Chapter 16 Fire and Blood
Trouble Comes Calling
The first threat arrived on a Monday morning.
Not a phone call.
Not a message.
A brick.
I unlocked the garage just after sunrise and immediately spotted it sitting in the middle of the shop floor.
Wrapped around a folded piece of paper.
My stomach tightened before I even picked it up.
Because normal people didn't leave bricks inside locked businesses.
And the Steel Vipers had never been known for subtle communication.
The note contained only four words.
Last chance. Call Derek.
No signature.
No explanation.
None required.
I crushed the paper in my fist.
Anger flared instantly.
Hot.
Sharp.
Dangerous.
For several seconds, I simply stood there staring at the brick.
The message wasn't about money.
Or loyalty.
Or club business.
It was about control.
The Vipers wanted me back.
Wanted access to my knowledge.
My connections.
My history.
And they were becoming impatient.
The realization settled heavily in my chest.
Because impatience often led to escalation.
I threw the note into a trash can.
Picked up the brick.
Then got to work.
What else was I supposed to do?
The garage still had customers.
Repairs still needed completing.
Life still moved forward.
Even when trouble lurked just beyond the horizon.
Unfortunately, the horizon was getting closer.
Three days later, someone slashed all four tires on a customer's motorcycle.
The act happened overnight.
No witnesses.
No cameras.
No useful evidence.
Just four ruined tires and a furious customer.
I paid for replacements myself.
The loss stung.
But not nearly as much as the implication.
The Vipers weren't targeting me anymore.
They were targeting the garage.
My livelihood.
My future.
Everything I'd built after leaving the club behind.
The message couldn't have been clearer.
Cooperate.
Or suffer.
By Thursday, even Mason noticed.
He arrived carrying coffee and bad news.
A combination that rarely ended well.
"You hear about Tommy?"
I looked up from an engine rebuild.
"No."
Mason set the coffee down.
His expression immediately told me I wasn't going to enjoy the answer.
"He disappeared."
Wonderful.
Absolutely wonderful.
The knot in my stomach tightened further.
Because men like Tommy Mercer didn't simply disappear.
Not voluntarily.
"What happened?"
Mason shrugged.
Nobody knew.
Or nobody was talking.
Neither possibility felt encouraging.
The silence stretched.
Eventually, Mason leaned against a workbench.
His gaze sharp.
Focused.
Concerned.
"You need to be careful."
I laughed.
A short, humorless sound.
The advice felt absurdly late.
"I've been careful."
"No."
His voice hardened.
The joking disappeared.
"You've been stubborn."
Fair.
Annoyingly fair.
I hated when he did that.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
The garage echoed with distant sounds.
Metal.
Tools.
Engines.
Ordinary noises.
Yet tension lingered beneath everything.
A sense that something was building.
Something dangerous.
Mason seemed to feel it too.
"You should call Rhett."
The suggestion surprised me.
"Why?"
"Because if this turns ugly, you'll need backup."
The answer sat heavily between us.
Because we both understood what it meant.
The situation had already moved beyond annoyance.
Beyond intimidation.
Toward something worse.
The realization followed me throughout the day.
And into the evening.
And into the following night.
Sleep remained impossible.
Again.
Not because of Elliot this time.
Though he still haunted every quiet moment.
Because instinct kept screaming that trouble was close.
Very close.
The feeling proved accurate.
Saturday arrived hot and humid.
The kind of summer day where thunderstorms threatened from the horizon.
Business stayed busy.
Customers came and went.
Repairs piled up.
Everything looked normal.
Which should have been reassuring.
Instead, it made me nervous.
Years around dangerous people had taught me an important lesson.
Chaos often arrived disguised as calm.
Around six in the evening, the final customer left.
The garage emptied.
Silence settled gradually.
I started closing procedures.
Paperwork.
Tools.
Inventory.
Routine.
Comforting routine.
Outside, thunder rumbled in the distance.
Storm clouds gathered across the horizon.
Dark.
Heavy.
Unwelcome.
The first sign appeared thirty minutes later.
A motorcycle engine.
Then another.
Then another.
The sound drifted through the evening air.
My stomach dropped immediately.
Because I recognized it.
Not the motorcycles.
The pattern.
The intent.
The timing.
The feeling.
I moved toward the front window.
Looked outside.
And swore.
Three motorcycles sat across the street.
Riders remained mounted.
Watching.
Waiting.
Not customers.
Not friends.
The sight immediately transported me backward in time.
Years.
Memories.
Mistakes.
The Steel Vipers.
For several seconds, nobody moved.
Then one rider slowly lifted a hand.
A deliberate gesture.
A signal.
The motorcycles roared to life.
Then disappeared into the darkness.
Just like that.
Gone.
Leaving only silence behind.
My pulse remained elevated.
Because that wasn't a visit.
It was reconnaissance.
A warning.
A promise.
And deep down, I knew exactly what came next.
The attack started twenty minutes later.
The first bottle crashed through the front window.
Glass exploded everywhere.
Instinct took over immediately.
I dove behind a workbench.
The second bottle followed.
Then the third.
Flames erupted across the showroom floor.
Orange fire spread instantly.
Hungry.
Violent.
Fast.
"Son of a bitch!"
The words vanished beneath the sound of breaking glass.
Another window shattered.
Another bottle.
More fire.
Heat surged through the garage.
Smoke filled the air.
My heart hammered against my ribs.
Because this wasn't intimidation anymore.
This wasn't pressure.
This was destruction.
The realization hit with brutal clarity.
The Steel Vipers had stopped asking.
Now they were punishing.
Adrenaline flooded my system.
I grabbed a fire extinguisher.
Rushed toward the nearest flames.
White chemical foam exploded across burning gasoline.
For a brief moment, it worked.
Then another fire ignited near the office.
Then another.
The flames multiplied faster than I could contain them.
The heat intensified.
Smoke thickened.
The garage I'd spent years building was burning around me.
No.
Absolutely not.
Rage surged through me.
Pure.
Blinding.
This place represented everything I'd fought for.
Every sacrifice.
Every second chance.
Every step away from the man I'd once been.
And now someone was trying to erase it.
I refused.
Another extinguisher.
Another attack on the flames.
The effort felt hopeless.
Yet I kept moving.
Kept fighting.
Kept refusing to surrender.
The roof groaned overhead.
A terrible sound.
Structural.
Dangerous.
The realization barely registered.
Because all I could think about was saving the garage.
Saving something.
Anything.
Then a loud crack echoed through the building.
Followed by a shower of sparks.
My survival instincts finally punched through the anger.
Leave.
Now.
The order arrived clear and undeniable.
For one final moment, I stared across the burning garage.
At the motorcycles.
The tools.
The office.
The life I'd built.
Fire consumed everything.
The sight felt like losing a piece of myself.
Then another support beam snapped.
Decision made.
I ran.
Smoke clawed at my lungs.
Heat burned my skin.
The exit appeared through a haze of fire and darkness.
I burst into the parking lot seconds before part of the roof collapsed.
The impact sounded like thunder.
Flames exploded higher.
Brighter.
Deadlier.
I stumbled backward.
Coughing.
Breathing hard.
Helpless.
Across the street, red and blue lights finally appeared in the distance.
Too late.
Way too late.
The fire department arrived within minutes.
Water sprayed.
People shouted.
Chaos erupted.
None of it mattered.
Because standing there in the glow of the flames, watching Kane Customs burn against the night sky, I understood exactly what the attack meant.
The Steel Vipers had declared war.
And this time, they weren't just coming after me.
They were coming after everything I loved.
Protecting His Muse
I was halfway through revising Chapter Twenty when my phone started ringing.
At first, I ignored it.
For the past week, writing had become my escape.
The only place where my thoughts made sense.
The only place where heartbreak could be transformed into something useful.
So when the phone vibrated across my desk for the third time, irritation surfaced before concern.
Then I looked at the screen.
Mason.
My stomach immediately tightened.
Because Mason rarely called.
He texted.
He appeared unexpectedly.
He caused chaos in person.
Phone calls usually meant something was wrong.
Very wrong.
I answered instantly.
"Mason?"
The silence on the other end lasted barely a second.
Yet it felt much longer.
"Elliot."
The tone of his voice froze my blood.
Gone was the teasing humor.
Gone was the sarcasm.
Only urgency remained.
Fear.
Real fear.
"What happened?"
Another pause.
Then:
"The garage."
For one terrible moment, I couldn't breathe.
My heart immediately began hammering.
"What about it?"
Mason swore quietly.
The sound alone told me everything.
"There was a fire."
The room tilted.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
The world suddenly felt unstable.
Dangerous.
Wrong.
The words echoed through my head.
A fire.
At Kane Customs.
At Jaxon's garage.
At his home.
My chest tightened painfully.
"Is Jaxon okay?"
The question came out almost as a whisper.
Please.
Please.
Please.
The silence lasted too long.
Far too long.
"Elliot—"
"Is he okay?"
My voice cracked.
The panic I'd spent weeks suppressing surged instantly to the surface.
Nothing else mattered.
Not the breakup.
Not my father.
Not my hurt.
Only Jaxon.
Mason exhaled heavily.