Page 40 of My Reckless Biker

Outside, Cain and Holt have piled all the product in an open area fifty feet from the warehouse. Wooden crates broken open, bricks of heroin stacked in a pyramid. Two million dollars in street value about to disappear.

Knox pours accelerant over the whole pile, the sharp chemical smell cutting through the night air, and steps back. Clint tosses a road flare and the entire thing catches immediately, flames shooting fifteen feet high, heat so intense I can feel it from where I'm standing.

We watch it burn for thirty seconds, the flames reflected in the warehouse windows, smoke rising black against the night sky.

Then Clint says, "Warehouse too."

Knox moves to the building with more accelerant and within minutes flames are eating through the structure, climbing walls, consuming the roof. The whole building is going to be ash by morning.

The two prospects are still zip-tied against the wall inside. We cut them loose and shove them outside into the gravel lot.

"Tell Crane we sent a message," Clint says, and his voice is flat and final. "Tell him Vigil doesn't accept threats to our people. Tell him Dutch is finished and anyone else who comes at us the same way gets the same treatment or worse. Tell him his daughter chose us and she's not going back. Tell him all of it."

The prospects run. Literally run toward their truck, hands fumbling with keys, and they peel out spraying gravel, gone into the night to deliver exactly the message Clint wants delivered.

Dutch is still inside, still slumped against the wall where I left him. Breathing but barely. Face destroyed. Ribs broken. The fire is spreading toward where he is but slowly enough that he'll have time to drag himself out if he wants to survive.

"Leave him," Clint says. "Fire department will find him when they respond. He'll live but he'll remember every second of what happened here tonight."

We head back to the trucks. The warehouse is fully engulfed now, flames visible for miles, and I can already hear sirens in the distance. Fire department first, then probably sheriff.

We'll be long gone by the time anyone arrives.

The drive back is quieter than the drive out. Tate focuses on driving, hands steady on the wheel. Clint's on the radio with the second truck confirming everyone's clear, no injuries, mission accomplished.

I sit in the passenger seat with my hands covered in Dutch's blood, my knuckles split and still bleeding, my jaw swelling where he caught me, my ribs aching from the hit I took, and all I can think about is getting back to Sienna.

I need to see her.

Need to tell her I'm okay.

Need to tell her it's done.

We pull into the clubhouse yard at twenty-three-forty and brothers who stayed behind are waiting, gathered like they knew the exact moment we'd return.

Clint exits first and gives brief status. "Everyone accounted for. Target handled. Message sent. Product destroyed. Warehouse burned."

I head for the clubhouse door without waiting for full debrief.

She's standing at the top of the stairs.

Like she was waiting. Like she knew the exact moment I'd be back.

Our eyes meet across the common room and she doesn't look scared or shocked by the blood covering my hands, my shirt, my face. She doesn't flinch.

She just looks relieved.

She comes down the stairs fast and crosses to me and stops, eyes tracking over the blood on my hands, my vest, the split skin on my knuckles, the swelling spreading across my jaw.

"You're hurt," she says.

"I'm fine."

"You're bleeding."

"Most of it's not mine."

She reaches up and touches my jaw gently, and I wince despite trying not to.