Chapter 3 Founding Fires
THREE
FOUNDING FIRES
THE GENERAL
The first time you step into the fire, you don’t do it for glory. You do it because someone has to.
Dog wipes his greasy hands on a shop towel and squints at the engine block we’ve been nursing for two hours. “I swear to God, this bitch is cursed.”
“Cursed?” I chuckle, leaning over the frame of the ’77 Dyna. “You rebuilt this carb twice. Maybe the problem’s not the bike.”
“Say that again, King, and I’m making you take her home.”
I grunt, amused. “She’d be more reliable than you.”
Behind us, Marisol laughs, that unfiltered, musical kind of laugh only teenagers can get away with. It bounces off the cinder block walls and makes Dog grin despite himself.
“He roasted you, old man,” she says, perched on the beat-up red cooler by the workbench. Dirt smudges her jeans, and her hoodie is three sizes too big. I think it used to be her brother’s.
Marisol has been coming to Dog’s garage for the past year. She was hiding from some bullies and ran right into Dog. He brought her into the garage to keep her safe, and she’s been here ever since.
Marisol has a shitty home life with a mom who works two jobs, an older brother hanging out on the street corners selling dope, and who the fuck knows where her father is. Despite all that she endures every day, she can still laugh and smile like a carefree teenager.
Dog glances over his shoulder. “You gonna let her talk to me like that?”
“She’s not wrong,” I answer, tossing him a wrench. “You’re overdue for a tune-up yourself.”
Marisol giggles again and pops the tab on her root beer Dog keeps on hand for her. “You two fight like an old married couple.”
Dog grunts. “I’d make a better wife than you, Tama. At least I can cook.”
“Barely,’ I shoot back. “And you still burn toast.”
Marisol snorts into her soda and wipes her nose on her sleeve.
For a moment, it’s just that laughter, the clink of tools, the low rumble of a life we’re trying to build.
She belongs here, in this space. Not as a mechanic, not as muscle, but as a tether.
A reminder that there are still good things worth protecting.
I catch her watching me between sips, eyes serious behind the teasing. I nod at her gently, and she nods back. There’s something between us, unspoken, quiet. It’s trust and respect, like she knows we’d bleed for this neighborhood, for the kids like her, and she believes it.
Two nights later, Dog finds me on the back porch with a cold beer and a burning gut.
“She’s gone.” He states.
I blink once. “Who?”
“Marisol.”
Dog’s already dialing Saint, but I don’t move. The bottle in my hand is sweating against my palm, forgotten. I stare at the cracked asphalt like I might find her footprints there. I don’t. All I see is red.
I slowly straighten. “What the hell do you mean, gone?”
“She didn’t come to the garage after school, so I went to her house. Her brother says she texted that she was stopping by The Den to get fries. That was the last anyone heard from her.”
Cold wraps around my spine like barbed wire. The Den. That place is a cesspool. Full of traffickers, junkies, and low-level dealers with cartel ties. Rage flares fast in my chest. No time for disbelief. No space for panic.
“She wouldn’t just disappear,” I say.
“I know,” Dog says grimly. “I already called Saint.”
Church isn’t a room, yet. It’s in Dog’s garage until we find a Clubhouse. The lights are off, six folding chairs, and a map pinned to the wall.
Saint slaps a grainy photo down on the workbench. “That’s Flaco. Works for the Sangres. Mostly girls and meth. My guy says he’s been sniffing around the trailer parks lately.”
“Flaco’s scum,” Bookie mutters. “Uses kids as payment. Dumps 'em in Saginaw or Detroit once he’s through.”
Saint’s voice tightens. “Word is, he took Marisol. Has her in a trailer behind The Den. We’ve got one shot before she’s moved across state lines.”
The silence that follows is heavy. Electric.
I look around the room. These men, my brothers, aren’t trained for this. Not like I am. But they don’t hesitate. Their eyes burn like mine.
“This isn’t club business,” I say. “This is family.”
Dog’s jaw clenches. “You lead. We follow.”
We ride out under a black sky, no colors. No fanfare. Just engines purring low like the growl before a kill.
Saint’s got his crowbar. Dog’s carrying brass knuckles, reinforced. Danny packed a sawed-off. I’ve got my fists and my fury. That’s all I need.
This isn’t about stripes or territory.
This is about a girl who made us laugh. Who reminded us what we were fighting for when the world went quiet.
The trailer sits behind The Den like a cancerous growth, rust-eaten and stinking of piss and cheap tequila. A single bulb flickers above the door like it’s daring us to come closer.
Saint cuts the lights from the power pole, surgical and clean. Danny moves fast, yanking the backup generator's fuel line and hosing it with gasoline. Smoke tosses a Molotov into a dumpster in the alley. It lights up like a beacon. Chaos begins.
And that’s when I move. I slam my boot into the door. The lock shatters with a scream of metal.
Inside, it reeks of sweat, smoke, and something sour. My stomach churns.
Dog barrels in beside me, all fury and force. The first guy at the table barely looks up from his plate of wings before Dog’s knuckles cave in his jaw. Bone cracks. Teeth clatter across the linoleum.
The second thug scrambles, reaching under the couch for a pistol. Saint's on him before he clears the cushion. One swing of that crowbar and the bastard’s nose erupts in blood, cartilage snapping sideways as he crumples with a wet groan.
A third tries to run. Danny shoulders into him, pins him to the stove, and dislocates his arm with a wrenching twist. The guy screams, but none of us care.
I hear it. Soft, rapid breaths coming from the back.
I reach the end of the hallway to the bathroom on my left and the master bedroom in front of me. I try the door and it’s locked. I check the master bedroom, and it’s empty.
“Clear!” I bark at the others.
Dog turns to watch the hallway, chest heaving. “Get her.”
I knock first. “Marisol?” No answer. Just stifled sobbing.
“It's Tama, girl. I’m here. You’re safe now.” Still no answer, so I kick the door. One hit and it pops open.
She’s curled on the floor, hoodie wrapped tight around her, knees hugged to her chest. Her lip is split. There’s a bruise blooming along her jaw, fresh and purple.
Her eyes lock on mine and go wide. Disbelief is written across her face, like hope is something she forgot existed.
I crouch down, reach out slowly like I’m taming a scared animal. “It’s me,” I whisper. “I told you. You’re safe now.”
She lunges straight into my chest, burying her face in my shoulder.
Her fingers clutch my black hoodie like it’s the only thing keeping her tethered to earth.
And then she sobs. Gut-deep, shaking, shattering sobs. Each one cuts deeper than the last.
I wrap my arms around her and rock us gently. She’s small, but the weight of what they tried to do to her feels heavier than anything I’ve ever carried.
“She’s okay,” I say aloud. Maybe to myself. Maybe to Dog. Maybe to whatever god was watching.
Saint drags the last thug, barely conscious, by the back of his shirt into the alley. His boots scrape against broken glass. The guy’s moaning, blood drooling from the corner of his mouth, but he’s not dead, yet.
Danny kicks open the dumpster lid like it owes him money. It slams against the brick wall with a heavy bang. The smell that wafts out makes even Smoke gag.
“You sure you want to light it here?” Saint asks.
Smoke doesn’t answer. Just pulls out another homemade Molotov, shakes it like a prayer, and lights the rag with a silver Zippo.
Whoosh.
The second fire catches hard, licking up the sides of the trash pile, casting wild shadows that dance across the graffiti-tagged walls.
The bastard Saint dragged out tries to crawl away, groaning in Spanish. Something about “no sabía” I didn’t know. Like that excuses it.
Dog stands over him, arms crossed, fists still trembling. “We done here?” he growls, voice low, stained with hate. His knuckles are split and bleeding. He doesn't notice. Or care.
I kneel inside the trailer, right where the first guy dropped. His body’s twitching, nerves still firing even though his brain’s long gone. I ignore him.
There, on the sticky linoleum, is a wallet, half-tucked under a busted leg of the coffee table. I flip it open.
ID says Flaco Menendez. I don’t give a shit who he thinks he is.
Inside the billfold is a black card with red trim, simple, ominous. A crimson fang stamped over two skulls. Cartel sigil.
Sangres del Diablo.
Street-tier enforcers for something meaner and older than the gangs we used to fight.
My lip curls.
“Almost,” I mutter.
I step outside, hold the wallet up to the firelight, and spit on it.
Hard. The saliva sizzles on the edge of the burning dumpster like it knows where it belongs.
Then I toss the whole thing in.
“Son of a bitch was flying cartel ink,” I say flatly.
Saint stops pacing. Dog’s eyes go sharper. Even Danny tightens his grip on the crowbar.
“Sangres?” Smoke asks, already knowing the answer.
I nod. “Tag’s all over his wallet. These bastards weren’t freelancers.”
Saint glances back toward the trailer. “So, this wasn’t random. They’re moving girls through our streets.”
“Through our people,” Dog growls.
I stare into the flames. Let the fire light my rage.
“This one’s personal now,” I say. “They want war?” I meet each of their eyes. Saint. Dog. Smoke. Danny. “They just poked the wrong bear.”
Saint kicks the last guy square in the ribs. He yelps and curls tighter on the pavement.
“No colors, no creed, no mercy,” Dog mutters.
“Not tonight,” I reply.
The Dumpster groans and collapses inward, flames licking up toward the sky.
Smoke watches it burn like it’s holy.
We don’t wait for sirens. We don’t need applause.
We ride out the way we came, in silence, under shadows, dragging with us the first embers of something unstoppable.
Marisol is riding behind me, hanging on tightly. Her head pressed against my back. My hoodie shields her from the wind.
The heat radiating from her makes me realize something. This club isn’t something we made. It’s something that found us.
Born from blood and fire.
Forged by loyalty.
And built for one purpose. To make sure no one like Marisol ever disappears again.