It was about . . .

Freedom.

But Hawk didn’t have that same freedom. It wasn’t the same for him. And it never would be.

Like a lot of his brothers, Hawk was just another piece of shit Deuce had fished from the gutter. But unlike Cox or Dirty, Hawk hadn’t had a hard life spent living on the streets. At least, not at first. But neither did his upbringing resemble Ripper’s, who’d lived a good, solid life, the American dream, until he’d lost his parents at the age of seventeen.

No, Hawk had been born a spoiled and privileged son of a bitch, his mother a cocaine-addicted burlesque dancer who’d fatally overdosed when he was only three years old, his father an infamous member of the Bratva, a Russian mob boss, the one and only Avgust Polachev of the Polachev cartel.

For eighteen years he’d been a gluttonous whore, reveling in a life of overindulgence, seduction, and sin. Spoiled was putting it mildly. He’d had more money than he could have spent in ten lifetimes, as well as cars, drugs, booze, and women, all at his self-destructive disposal. He’d had it all.

Until he’d lost it all.

The summer he turned eighteen, his father was gunned down inside the man’s own home during an FBI raid. His father had gotten greedy and that greed had made him careless, and that carelessness had landed his father with an undercover federal agent on his crew. Actually, several undercover agents.

After the FBI, fitted in bulletproof vests and armed to the teeth, had broken down their door and stormed their home, they’d informed Hawk’s father of the stack of evidence they had against him. They told him he’d never again see the light of day, and that a lethal injection would be his last memory of life.

Hawk would never forget what happened next. His father, his only family, had turned to him and mouthed one single, solitary word.

Begi.

Run.

Turning back to the agents, his father had reached for his gun, as had every other man in the room. A flurry of bullets had cracked through the air, and Hawk hadn’t waited around to see what was going to happen next. After pulling his own piece, he’d run from the house as fast as he could.

He ran, and because he was a wanted man, not one of his father’s former associates would take him in. He was deadweight. His picture was all over the news and there was a price on his head. So he kept running, living in the shadows for two years until Deuce found him hiding out and digging for his dinner inside a casino dumpster.

Hawk had recognized Deuce and Deuce him, having met each other several times in the past. The Hell’s Horsemen motorcycle club president hadn’t been a friend of his father’s, but a loyal buyer, and because Deuce knew what had transpired in the wake of his father’s greed, he’d taken pity on Hawk and took him in.

Deuce’s connections provided Hawk with a fake birth certificate and driver’s license, giving him a new identity. He’d become James Alexander Young, a New York native who for all intents and purposes was a big, fat nobody. Deuce burned off his fingerprints, gave him a Harley and a haircut, nicknamed him “Hawk,” then took him home to Miles City, Montana, where he’d begun the second chapter of his life.

His Russian accent had been the first thing to go. Luckily it was slight compared to the heavy Slavic intonations of his father and friends, developed only because he’d grown up around it. But even so, his transition from mob prince to homeless grifter had been easy in comparison to his transition from homeless grifter to biker.

Learning to ride a motorcycle hadn’t been the hard part; the most difficult transformation had been learning to live and breathe leather and chrome, to talk the talk and walk the walk. The Hell’s Horsemen, while still a highly profitably criminal organization, were the underbelly of the world Hawk had come from. Whereas his father had once been at the top of the food chain and considered men like Deuce and his boys necessary trash, Hawk was now at the mercy of them. Funny how life worked out sometimes.

As a Hell’s Horsemen prospect he’d kept his head down, stayed quiet, kept to himself, and did what he was told. That diligence and intense survival instinct ensured he acclimated quickly, gained loyal friends among his brothers, and was unanimously voted in a full-fledged Horseman.

No one but Deuce knew who he really was, something that Deuce had told him was for his own protection from other MCs looking to make a quick buck or weaken another club. Therefore no one, not even Deuce’s top boys, were allowed in on the secret. Which was just fine with Hawk, since even the most loyal of brothers could turn on you.

It was the reason he was in Las Vegas.

Just this morning Deuce had gotten a tip on ZZ’s whereabouts, a former brother of the Hell’s Horsemen who, if Deuce got his way, wasn’t long for this world.

Over the last year ZZ had been spotted repeatedly across the country, part of the underground fighting circuit. He’d been made a few times in Vegas, only by the time the information had been passed down the line, the fights were over and ZZ had been long gone.

Not this time.

Blowing out a long breath, Hawk toed his kickstand down and dismounted his bike. He didn’t want to be the brother to find Z, he didn’t want to be the man to have to take the guy out. As fucked up as it was that ZZ had shot Deuce’s son, Cage, Cage had freely admitted that ZZ hadn’t drawn first, and had even spoken in his defense.

But Deuce wouldn’t be swayed. The guy had shot his son point-blank in the chest. Twice. Then he’d taken off, turning his back on what he’d done, and on the club altogether. Now he wasn’t just wanted by the law, but by Deuce. The president of the Horsemen was out for blood, and when Deuce had his mind set on something, you didn’t question him. You did as you were told or you ended up in the same sticky situation ZZ was in. Sticky with your own fucking blood.

Blood that Hawk was going to have to spill. Merry fucking Christmas to him. His only saving grace was that after this he was headed to San Francisco for the holidays, to see his boy . . . and Dorothy.

As if on cue, he felt his cell phone vibrate against his chest. Reaching inside his cut, he pulled out his phone and found a text message from Dorothy.

Christopher is wondering when you’re getting in.

Although he should have been used to this by now, Dorothy’s refusal to acknowledge that they’d once shared something more than just their child, he found himself frowning.

All her texts, all their phone conversations, even their face-to-face time, were only ever about Christopher. Even after all this time had passed, she was still going well out of her way to ensure he didn’t get the wrong idea.

What he wouldn’t give to wrap his hand around her fucking throat and give her a nice, hearty shake. Despite what she thought, he wasn’t a fucking moron clinging to some childish hope that someday she’d realize she still had feelings for him. Maybe way back when, when she’d been coming to him desperate for something Jase could never give her. Freedom. The freedom to let go in a way she never could with Jase, because with him she hadn’t been trying to win a prize, she hadn’t had the same feelings of inadequacy, the constant looming threat that if she wasn’t as good as Chrissy was, as beautiful, as giving and loving, that Jase would leave her.

All that pent-up misery, all that desperation, all that hidden anger and harbored resentment, he’d gotten the brunt of all of it. Once Dorothy had realized he was her safe place, she’d never held back on the crying and the yelling, and she’d taken it all out on him . . . him and his cock.

But that was then and this was now, and things weren’t the same. Not even close.

He’d gotten her message loud and fucking clear about who she really wanted on the day she’d told him the baby inside her was Jase’s, even though they’d both known she was a damn liar.

Yeah, he’d fucked that all up. Taking what hadn’t been his to take, forcing her hand, essentially blackmailing her into his bed, none of it had been the right way to woo a woman you wanted. But even now, older and wiser, he still couldn’t bring himself to regret not even one fucking second of it. Not when it had resulted in the birth of his son. Hearing that little boy call him Daddy, seeing those big eyes looking up to him for . . . everything. No fucking way would he ever regret a single moment that had led to Christopher. Not a chance in hell.

Still, he’d always kept his feelings, his yearnings, and his disappointments to himself. Well, other than announcing to all and sundry that Christopher was most certainly his. After finding out Dorothy had been shot, not knowing whether she was going to live or die, there was no way in hell he was going to let a lying, cheating piece of shit like Jase Brady raise his kid.

A good thing, too, seeing as Jase couldn’t seem to do much of anything since then other than lift a bottle to his mouth.

I’ll be there tomorrow.

As he typed out his message, he felt his dour mood begin to lighten. Shit might be in permanent stasis between him and the woman he loved, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t thankful for the time he got to spend with them in some semblance of a family. When you lived on the road, you learned to appreciate the little things.

“Brother.”

Hawk recognized Hammer’s voice before the man himself walked out from the shadows. Hammer was president of the Las Vegas chapter of the Hell’s Horsemen motorcycle club. With a shaved head, sparrow beard, and built like a tank, Hammer was a fearsome-looking beast of a man. He’d gotten his nickname after beating a man into a bloody, unrecognizable pulp with nothing but his own two fists.

If Hawk hadn’t been secure in his own reflexes, in knowing his trigger finger was as steady as a rock and he hit dead center hit every damn time, he might have feared the man.

“You look like hell,” Hammer said, approaching him. “Long ride?”

Sliding his phone back into his cut, Hawk shook his head. “Long fuckin’ life, brother. Long fuckin’ life.”

Hammer snorted. “I hear that. My old lady’s been givin’ me hell. Knocked up a patch whore, bitch is demandin’ money . . . I’m about ready to start eatin’ concrete outta here.”

“Been runnin’ 66 for a grip now,” Hawk said, his gaze dropping to his saddlebags. Inside lay his Miles City rocker, the patch he’d given up when he’d gone nomad. “Shit’s startin’ to wear on me.”

Hammer’s expression turned grim. “I got you, brother. I like to bitch, but ain’t nowhere I’d rather be than here with my boys. You do this job, you goin’ home?”

Hawk shrugged. He didn’t have a home, not really. As much love as he had for Deuce and the club, after everything that had happened, he wasn’t able to sit in one place for too long. He’d start dwelling on the countless things he couldn’t change, wishing for things he couldn’t have. The road was a better place for him. Running jobs across the country, keeping him busy, too busy to sit down and think about how jacked up his life really was. But Hawk had never talked about his problems, or worse, his feelings, with anyone. And he wasn’t about to start now, especially with an asshole like Hammer.

“So this shit’s for real then?” he asked, jerking his chin toward the broken-down warehouse. “Z’s really inside?”

“Shit’s real,” Hammer answered. “Seen ’im with my own two eyes. He’s lined up now, got two boys ahead of ’im. Coulda put ’bout fifty holes in ’im by now.”

Hammer’s expression hardened. “Wanted to. Man’s gotta pay the price for what he’s done.”

Hawk wished he had, wished the deed was already done, and done by anyone but him. But ZZ had been one of Deuce’s top boys. Because of that, it had to be one of his own that put him to ground. It was the rules of the road and a code they’d all sworn to live by.

Pulling his smokes out of his leather jacket, Hawk lit one up and surveyed the warehouse. “How many exits?” he asked.

“The whole fuckin’ place is full of fuckin’ holes and ready to crumble.”

“Fuck,” Hawk muttered.

“Yeah. I got three of my boys with me, each of ’em hangin’ by an exit. But this fucker’s a slippery bastard. How many times he been spotted and got away clean?”

“Too many,” Hawk said grimly. An intense wave of exhaustion washed over him, settling deep into his muscles. He took another drag off his cigarette, hoping the nicotine would shake him awake some. After all day on the road, he was more than tired. He was damn near comatose.