Chapter 1
CHAPTER
ONE
WRATH
The pungent scent of sulfur fills the air around me, swirling around my senses as it overwhelms my nose and lungs. Then a chemical burn smell replaces it. That’s the electrical, carpet-burning scent of the house that is burning down before my eyes.
My lips twitch as I watch the six-bedroom, seven-bathroom, ten-thousand-square-foot home go up into flames. The people who owned it paid three million for it. Stupid as fuck in my opinion, but who the fuck am I to ask questions?
The warm wind blows the black smoke through the air. I can’t take my eyes off it, not because it’s beautiful or anything, but it is mesmerizing. Watching something alight in flames and knowing it was me who did it, I don’t know, it just fascinates me.
“You ready?” Hippie asks me.
Turning my head, I look over to him. His long hair is pulled back into a man bun, something that makes me laugh every time he wears it this way. He looks like a fucking idiot, but I guess since he refuses to cut it, this is where we are.
“Yeah,” I grunt, clearing my throat before I take a step backward.
“The fire trucks are going to be here soon. These neighborhoods usually have a fast response time.”
He’s right.
They do.
Rich-people shit is what it is.
I know that just as well as he does, but that doesn’t mean I want to leave and turn my back, at least not yet. I want to watch it go down, and I need it to be a one-hundred-percent loss before the fire is put out.
It should be, because that’s my goddamn job. Our job. It’s how we make our money, how the Iron Flame MC got our name honestly, if nothing else. And anyone who needs our services knows exactly who we are and how we get shit done right the first time.
Just like these people with their three-million-dollar house. At a hundred-percent loss, they’re looking at getting a nice chunk of change from their insurance company, and all we ask for is the agreed-upon amount, a twenty-percent cut.
Shifting my attention away from the fire, or more like tearing it away, I look over to Hippie, who is just as mesmerized by the black clouds that have now begun to hang over the house, almost as if they’re a halo. But when you look past it, you can see the River Mountains in the distance.
“Let’s fuckin’ go,” I announce.
Turning away from him, I walk down the street.
We’re behind the house, and then we turn down another street, then another.
I know the cameras around the area have been disabled, so we won’t be seen climbing onto our waiting bikes—a part of this job that’s become a bit more cumbersome over the years, since everyone fucking has them.
Straddling my bike, I jerk my chin at Hippie, who does the same before I speak. “Let’s get the fuck out of here. Get a smoke, a beer, and a bitch.”
“Hell fuckin’ yeah, brother.”
And that’s what we do. We ride straight toward the clubhouse and to the plethora of smokes, beers, and bitches, all of which will be waiting for us in abundance. A perk to being who we are and a bigger perk of being the vice president of the club, they’re always waiting for me—always.
I’m not sure I would ever want my life to change. I’m living a fucking dream.