Then surged upright.
The shotgun roared.
The blast tore apart the windshield of one SUV and sent a spread of buckshot into the thighs and abdomen of two attackers.
Both men collapsed, screaming.
Jax and Miller were inexperienced compared to the others, but once they saw their brothers bleeding, their fear burned away.
They used empty steel drums as makeshift cover and fired their pistols repeatedly, trying to slow the enemy’s advance.
But the Syndicate’s firepower was overwhelming.
They were organized.
They wore body armor.
And they had more ammunition than they could possibly need.
“Push forward!”
Mendoza screamed from behind an armored SUV.
“Take both flanks!”
He pulled out a submachine gun and sprayed bullets toward the front of the diner.
A round tore across Jimmy’s shoulder.
Leather split open.
A deep groove appeared in his flesh.
Jimmy gritted his teeth and stumbled backward as blood soaked his left arm.
“Cole!”
He fired again.
“Their firepower’s too heavy! We’re running out of ammo!”
From inside the diner, Wyatt had taken up position with a large-caliber hunting rifle and was firing through what remained of a shattered window.
Every shot from the giant man struck with devastating force, punching through the thinner metal panels of the SUVs.
But the rifle’s slow rate of fire was not enough.
Not against an entire squad advancing at once.
Cole knew the situation was collapsing.
Five men against fifteen heavily armed mercenaries.
It was suicide.
The Syndicate was closing the circle.
Without hesitation, Cole dropped flat against the ground and reached inside his leather jacket.
He pulled out an old flip-style satellite phone.
Ancient.
Ugly.
But reliable anywhere.
Ignoring every security protocol the club had, he dialed the emergency line directly.
Someone answered after the second ring.
A low, rough voice came through over loud music and the sharp clack of billiard balls.
“Nomad speaking.”
“It’s Cole.”
He had to shout over the gunfire.
“Oasis. Route 93. Iron Syndicate.”
Bullets struck the motorcycle beside him.
“We’re surrounded. We need backup. Every gun Vegas can bring.”
He looked toward the advancing men.
“If you’re ten minutes late, bring body bags.”
Cole snapped the phone shut and shoved it back into his jacket.
His magazine was empty.
He dropped it, slammed a fresh one into the .45, and racked the slide.
The metallic click sounded cold and final.
“Hold the line!”
Cole screamed to his battered brothers.
“Nomad’s coming! Whatever happens, they do not get inside that building!”
Across the parking lot, Mendoza smiled.
He knew the bikers had nowhere left to run.
Reaching inside his suit jacket, he pulled out an M67 fragmentation grenade.
“Let’s end this joke!”
He ripped out the safety pin and hurled the grenade in a high, perfect arc toward the barricade formed by the Harleys.
“GRENADE! DOWN!”
Cole’s scream tore through his throat.
He threw himself toward Jimmy and shoved his wounded brother out of the blast radius.