoot multiple rounds quickly. When you first offered me a gun, I went for a .22 because it’s small, but this is slim and lightweight and it packs more of a punch.”
Although it was afternoon, the air was still cool and damp, fragrant with the scent of pine. Naiya fired another shot, and groaned when it went wide. She’d been practicing with Shaggy for almost two hours at the paper target handgun and small-caliber rifle range behind the Sinners’ clubhouse, but she couldn’t get any consistency with her shots. And it wasn’t for lack of trying or even need for a better teacher. Shaggy had been nothing but patient and helpful, although the intensity with which he watched her put her on edge.
Shaggy leaned against the metal railing running the full length of the field. “You got lots of practicing to do before you can approach a target without thinking through everything from your stance to your grip to the position of your arms and your sight. You got too cocky. Maybe it’s in the genes.”
“What genes?” She lowered the gun and sighed. “I never saw my mother fire a gun. My dad was a Black Jack, but I have no idea who he is. Maybe he was their top shooter or maybe he was a strung-out druggie like my mom. I’ll never know.”
Shaggy opened his mouth and closed it again. “Yeah, that’s tough.”
“I used to think he was watching over me when I lived with my mom,” she said. “But I gave up that dream when Viper…” She cut herself off, reluctant to share that very personal information with someone she barely knew.
“When Viper what?” His face tightened and his hand closed in a fist. “What did he do? If that bastard…”