Page 100 of Thunder's Reckoning

“My gut says she’s at that fire cult’s compound,” I said. “We need its location.”

Devil pushed back from the table, his chair scrapin’ across the floor, his eyes hard, final. “Then we’ll bring the flame to his front door.”

And for the first time since I stood in that empty house, starin’ at that footage, my chest hollow and my hands empty…

I let that helpless feelin’ leave my body and replaced it with pure rage.

***

THE WAR ROOMsmelled like leather, coffee gone bitter, and smoke that never quite cleared. The same Map covered the far wall, pins and strings stretchin’ across counties and states, but this wasn’t about streets and corners anymore. This was about roots. Gabrial’s roots.

Gatsby sat hunched over his laptop, screens glowin’ green and blue across his face, fingers movin’ so fast the keys sounded like rain hittin’ tin. Kickstand’s files had come through in pieces—folders stacked with grainy photos, redacted reports, and handwritten notes that looked like they’d been smuggled out one page at a time.

“Lopez didn’t just wake up one day and play cartel,” Gatsby muttered, eyes narrowed at the screen. “He built himself outta somethin’ darker.”

“He’s been at this a long time,” Mystic said, leanin’ back in his chair with his arms crossed, eyes thoughtful.

My stomach clenched at the name. Flame. Fire. Sacrifice. All of it twisted in my head, pieces clickin’ into place with every word Gatsby read.

“Founded in the early eighties,” Gatsby went on, scrollin’ through a scanned article. “Started small. Grew fast. Preachin’ about purity through fire. Burnin’ the weak to strengthen the strong. Shit like that.”

Devil leaned in over the table, his face carved in stone. “And Lopez?”

Gatsby pulled up another file, a photo of a man—eyes dead, jaw tight, a book in one hand with a flame etched on the cover. “Second-generation member. His father the prophet before him.When the old man died, Gabrial stepped in. Young, hungry, already ruthless.”

“Explains the discipline,” Chain muttered. He was sprawled against the wall, but his fists were tight, knuckles white. “His people move like soldiers.”

“Explains the loyalty,” Spinner added, his face troubled. “Cult loyalty cuts deeper than cash. Deeper than fear.”

I stared at the photo, my jaw grindin’. A man raised in fire, preachin’ it like gospel, hidin’ behind cartel muscle to keep his pulpit standin’.

Gatsby flipped to another file, a topographical map with red markings. “That’s the thing. Officially? No compound exists, supposable burned down in the nineties after the government started sniffing around.”

“Unofficially?” Devil pressed.

Gatsby hesitated, then tapped the screen. “Rumors. Some say the fire was staged. That a second compound existed. A fallback site. Same doctrine, same symbol. Hidden deep.”

The room went still.

“Where?” I asked, my voice more of a demand than a question.

“Somewhere rural. Carolina backwoods? Maybe mountains? Kickstand’s files say Lopez’s members are devoted. They move in silence. No records, no paper trail. Just whispers.”

Mystic exhaled slow, saying, “If he’s hidin’ them, that’s where they’ll be. A place no one else dares to walk.”

I turned toward the board, fists tight at my sides. The maps looked different now, bigger, more dangerous. This wasn’t just territory. This was scripture to a madman.

“He’s not hidin’ them in some safe house,” I said. “He’s hidin’ them on holy ground.”

Devil gave a slow nod, his voice dark and certain. “Then we drag him out of his church. And we burn it down.”

“Let’s get busy followin’ up these leads,” I said, grabbing my keys off the table.

“One more thing,” Devil said, looking around the room. “Nothing we said here today touches another ear outside this room.”

We all nodded our agreement. Walls have ears even in our own clubhouse.

CHAPTER FIFTY