Page 46 of Ridin’ Dirty

He was where he belonged.

“Yo, Pistol.”

He turned to look back over his shoulder at the sound of Nighthawk’s voice. The two men locked eyes before the president nodded, signaling his enforcer to drop what he was doing. Pistol didn’t need his leader to speak to know the time had come for him to own up to what he did. It was his business to handle, and he wasn’t about to apologize for it. But the kutte he wore, and the one he buried, meant it was club business, too.

Cobra straightened, earning Pistol’s attention, and he watched as the VP glanced at Nighthawk before shifting his gaze down at Pistol. “Go on, then,” he ordered, extracting a rag from his back pocket. “This’ll still be here when you get back.”

Pistol set aside his tools before reaching for his own rag. As he wiped at the grease coating his fingers, he trailed after Nighthawk, following him out of the garage and around to the vacant side of the building. Reaper, who’d been laying nearby, was quick to join them.

“You’ve been busy,” observed Nighthawk, folding his arms across his chest.

Pistol said nothing in reply but waited for the president to continue.

Nighthawk coughed out a short, humorless laugh. “It’s annoying as hell how reliably consistent you are. Beat the hell out of that King three years ago, and no one knows why. You get your freedom back, finish the job, and still no one can figure out what the fuck that man did to you.”

With no question to answer, and no point to negate, Pistol kept his mouth shut.

Nighthawk smiled, but Pistol knew it was a look of defeat more than anything else. This was confirmed when Nighthawk uncrossed his arms and reached up to pull his fingers through his long, blond hair before running a hand over his beard—his whiskers whiter than Pistol remembered. With a sigh, he got to the point.

“Whatever your reasons, it’s done but it’s not over.”

“I wasn’t reckless. It was handled with care.”

“Amount of time I imagine you took to plan this whole thing out, I have no doubt. It’s not the cops I’m worried about. That man will be missed. Soon. If not already. You’ve been gone a while, but the peace between our club and theirs is still as fragile as it’s always been. You prepared for retaliation?”

“They’d have to prove it was us, and they won’t,” Pistol stated confidently.

“Doesn’t guarantee they won’t start a war anyway.”

“Look, Prez—wouldn’t have done it just to settle some stupid score. This wasn’t revenge, it was retribution. Whatever happens next, it was worth it. Just hope my brothers will have my back.”

This earned Pistol a frown. “No question. But I don’t want to be surprised. Puttin’ you on recon. You start today. I want to know what they’re sayin’, where they’re lookin’, and if they’re plannin’ anything.”

“Understood,” he replied with a dip of his chin.

Thinking they were done, Pistol turned to head back to the garage, but Nighthawk stopped him.

“Not so fast.”

Pistol raised his brow in curiosity.

“Lyla,” was all his president said.

News of their marriage spread fast.

The drama from the night before caught like a wildfire, and Pistol knew it.

If it were almost anyone else, he’d have blown him off.

But it wasn’t anyone else.

It was Prez.

“What about her?”

“I’ve been read in, so I’ve got the gist—but from what I can tell, you’re actin’ on instinct and nothin’ else.”

Pistol opened his mouth to respond, but Nighthawk held up a hand and kept on talking.