Chapter 23
Judge
“Cole and Rex have a lead. Their source is leading them to a potential location now,” I tell Doc as I end the call, having agreed with Cole on a rendezvous point for the rest of us to meet.
My heart pounds in my chest, heavy with anticipation and worry.
Every second counts. If Trish is correct, then Zeke is holding Lena and Mia in this house.
If what Trish has told us about his manpower is true, we need all the men we can muster to get them out safely.
No half measures. Not when the people we love are in such grave danger.
Every moment that ticks by might be the difference between rescue and tragedy.
We’re gathered at the clubhouse, the heart of our operation, where we collect our weapons and rally our men.
Here we will make our plans and prepare for battle.
The club house is more of a home to most of us than anywhere else.
It’s a sturdy, rough-hewn building, with no frills, something that I find pleasing.
I breathe in the familiar comforting scent of motor oil, leather, and greasy food.
This building is a symbol of our brotherhood and resilience.
It’s a safe haven, a place where we can relax and truly be ourselves.
Here, we’ve called in a dozen of our best men to help.
Men who’ve been through hell with us, who’ve earned every scar and every story told around flickering lamps late into the night.
These guys aren’t just brothers in ink and leather; they’re soldiers, fighters, men who’ve seen bloodshed and lived to tell the tale.
Men who understand what is at stake. Every single one of them is ready to ride into battle with us.
This is much more than just a rescue mission—t’s about protecting everything we hold dear, our values, our way of life.
If Zeke comes after one of us, he comes after all of us.
My club brothers stand in a wide arc in front of me, armed and alert, their eyes sharp with focus.
Most of them have been through battles before, fought in wars, had skirmishes, or street fights.
They aren’t afraid of getting hurt, of getting their hands dirty.
But this is different, it’s so much more personal.
They all know and care for Lena—she might be new to the club, but she’s family nonetheless, and when they found out Mia is Rex’s blood, they were willing to do anything to get her back.
They would ride into hell itself to save that little girl without hesitation.
Each and every one of them has made it clear that they’re ready to do whatever it takes, risking their lives if necessary, to get Lena and Mia back, to protect the family we’ve all come to call our own.
We’re family, through thick and thin, and nothing is going to stop us.
“Right, men,” I start, keeping my voice clear and steady despite the anxiety I feel. “We’ve got a pretty solid lead on where Lena and Mia might be. We’re going to—”
Suddenly, a deafening boom cuts me off, a sound so powerful it feels like the world itself is tearing apart.
The force of the blast hits me like a freight train, ripping through the room with murderous intensity.
One second, I’m standing there giving orders, trying to rally everyone, and the next, I’m airborne.
Thrown backward, my body tumbling through the air like a rag doll.
I slam against the wall with enough force to wind me, forcing a gasp from my lungs.
Debris and shrapnel—sharp, jagged pieces of wood, metal, and glass—explode outward, gouging flesh and scraping paint from the walls.
The ceiling and walls are engulfed in flames, smoke billowing into the air, choking everything in its path.
Glass shatters into a million tiny shards, spraying across the room in deadly arcs, some embedding into skin, others slicing through clothing.
Chunks of concrete rain down like missiles, coating the floor in a layer of dust and rubble.
My vision flickers as I try to process what’s happening, my mind desperately grasping at the chaos.
My ears are ringing so loudly from the noise that it sounds as if I’m underwater.
The volume of the world turns down. A wall of heat and pressure smothers everything, and thick, black smoke floods the air.
It’s a full-body assault, completely disarming all of my senses.
I can’t see through the smoke, the only thing I can smell is burning, the only thing I feel is the heat, the metallic taste of my own blood fills my mouth, and all I can hear is a sharp ringing.
My mind can’t process what’s happening quickly enough.
For an agonizing, disorienting moment, I’m no longer in the clubhouse; I’m transported back to the battlefield.
The war zone that haunts my nightmares. The sand swirling in the wind, sharp grains blinding your eyes.
The sound of metal twisting and groaning as the tank is blown sky high—the screams of my men.
Blood staining the dry, dusty ground red.
So much blood. It’s as if I’m right there.
Though I’ve known all along that part of me never left.
Another time, another explosion, my men inside, wiped out in the blink of an eye.
I’m rendered helpless by my memories of that day when our tank hit a landmine, killing everyone but one inside.
I was the only survivor. A twist of fate that often leaves me asking why me?
I thank god every day that Cole, Rex, and Doc weren’t there.
They’re the ones who brought me back to myself.
“Judge!” Doc’s voice breaks through as he grabs me by the shoulders, shaking me hard, and pulling me back to the present day.
Reality slams down on me like a fist. The blast isn’t in my bed, it’s not one of my PTSD triggers, set off by a car backfiring or a news report on the TV, it’s real.
The chaos surrounding us isn’t bubbling up from my subconscious.
This time, I’m not imagining things, this isn’t a memory of the past. This is now. The clubhouse really has been bombed.
I take in Doc’s worried expression, there’s blood trickling from a cut on his forehead, his skin is stained gray from the soot and rubble, but he otherwise seems okay.
I try to stand, pain shooting through my back.
My limbs are sluggish. Adrenaline surges through me, drowning out the pain for now.
I scan the room to see the devastation caused by the bomb.
It was planted in the restroom, by the looks of it.
The walls near it are scorched and caved in.
Smoke is still curling up the rafters. Blood smears the floor where some of our men lie motionless.
Others are groaning, crawling for cover, prepared for a further attack.
Sorrow and rage fill me with equal measure as I look at my fallen comrades. But I push down my concern for them and focus on the rage—I need it now. We can mourn our losses once we get our revenge. There’s no doubt in my mind that the Iron Vultures are behind this.
We don’t even get time to recover before armed men—six, maybe more—come storming in. The sound of their boots stomping in through the open space where the wall used to be heralds their arrival. They’re wearing tactical gear and carrying automatic weapons.
Immediately, I can tell that these guys are trained.
They move with precision toward their target, stamping out any resistance quickly and efficiently.
Those who can duck and hide to avoid the targeted shots fired, a couple of our guys raise their weapons to fight back, but they’re still dazed from the unexpected blast. Our attackers easily subdue them.
They don’t need to shoot much. They don’t spray bullets.
They don’t shout. They’ve wounded us enough, and they’ve come here for one clear reason.
They’re not here to kill us. They’re here to take us. They’ve come for Doc and me.
The men yank Doc and me down onto our knees, issuing swift blows to the backs of our legs to force us down.
I try to fight, but I only get halfway to my feet before steel-toed boots kick me back down.
The men roughly handcuff me, yanking my arms behind me, the cold steel clicking tightly in place around my wrists.
I notice Doc receiving the same treatment.
He manages to fight harder, headbutting one of the men and reopening the cut on his head before being slammed down to the ground and cuffed.
One of the men stands before me, a bull-faced man with a recently broken nose, and smiles. “I heard you’ve been looking for someone. We’re here to take you to him.”
He lifts the butt of his rifle and smashes it down on my head.
I don’t even have time to register the pain before I black out.
Then there’s only darkness.