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“On his left?”

Of course, Crimson goes for it. That’s the job, and he won’t leave it undone.

“Yeah.” My jaw ticks. Lincoln goes down next, clutching his jaw. Or what’s left of it. I grimace, feeling for the man for a split-second before I remember his hands on Poppy’s chest, her face empty, devoid of everything.

“Fucker deserves it,” I say, vehemence littering my voice.

“Now we go?” Crimson is completely uninterested in the carnage he’s just caused. The brief is fulfilled. We didn’t touch the president or any of the Saints’ officers. There’s a plan for that too.

And pretty soon, we’re going to be their new targets. But Crimson can handle himself, and I’m less worried about him than the repercussions of what comes next.

I hear them before they arrive, the combined roar of a club on the prowl, right before the shots start. My hand presses to Crimson’s back as he starts to crawl backward, already dismantling his weapon.

“Stay down.” The bowl beneath us is obscured as dust lifts in a cyclonic effect. I can’t see Poppy anymore, but neither can the Saints locate us. Guns go off, and I shove my sniper’s face into the dirt.

“Anks, eeer,” comes from my side.

I grin into the dust, pure rage sluicing through me. “Stay here, fucker.”

Crimson’s mumbled reply is lost in the roar of the Sons of Sin circling above the dust bowl where Tyrant has decided to make his stand. Where he thinks he can use his daughter as bait to lure me in. Where he thinks he will win.

Enjoy that loss, asshole.

What sort of a father cuts up his own daughter, bruises her precious skin, or turns her into a weapon to use against herself?

Shoving every other distraction from my head, I skid down the inside of the dirt bowl, feet first. Dust precedes me, concealing my entrance. Bullets fly in both directions. The Sons are still circling above, creating a dust tornado, but I suspect they’ve grown tired of being targets and have started shooting back, despite my orders to the contrary. Saint has never been good with those. That means I have limited time before Poppy becomes collateral in her own war.

Her blade is in my hand, the handle fine and worn, but a good fit. It’s not as strong as I would have liked but it’s the intent that matters as I plunge it into the first man’s neck, rip it across, and spin to the next shadow.

Anyone standing is a target. She’s down, so she’s safe—from me. From anyone else, including her father and catching a stray bullet? Not so much. Which means speed and time are both on my side and enemies all at once.

Feet shuffle near me. I drop and sweep a leg, stabbing downward at the shadow that grunts as the body hits the dust.

Four.

Tyrant brought eight men with him. That leaves me with only one other target left, should the Sons not have taken the prez out by accident for me.

“Did you think it would be so easy?” Tyrant’s voice reaches me through a veil of grit and gloom. The dust has obscured the sun, blocking out daylight. Engine noise is everywhere. Bullets still fly. And yet, the asshole stands.

I step closer, making him out with a blade to my girl’s throat.

“Fucking coward,” I seethe. “Hiding behind her.”

“As you hid with your man.” He shows teeth, revealed only by the dull glint of his diamond grill through the dust. “Not bad, Nomad.”

Once, that title was a disgrace. An outcast name of no family and unclaimed blood. But the roar around us these days shows that Nomad means something different now. A claim on life and road. A family beyond the club’s borders.

“This is who we are,” I murmur, and my words are for Poppy.

She stirs, and the motion jars me. Her father doesn’t see it, because he’s arrogant enough to think she’s weak. That all he’s trained is a piece of meat to taunt the next man with, a toy for him to use at will and toss aside. She knows better, and he can’t see it.

Who is the more pathetic lifeform here?

I hope she uses what I gift her and ends his life. I’ll take pleasure in excavating that dark stain beneath the chair he had tied her to and burying him in a nameless grave. But this war isn’t over yet. His officers are dead by my hand. He will come for us again, though it won’t be today. It won’t be here.

First, she needs to show him who she is.

“We all have our skills. And our secrets.” I throw the barb at Tyrant as I toss the knife to his daughter. Her knife, which she catches just fine in her free hand. Her fingers close on the grip, deft as she swings the blade about and plunges it into his forearm.