Page 1 of Colt

Prologue

Dagger ~ Twelve Years Before

The roar of tailpipes echoed through the dive bar, drowning out the chorus of female voices emanating from the jukebox, ye-hawing about how they were gonna put their man back in the goddamned fucking saddle.

My back stiffened slightly as catcalls and hollers permeated the air, thickened by the stench of cigarettes and stale beer. Slowly, I slid my hand inside my leather jacket.

Glock. Check. Knife. Check.

I ducked my head, pulling the baseball cap lower to cover my eyes.

The only way the Burning Sinners would expect me to be sitting in a bar on their turf, having a beer like it was the most normal thing in the world, was if some fucker had rumbled me. By the sound of Thrash’s shouts getting closer, I knew someone had been getting chatty.

I often came here to recon, always wearing a cap, staying quiet and in the shadows. Too much alcohol led to loose lips, and loose lips sunk ships, at least when it came to the Sinners.

My MC, the Speed Demons, were well-trained. Every brother knew to never talk about club business outside Church. The Burning Sinners didn’t have that discipline, and thanks to their lack of training and too much beer, I knew exactly which bastard to look for, except he wasn’t there.

Seemed his daddy was about to enter the fray, though.

I swallowed bile down as the double doors flew open so forcefully they slammed against the walls. My stare rested on Thrash—the Sinners’ Prez—who sauntered into the bar, followed by Dog, his VP, and Ratchet, one of his enforcers, who was tweaking like he needed a fix and fast.

Thrash scanned the room, eyes eventually reaching me and doing a double take. He held up his hand, a silent order to lower the music. The second it quietened, he called over, “You take a wrong turn, asshole?”

Snickers rose through the room, every eye turning with interest toward the stand-off.

I knew I was in a trouble. Every other time I came here, I’d flown under the radar. Maybe I’d gotten complacent. Too late now, though. The only thing I could do was act like I planned the entire fucking thing.

Making a show of lounging nonchalantly back in my chair, my stare flicked over Thrash and the minions by his side. “When we handed operations over to you, it was on the premise you kept your bullshit away from my town. Am I right, or do you need to phone a fuckin’ friend?”

Thrash’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve gotta lotta mouth for someone who’s outnumbered and outgunned. Spit it out, Dagger. What ya bleatin’ about now?”

I sat forward, elbows to knees, hands dangling down, never taking my stare away from Thrash. “Some kids were partyin’ in the woods just West of Hambleton when one of the girls went missin’. Some big fucker jumped her when she went to pee, then he assaulted her just yards away from her friends. Threatened to kill her if she called for help.”

A hush fell over the room.

“I feel bad for the poor bitch,” Thrash sneered. “But it’s nothin’ to do with me or mine.”

“Ain’t it?” I curled my fingers around the neck of the beer bottle, a ready-made weapon if I needed it. “’Cause word on the street is that your boy was the one who did it. The girl described him to a tee, even down to the scar on his chin.” I sat straight again, glancing around the bar. “Been overhearin’ some shit since I’ve been here too, Thrash. Seems Bear’s got some explainin’ to do.”

Thrash’s lip curled. “Bullshit.”

“Nah,” I retorted. “All true. Your boy’s a fuckin’ pervert.”

The other man’s face reddened as murmurs and whispers rose up. “You gotta fuckin’ nerve comin’ into my bar and accusin’ my boy of that shit,” he roared.

I cocked an eyebrow like the brazen motherfucker I was. “Save the bluster. All you need to do is hand Bear over, and we’ll be good.”

Thrash looked around at the bar full of people, whispering between themselves at my accusations. It didn’t look good on him, Bear, or his club. The Burning Sinners were no choirboys. In fact, they were the source of every goddamned drug flowing through the county. Still, Thrash couldn’t afford to be publicly associated with a rapist, especially when it involved his boy.

“Everybody out!” Dog hollered.

Of course, Thrash would make everybody leave. He wouldn’t want the entire bar to overhear the shit I had to say. The only problem was, I was a sitting duck.

Beer bottle still in hand, I got to my feet, watching as the patrons began downing their drinks. My stare fell on a figure hunched over the bar, beer in hand, scrolling on his cell phone. Our eyes caught for a split second before his blue-eyed stare lowered.

A jolt of recognition went through me. It felt like I knew the kid. But his dark blond hair and good looks didn’t put me in mind of anyone in particular.

My gaze flitted to the woman who’d been cleaning glasses behind the bar. She threw her cloth on the counter and reached down for her purse, before turning and disappearing through a back door.

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