The heavy metal body.

The faded green paint.

The polished gold name Rravhem engraved across the miniature fuel tank.

Cole knew his brother.

Rravhem had always been cunning.

And paranoid.

Careful to the point of obsession.

There would be no safer place to hide a memory card than somewhere the enemy would never think to look.

Right in plain sight.

Disguised as a child’s toy.

The safe was not buried underground.

It was in the boy’s hands.

“Jimmy,” Cole said quietly.

His voice had turned cold as ice.

“Open the cases. Bring out the heavy firepower.”

“Cole!” Sarah cried in horror. “Have you lost your mind? There are too many of them!”

“Wyatt! Jax! Miller!”

Cole’s roar cut through her words like a knife.

“Line the bikes up as a barricade in front of the porch. Wyatt, get Sarah and the kid inside. Block every entrance. Move!”

Jax and Miller obeyed without hesitation, even though fear had drained the color from their faces.

They understood what the emblem on their backs meant.

Hells Angels did not abandon the family of a brother.

Far out on the horizon, where Route 93 vanished into the shimmering mirage of the desert heat, a massive gray-white cloud of dust began to rise.

It was not the dust trail of a single long-haul truck.

It was the dust of a convoy.

And it was coming fast.

Chapter 5: The Ledger of Death

It took less than three minutes for the distant cloud of dust to become four dark shapes.

Four matte-black armored SUVs roared toward the Oasis diner, their heavily tinted windows impossible to see through.

Brakes screamed.

The vehicles stopped in a perfect arc, completely sealing off every exit from the cracked parking lot.

Their doors opened almost simultaneously.

More than fifteen men climbed out.

They wore Kevlar tactical armor.

Some carried AR-15 rifles.

Others held MP5 submachine guns or shotguns.

They moved in disciplined combat formations with the precision of trained professionals—former special forces soldiers who had traded uniforms for cartel money.

A heavily built man stepped out of the lead vehicle.

He wore an expensive custom-tailored ash-gray suit that looked absurdly out of place beneath the desert heat.

His face was broad and square, marked by a long scar running from the left side of his mouth all the way to the corner of his eye.

Mendoza.

The most vicious attack dog of the Iron Syndicate.

“Well, well, well...”

Mendoza smiled coldly as his voice boomed through a small handheld loudspeaker.

“I thought this dump had been abandoned. Instead, I find a pack of old stray dogs.”

His smile widened.

“Hells Angels. Tight leather. Too much beard. What are you boys doing out here? Get lost on the way to the retirement home?”

Behind the steel mass of a Harley’s V-twin engine, Cole spat onto the ground.

His right hand gripped the handle of a loaded .45-caliber pistol.

“We just stopped for a beer and some fresh air,” Cole called back, his voice carrying easily without a speaker. “And I didn’t see any sign saying we couldn’t park here.”

His eyes narrowed.

“Turn around, Mendoza. It’s too damn hot today, and I don’t feel like cleaning your corpses off this parking lot.”

Mendoza gave a dry laugh.

“You’ve got nerve, Cole. I heard stories about you back in El Paso.”

His expression hardened.

“But I don’t have time to play games with washed-up bikers.”

He raised the loudspeaker again.

“I’m here to recover Syndicate property. Hand over the woman and the kid inside. And the diner.”

His voice became almost casual.

“If you walk away nicely, I’ll let your pack of old dogs live.”