I contemplate whether I should pull the trigger and send my own message back to his boss in the form of a corpse, but quickly decide against it.
For now. At least until the club discovers who has the brass balls to continue encroaching on Kings’ territory.
I smirk, but there’s nothing friendly about it.
“Run back to your boss and tell him the Kings don’t take kindly to threats.
” I lean in, my voice dripping with something dark.
“You tell him if he likes breathin’ to pack his shit and get the fuck out of our city, or he’ll be diggin’ his own grave. ”
The muscles in the bastard’s jaw tick, but he says nothing. They waste no time taking off, vanishing down the alley like sewer rats.
Suddenly, headlights flicker in the darkness, and a vehicle creeps cautiously toward me.
My weapon stays poised at my side, my grip tight and ready.
As the old truck finally halts, I lock eyes with Charlie through the windshield.
The old man saw everything, stayed hidden, and had my back just in case.
I holster my weapon as he leans over and rolls down the truck’s window.
“I’ll be right behind you,” he says.
I nod, then stroll to my bike, swing my leg over the seat, and fire her up. My fingers tighten around the grip as I pull out of the parking lot, with Charlie falling behind me.
I get the feeling this isn’t over.
Not by a long shot.
A short drive later and it’s damn near midnight when my head hits the pillow. But my eyes instantly snap open at the sharp buzzing of my phone. I snatch it off the nightstand. It’s Riggs. I answer, “Yeah,” and rub my eyes.
“Catcher called. The trail camera near the river caught movement. Need you to get over there and back him up should there be trouble.”
I’m already sitting up, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. “On it.”
“Report back,” Riggs orders, and then he kills the call.
My body runs on autopilot, and I move fast, slipping on jeans, a shirt, boots, and my cut. My gun is on the nightstand. I grab it, check the magazine, and slide it into my holster.
Once outside, the humid night air clings to my skin as I sling a leg over my bike, fire the engine, and roll out.
I kill the light and cut the engine about a block away from the clubhouse, and coast to a stop.
The last thing I want is to announce myself should the trespasser still be lurking.
In the distance, the clubhouse sits along the river.
Next to it, the old mill looms in the darkness, abandoned for many years.
Beyond that, the club’s fence line runs toward the river. I pull my phone out and dial Catcher.
“Everest,” he answers, his voice hoarse.
“I’m coming in from the west. Take the east. If someone’s still out here, they’ll have to hit the water.”
“Copy.”
I pocket the phone and pick up the pace, the gravel shifting under my boots. I take out my weapon, arming myself. The wind carries the smell of damp earth and rusting metal. Everything else around me is shadow and silence.
Then, I catch the scent of fresh cigarette smoke.
I slow my steps, scanning my surroundings. The shed looms ahead, a structure we use when problems need to be dealt with—the kind that gets dumped into the muddy Mississippi when we’re done.
I see a cigarette butt, still burning, the ember glowing against the dirt as I get closer.
I crouch, looking out at the water close by.
The light of a few barges glows in the distance, but the water is too dark to see much else.
No boat. There’s no movement beyond the river’s slow lapping against the bank.
But someone was just here. Maybe they still are. Watching. Listening.
I hear boot steps creeping up behind me. I whip around, weapon ready. “Shit,” I hiss, lowering my arm but keeping my eyes sharp on Catcher.
“Anything?” he asks, unfazed.
I nod to the cigarette. “Someone was here.”
Catcher exhales sharply, and his gaze moves to the river. “Could have been a drifter.”
“Maybe,” I murmur, but anyone snooping around doesn’t sit right with me. “I’ll talk to Prez about beefing up security, just to be safe, more trail cameras, and some motion-activated floodlights.”
We make our way back to the clubhouse, where our club girls, Payton and Josie, are waiting inside. They look up the second we walk in.
“Find anything?” Payton asks.
“Nah,” I say, not needing them to worry. “Get some sleep.”
They hesitate, then head toward their rooms. I pull out my phone and dial Riggs. He picks up before the first ring finishes.
“What ya got for me, brother?”
I sigh, rubbing the back of my neck. “Someone was here, snoopin’ around the shed near the river. No sign of them now.”
There’s a beat of silence, followed by a sigh. “Stay put for the rest of the night, just in case.”
“Got it.” I wait for the call to end, then glance across the room at Catcher, leaning against the bar with his arms crossed over his chest. His face is a mask of anguish, eyes shadowed and intense as if each thought is a silent scream.
It looks like the weight of hell is crushing him, carving deep lines of worry into his brow and tightening his jaw in a fierce battle against the heaviness of his memories.
But to be fair, he always looks that way.
If I carried that amount of pain from a past like his, my exterior would reflect it, too.
“I’m crashin’ here for the rest of the night, but I need to grab my bike," I tell Catcher.
“Parked it on the other side of the mill.”
Catcher nods but doesn’t speak.
I step back outside and roll my shoulders. The air is heavy as I move through the darkness, my senses on high alert. A feeling, the kind that settles deep in your gut before shit hits the fan, claws at me as I trek my way toward the mill.
I close in on my bike.
Then, an explosion rocks the ground, and a wave of energy slams into my chest, throwing me backward.
I hit the ground hard, gravel biting into my palms. My ears ring, the force knocking the breath from my lungs.
Heat rolls over me in a blistering wave as fire lights up the night like the gates of hell just blew open.
The old mill is an inferno, flames clawing skyward along with thick black smoke.
The scent of burning oil, scorched metal, and gasoline fills the air.
I push up, my vision swimming, blurred by the heat and smoke.
I notice my bike lying on its side a couple of yards away.
I get to my feet and make my way to it, needing to get it and myself away from the inferno.
Not far from my bike, sitting on the ground is a red gasoline can that wasn’t there when I left my ride earlier.
I crouch, getting a better look, making sure not to get my prints on it.
But something else catches my attention.
Scrawled in thick black Sharpie on the bike’s blue gas tank are the words ‘ Watch your back .’
My blood runs cold as anger boils beneath the surface.
Sirens wail in the distance, indicating that authorities will be here soon, so I need to get the hell out of there before they arrive. The last thing the club needs is the cops sniffing around, thinking the Kings are linked to this.
Gritting my teeth, I maneuver my motorcycle off its side, gripping the handlebars tightly as I push it upright and back to the clubhouse—sweat clinging to me, thick with the stench of smoke.
Up ahead, under the streetlight’s glow, I notice Catcher jogging toward me, his expression tight. “You good?”
“Yeah,” I huff.
Catcher’s gaze drops to my bike, his sharp eyes catching the message left on the gas tank. His head snaps up. “Who’d you piss off?”
My jaw flexes.
“Think the fire and the trespasser are connected?” Catcher walks beside me.
“Don’t know.”
Once inside the clubhouse, I yank my phone from my pocket and call Riggs again, and he answers immediately.
“What?”
“We might have a problem.”
“Talk,” his tone darkens.
“Someone blew up the mill. It’s burnin’ to the ground as we speak.” I exhale. “And someone wrote ' Watch your back' across my bike’s gas tank.” There’s a beat of silence before I add, “I think it might be linked to the fucker peddlin’ pills we tossed out the bar the other night.”
“What makes you think that?” Riggs questions.
“I had a second run-in with him and another pusher outside the boxing gym hours ago. He mentioned his boss wasn’t too pleased with us interfering with his operations.”
The silence stretches between us, thick with the weight of my information, filled only by the distant crackling of flames consuming the mill.
“This shit ain’t sitting right with me,” Riggs finally says, his voice cold and measured.
“We need to find out who this pusher’s boss is and find out whether that fire is just his men taking matters into their own hands or if they are, in fact, following orders.
” Riggs is quiet for a beat, then says, “I’ll send out a message to the others.
We’re holding church at first light. Keep me updated should anything else happen. ”
I exhale slowly, nodding to myself as Riggs’ words settle like a loaded gun in my gut.
This isn’t just about an asshole pushing drugs in the wrong bar or outside the youth center’s gym.
The drug problem has been making itself more prevalent for some time now, with dealers testing the waters by pushing boundaries.
Even if the fire is just a coincidence, we’re already in the thick of something bigger.
“See you at church, Prez.” I end the call.
Catcher stands beside me, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the distant glow of the mill burning. Without a word, we walk the property’s perimeter again and check every inch of the clubhouse.
When we’re satisfied that no one is lurking where they shouldn’t be, we climb up to the flat rooftop of the clubhouse.
The vantage point gives us a clear view of the fire crews battling the blaze.
The flames have died down some, but the old mill is a total loss.
I stroll toward the fold-out chairs and drop into one, pulling a pack of smokes from my pocket.
Flicking open my lighter, I take a slow drag before holding the pack out to Catcher.
He takes one, lighting up and leaning back in his chair beside me.
We sit for a while, watching the fire crews work through the night.
Catcher exhales, his cigarette glowing in the dark. “If this is some unhappy drug lord, he’s makin’ a real fuckin’ statement.”