Silver Shadows’ Clubhouse...
Something woke me from a dead sleep. After spending years in the military, I was lucky to get four hours before I was fully awake. Sleep was a commodity I willingly forfeited after joining the Army. Not that I ever got any proper sleep before that. Still, when I could sleep, I slept restlessly, knowing damn well that any little noise would wake me instantly.
Sitting up in bed, I rubbed my hands down my face when I heard the unfamiliar noise again.
The clubhouse was quiet.
Too damn quiet.
Looking at my door, my hand crept under my pillow, gripping the butt of my gun as I systematically flipped the safety off when I clearly heard three low taps followed by one tap.
At that, I was up and out of my bed fast, yanking on my jeans and boots, before shoving the windowpane open and diving out the window. Dropping to my feet, my breathing evened, controlled, as my eyes scanned the surrounding area.
Someone was here.
Uninvited.
Unwelcome.
The air was thick with the scent of pine; my adrenaline heightened, ready, alert. My eyes, honed by countless nights of vigilance, swept across the shadowed clearing. The SilverShadows’ clubhouse, usually a bastion of rough camaraderie and guarded peace, felt vulnerable. The moonlight cast long, distorted figures, playing tricks on the periphery. My ears, trained to discern the whisper of a distant enemy, strained for any unnatural sound.
The taps had been precise, deliberate.
Not a random animal, not a gust of wind.
Only three people knew the code.
One was gone, still wounded.
My gun, a familiar weight in my hand, felt like an extension of my own nerve. I moved with the economy of motion drilled into me, a ghost slipping through the undergrowth. The silence was a shroud, but beneath it, I sensed a presence, coiled and waiting. It wasn’t the nervous energy of a lost hiker or a drunken troublemaker.
This was calculated.
Professional.
The Silver Shadows had enemies; that was a given, but they usually announced themselves with something a little more... explosive.
This was different.
Subtle.
And that made it infinitely more dangerous.
I hugged the shadow of a towering oak, my boots making no sound on the damp earth. The clubhouse loomed behind me, a dark silhouette against the star-dusted sky. The windows were dark, the usual flicker of late-night revelry absent.
A twig snapped. I didn’t think as I turned and aimed my gun, only to sigh.
“Jesus fuck, Eros,” I seethed. “I almost fucking shot you.”
“But you didn’t.” My brother grinned. “So, I’m guessing it wasn’t you that sent the code?”
“Fuck no,” I whispered, looking around the compound as brothers stood watch, the first line of defense while others slept. “And it wasn’t Ravage. He fucking left.”
Eros looked around and muttered, “Firestride?”
“He’s the only one left.”
“Then where the fuck is he?” I asked, looking at Eros, when I clearly heard a bee buzz past me.
