Chapter Five
The smell of smoke still hung heavy in the air, acrid and bitter, clawing at Kai’s throat as the van rolled to a stop.
Seven men piled out—Kai, Hogan, and the Black Tide brothers—onto the gravel lot in front of what had once been their home.
What remained of the workshop and garage smoldered in the night.
The two structures had stood side by side, the garage sprawling wide with enough room for their fleet of vans and toys, the workshop a hive of benches, tools, and secrets.
Above it all had been the living quarters, a space carved with laughter, food, and years of brotherhood.
Now it was gone.
Fire had gutted everything. Blackened beams jutted toward the sky like broken ribs.
Glass glittered across the parking lot, reflecting the flicker of dying flames.
Six vehicles—cars that had been parked in neat rows in various stages of fit out—were twisted wrecks, melted tires and cracked windshields.
Fire crews still sprayed here and there, more to keep hotspots down than to save what little was left.
Police lights painted the smoke red and blue, useless as beacons against devastation.
The fire inspector, clipboard tucked under his arm, met them with a shake of the head. “Faulty wiring,” he said, his voice flat with practiced sympathy. “Whole thing went up fast. Sorry for your loss, boys.”
Kai kept his mouth shut, but his jaw ached from the pressure of grinding teeth. He glanced at Kael, who gave no reaction. The others were stone-faced, silent, as the inspector droned on. Faulty wiring. Sure. And pigs flew commuter flights between islands.
When the officials finally cleared out, their flashing lights disappearing down the road, the seven men turned and filed back into the van. The air inside was thick, heavy with grief and rage.
Kael broke the silence. “Torch?” he asked quietly, eyes on Keanu.
Keanu—nicknamed Torch for a reason—shifted in his seat. His voice was low, but it carried weight. “Bullshit. Accelerant was used. You could see it in the way the fire spread. Uneven burn patterns, hotspots where no wiring ever ran. Whoever did it wanted to leave us a statement, not an accident.”
Tane leaned forward, arms resting on his knees. “We wired that place ourselves. Every connection, every fuse, up to code and checked twice. Wiring didn’t fail. Someone lit it.”
Keanu nodded. “If it had been wiring, the sprinklers would have triggered before the second floor went. Instead, the whole place blew. Cars outside caught fire, too, which means accelerant was used on them, not just inside the shop. That was no accident. That was ordnance and flame.”
Silence pressed in again, broken only by the faint tapping of keys.
Kai had his laptop open, fingers flying.
His eyes flicked across the screen, lines of code flashing by.
“Firewalls, encryptions ... yeah, you think you’re clever.
Let’s see.” He muttered to himself, diving deeper.
Hogan leaned back, arms crossed, watching.
Within minutes, Kai pulled up traffic camera feeds from the surrounding streets. Grainy images scrolled across the screen, streetlamps painting ghosts in black and white. Then he froze a frame. “And what do we have here?” he murmured.
The image showed a Rolls-Royce idling down the block, chrome gleaming even through pixelation. Nearby, figures in black moved with purpose, setting charges, splashing accelerant. Kai snorted. “Guys in black. Real original. What is this, a bad action flick?”
Hogan leaned closer, jaw tight. “Can we see who’s in the car?”
Kai shook his head. “Angle’s not the best. But give me a minute.
” His hands moved again, drawing on more feeds, stitching angles from nearby businesses and traffic intersections.
Slowly, the images built—a shadowed profile here, a flash of a jawline there, the reflection of eyes caught in a store window.
Hogan watched the pieces fall into place. “You’re building him.”
“Exactly.” Kai didn’t look up. “Different angles, different reflections. Overlay them, let the program do its work, and—” He hit a key.
The screen sharpened, resolving into a composite image of a man in the backseat, his driver clear beside him.
Sharp cheekbones, pale eyes, the kind of face that carried arrogance like armor. “Voila.”
Hogan’s voice was quiet, dangerous. “Run him.”
Kai nodded. He fed the image into another program, one Hogan recognized but hadn’t expected. A government database, marked with a DEA seal. It processed quickly, scanning faces against tens of thousands of records. Seconds later, a match lit up the screen.
“Sergei Antonov,” Kai said flatly. He leaned back, rubbing a hand over his face.
“Russian-born, raised in St. Petersburg. Bratya royalty. Connected to trafficking, drugs, arms. Lost millions when Pathfinder ops burned his networks over the past five years. Rumor was he went underground. Looks like that particular rumor was wrong.”
Hogan’s eyes narrowed. “How the hell do you still have access to the DEA system? You’re suspended.”
Kai smirked, fingers tapping lazily against the laptop. “Suspended isn’t fired. They didn’t cut my clearance because they still need me. And I built backdoors years ago. Firewalls, hidden layers. They can lock me out of the front door, but I always keep a window open.”
Luca let out a low whistle. “Paranoid bastard. Good thing, too.”
Kael’s gaze was steady on the screen. “Antonov. One of the heads.”
“Yeah,” Kai said. “One of five. And the one who just signed his name in fire across our home.”
The van was quiet for a beat, each man sitting with the weight of what that meant. Hogan finally spoke. “When we get back to our site, I’ll call Bateman. He needs to know we’ve got a name.”
Kai shut the laptop with a snap, the sound sharp in the silence. His chest burned, fury mixing with grim satisfaction. They had a target. A face. A name. And that was more than enough to start.
Niko broke the silence first, his grin sharp even under the gloom. “So we hunt him, yeah? Guy torches our home, we light up his world in return.”
“Slow down,” Kael said, though his voice carried the same edge. “We plan it right. We don’t make sloppy mistakes.”
Tane snorted. “Sloppy isn’t our style. But I’ll enjoy getting this one to talk before he goes under.”
Keanu folded his massive arms. “Fire for fire. He won’t be hard to find now. Men like him always think they’re untouchable.”
Luca tipped his head back against the seat, eyes half-lidded. “Sergei Antonov. Rolls-Royce, driver in tailored black. Cliché, but expensive cliché. At least we know he likes to be seen.”
Hogan’s jaw flexed. “Good. Then let’s make sure we see him coming next time.”
****
Back at the site, the hour crawled past 3:00 in the morning.
None of them had wanted to turn in, opting instead to come together once more, the loss of the night hung heavy, too raw to allow them to rest. They sat outside beneath the glow of the string lights strung from van to van.
The warm night wrapped around them, and no one seemed willing to crawl inside just yet.
The circle of chairs hummed with a low energy, half grief and half fury.
Niko strummed a guitar off to one side, soft chords at odds with the storm in their chests.
A couple of the men held beers, others cupped steaming coffee, voices carrying in low tones.
Kai was the only one who had slipped under, asleep in a chair with a blanket draped over him, face pale but calm in slumber.
Hogan sat at the rough folding table, phone in hand, thumb hovering before he hit the call.
The glow lit his face as it connected. It would be 7:00 in the morning in Wyoming—Bateman would be awake.
He wasn’t wrong. The screen flickered and then lit, showing Bateman in the Ridge gym, Dale beside him, both sweating and gloved, clearly just finished sparring.
Bateman looked as if he’d been on a leisurely stroll instead of an hour of training, not even breathing hard.
Dale, on the other hand, looked like he’d gone a few rounds with a sledgehammer.
“Morning, sunshine,” Bateman said dryly. “You look like hell.”
“Appreciate the pep talk,” Hogan shot back, voice rough with exhaustion.
Dale peeled his gloves off, tossing them aside. “What’s going on?”
Hogan angled the phone so his brothers around the table could hear, then leaned forward. He filled them in—the fire, the inspector’s bullshit excuse about wiring, Keanu’s breakdown of why it had been deliberate, and finally the identification Kai had pulled.
“Sergei Antonov,” Hogan finished, the name bitter on his tongue.
Bateman’s expression hardened immediately. “Antonov. Not one of the originals. But he clawed his way up the ladder. Evil son of a bitch. Ruthless. I thought he’d disappeared when the Bratya split. Looks like he just went underground.”
Hogan’s jaw tightened. “He surfaced here. Last night.”
Bateman swore under his breath, his eyes cold. “Tell Surge and his boys they’ve got my respect for standing through this. And my condolences.”
At the sound of his name, Kael wandered closer, head tilted. He stepped into the light and into view of the phone, grinning faintly. “You talking about me again, Bateman? You know I love hearing my name.”
Bateman’s smile was brief but genuine, familiar. “Surge. Been a long time.”
Dale leaned into frame, curious. “Wait—you know each other?”
“Yeah, I know him and his team, tried to get them as Pathfinders a few years back,” Bateman confirmed. “Didn’t stick.”
Surge’s grin sharpened. “Why trade down, my friend? We were already the best.”
Dale barked a laugh. “Best, huh? Maybe you should prove it. Ever play combat chess? Pathfinder tradition. Strategy, speed, and good old fashion punishment when you lose.”
“Anytime,” Kael said smoothly. “You’ll regret it.”