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Dust kicked up by our arrival hung in the air, mixing with exhaust fumes and the acrid scent of fear.

You could smell it on them even from this distance -- sweat and tension and the desperate bravado of men who knew they were outmatched but too proud to back down.

Twenty Minions, give or take. Roughly our number, but numbers didn’t tell the whole story.

The difference was in the eyes, in the stance, in the invisible weight that separated men who fought for territory from men who fought for family.

Most of the Minions carried handguns or shotguns. A few had rifles. At least one had what looked like an AK slung across his back, which was concerning. The rest of us remained on our bikes, engines off but keys in the ignition, ready to move at a moment’s notice.

My hand rested casually near my waistband, fingers just inches from my Glock. Warden had positioned himself to my left, Prophet to my right. Both men sat unnaturally still, the kind of stillness that came before explosive violence.

Savior stood with his hands visible at his sides, making no move toward the weapons we all knew he carried. His voice carried across the no-man’s-land between our groups, calm and measured, yet loud enough to reach the back row of Minions.

“You’re in the wrong town,” he called to Piston. “Take your men and head back to Florida. This doesn’t have to get ugly.”

Piston stepped forward, limping slightly -- another souvenir from our previous encounter.

Even from this distance, I could see the mottled bruising around his left eye and the split in his lip that hadn’t fully healed.

Good. Every twinge of pain was a reminder of what happened when he put his hands on what was mine.

“Fuck you,” Piston shouted back, his voice carrying a strained edge that hadn’t been there before I rearranged his face. “You Reapers attacked our clubhouse. Burned three of our businesses to the ground. You think we’d just let that slide?”

Interesting. Either he was lying to rally his men, or someone had figured out we’d orchestrated the hit, even if we weren’t present. Looked like we were getting the credit. Either way, it worked in our favor.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Savior replied evenly. “But I know you came to our town, put hands on a Reaper’s wife. That’s why we’re here. To make sure you understand the consequences.”

Piston spat on the ground, the gesture visible even at this distance. “That bitch was never his wife. Those boys are my blood. I’m taking what’s mine, and I’m not leaving without them.”

My fingers twitched toward my gun. Beside me, I heard Warden’s sharp intake of breath, felt the ripple of tension run through our formation. Brothers who’d been relatively relaxed moments before now sat straighter, hands moving subtly toward weapons.

“Only thing you’re taking is a message back to your chapter,” Savior continued, his voice hardening slightly.

“The woman and boys are under Dixie Reapers’ protection now.

You come near them again, we’ll wipe the Devil’s Minions off the map.

Every chapter, every clubhouse, every man who wears your colors. ”

A murmur ran through the Minions’ ranks. Several exchanged glances, clearly weighing whether this beef was worth the price Savior was threatening. Piston noticed too, turning to glare at his men before facing us again.

“Big talk from an old man and his retirement community,” Piston sneered, raising his voice for his brothers’ benefit as much as ours. “You attacked us first. Burned down our businesses. Don’t think we don’t know it was you.”

“We didn’t hit your clubhouse,” Saint interjected, his tone reasonable, almost conciliatory. “But we have friends who might have. Friends who feel the same way we do about men who beat women and children.”

Another ripple ran through the Minions’ ranks, more pronounced this time. From my position, I could see faces turning toward Piston, expressions questioning, suspicious. The accusation had hit home, revealing a crack in their unity. Savior noticed too, pressing the advantage.

“You’ve got thirty seconds to turn around and start riding back to Florida,” he said, his voice carrying the absolute authority of a man who meant every word. “After that, we stop asking nice.”

“Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine. Thirty.” Piston mocked, then raised his arm in a sharp gesture. “Fuck you and your countdown.”

The crack of a rifle shot shattered the evening air. A puff of dust erupted at Savior’s feet -- a warning shot, deliberate miss. All bets were off.

Everything happened at once. Brothers reached for weapons. Engines roared to life. The barricade erupted in muzzle flashes as the Minions opened fire. I gunned my Harley’s engine, swerving left as bullets whizzed past, following the pre-arranged plan to flank their position.

The world compressed into a series of snapshots, burned into my retinas by adrenaline and decades of similar situations.

Savior and Saint diving behind a concrete barrier.

Warden returning fire from behind his bike.

Prophet coordinating the left flank’s movement with hand signals.

The air filled with the smell of cordite and the deafening percussion of gunfire.

I kept low over my handlebars, weaving between abandoned cars as I circled toward my assigned position. Through the chaos, a flash of movement caught my eye -- Piston, breaking away from the main group, ducking between two buildings with two of his men. Running, the coward.

My blood roared in my ears, drowning out everything but the sight of his retreating back. This was it -- the chance to end his threat permanently. Without conscious thought, I veered sharply, breaking from our formation to follow.

“Hammer! Hold position!” Saint’s voice carried over the gunfire, sharp with command.

I ignored it, throttling harder as I watched Piston disappear between the rusted hulks of abandoned trailers.

The fight behind me faded to background noise, irrelevant compared to the singular focus of my pursuit.

Behind me, boots pounded on pavement -- brothers trying to follow, to back me up -- but I didn’t slow, didn’t wait.

Piston was mine.

The narrow gap between buildings swallowed me, darkness replacing the bloody sunset as I cut my engine, coasting the last twenty yards in near silence.

Ahead, footsteps echoed against corrugated metal -- three sets, moving fast. I dismounted, drawing my Glock as I followed, the weight of the brass knuckles in my pocket a promise of what would happen when I caught up.

The rational part of my brain knew I should wait for backup, knew this could be a trap.

But rationality had no place in this moment.

This was primal. This was the culmination of everything that had been building since I found his hands on Amelia.

He’d threatened my family. Now he would answer for it.

I moved deeper into the shadows, tracking my prey through the labyrinth of abandoned structures. Just me, my weapons, and a debt to collect.

I tracked Piston through the maze of abandoned buildings, my boots silent on the dirt path between rusted trailers and collapsed storage sheds.

The gunfire from the main confrontation had faded to distant pops and cracks, like faraway fireworks.

Here, in this forgotten corner of town, the only sounds were my own measured breathing and the occasional scuff of footsteps ahead -- Piston and his two shadows, thinking they were being quiet, having no idea how loud fear made a man.

I’d been hunting men since before these punks could piss standing up.

I knew how to follow, when to move, when to freeze.

The path opened into a small clearing between four derelict warehouses, moonlight spilling through broken skylights to create patches of silver against rust-stained concrete.

Gravel crunched under my boots, the sound seeming unnaturally loud in the stillness.

The footsteps ahead had stopped. I paused, every sense heightened, my hand drifting to the brass knuckles in my pocket.

A rat scurried across my path, disappearing into the shadows. Somewhere above, metal groaned as wind pushed against weakened structures. I scanned the area -- too many hiding places, too many blind spots. Decades of similar situations had taught me to recognize a killing ground when I saw one.

They were waiting. Watching.

I slid the brass knuckles onto my right hand, feeling the familiar weight settle against my knuckles. My left hand kept the Glock ready, though I hoped I wouldn’t need it. Some debts were better paid up close and personal.

“Come on out, Piston,” I called, my voice echoing against corrugated metal walls. “Just you and me. Let’s finish what we started.”

Silence answered me, heavy and expectant. Then a chuckle -- low, mean -- from somewhere to my left.

“Old man,” Piston’s voice floated from the darkness, “you should’ve stayed home with my whore.”

The slur against Amelia sent a fresh wave of rage through me, but I tamped it down.

Anger made men sloppy. I needed cold precision now.

“Big talk from a man hiding in the shadows,” I replied, moving slowly toward the sound of his voice.

“Guess those bruises I gave you last time taught you something after all.”

Movement flickered in my peripheral vision -- a shadow detaching from darkness, rushing toward me. Not Piston -- one of his goons, thinking to take me from behind while the boss distracted me. Fucking amateur!

I pivoted smoothly, decades of bar fights and club beefs making the movement as natural as breathing.

The brass knuckles connected with his jaw in a satisfying crunch of bone and cartilage.

His momentum carried him past me, his feet tangling as his brain tried to process the sudden pain.

He went down hard, face-first into the gravel.

Before I could press the advantage, Piston emerged from behind a stack of pallets, a tire iron gripped in his fist. Moonlight gleamed off the metal as he swung it in a vicious arc toward my head.

I blocked with my left forearm, pain exploding from wrist to elbow as the iron connected.

Better my arm than my skull. I countered with a sharp jab to his ribs, brass knuckles sinking into flesh where I’d broken ribs in our last encounter.

His breath left him in a pained whoosh , but he didn’t go down.

We circled each other, two predators locked in a dance as old as time.

Blood trickled down my arm where the tire iron had split skin, but I barely noticed.

My focus had narrowed to Piston’s movements, cataloging weaknesses -- the slight favoring of his left side, the way he winced when he breathed too deeply.

“I’m going to enjoy watching you die,” Piston spat, blood flecking his lips from some internal damage I’d done. “Then I’ll take back what’s mine.”

I lifted my hand to land another blow, but I’d fucked up.

Forgotten about the other man. Something slammed into the back of my head and black dots swam across my vision.

I grunted and swayed but refused to fall.

Piston took advantage, landing a few blows.

The lackey behind me must have motioned something to him, because he gave me one last glare, then Piston took off.

Before I could follow, another blow took me to my knees. I wondered if I was about to meet my end, then I heard them. My brothers. The man behind me went down, I heard him hit the ground right after the sound of two gunshots. Then my world began to fade.