Chapter 3 #2
“Yeah.” I pull off my gloves. “San Diego to L.A. transfer line. This is the halfway mark. They never made it past here.”
We circle the perimeter. The asphalt is cracked and littered with bullet casings that don’t belong to any local crew. Someone wanted this place to stay quiet.
“Looks abandoned,” Dagger mutters, kicking a crushed can.
“That’s the trick.” I nod toward the far fence. “Tracks.”
We follow the twin tire tracks burned into the gravel. They end at a locked gate. The chain’s fresh.
“Too new,” Dagger says, crouching. “Someone’s hiding something.”
I cut the lock with the bolt cutter and push through. The air is sharper, hotter. The stink of gasoline and something copper underneath it.
We find the first truck five yards in, blackened to a skeleton. The second’s tipped onto its side, doors open, cab empty. A third trail of rubber heads toward the ocean.
The silence that follows presses in hard, heavier than the smoke still clinging to the wreckage.
“Jesus,” Dagger whispers.
The ground’s scorched with melted asphalt and pocked with holes. A few steps closer and I see a symbol carved into the blacktop, clean and deliberate. An “L.” and half a wolf’s head burned in the edge of the soot. Split down the middle. My stomach tightens.
I crouch, my gloved fingers brushing the edge. The soot stains my skin. The heat’s long gone, but I can still feel the fire.
“Lattimer,” Dagger says quietly.
“Yeah,” I breathe. “But not just him.”
“Hellhounds,” I say.
Dagger stiffens. “You sure?”
“I’d know that mark anywhere.”
Dagger’s jaw tightens as he looks at the mark again, and he doesn’t need to say what we’re both thinking.
The air thickens as heat radiates off the burned metal, sticky and suffocating. For a moment, I swear I hear engines from the past, that same roar before everything went to hell.
“Tiny,” Dagger says, breaking through the noise in my head. “You okay?”
I blink, focus. “Fine.” It’s a lie, and we both know it.
He steps closer. “You don’t look fine.”
“I’m not the one on fire.”
He smirks faintly, then pulls out his Glock and scans the area. “Let’s make sure we don’t join them.”
We move carefully through the wreckage, guns at the ready. Seagulls circle overhead, shrieking as if the dead want to speak. I spot a boot print near the back of the second truck, too deep for a regular biker. Combat soles, military-grade.
“Not cartel,” I mutter, studying the tread pattern again.
Dagger straightens beside me. “Mercs?” he asks, but the thought’s already forming in my head.
“Or trained ex-Hellhounds,” I say quietly, and the words taste like rust.
Before Dagger can answer, an engine roars behind us. I turn quickly, gun raised. A black pickup skids around the corner, tires spitting gravel. Two men jump out, both wearing leather with a half-torn, half-restitched Hellhound skull.
One grins, crooked teeth and sunburned skin. “Royal Bastards,” he spits. “Should’ve known you’d sniff this trail.”
“Yeah?” I step forward. “You leave it out long enough, even the dogs show up.”
His smirk falters. “You don’t belong here.”
“Neither do you,” Dagger says, sliding his blade free.
The man’s eyes flicker between us. “This ain’t your business, brother.”
“Everything in this city is my business,” I say, voice low. “Now, where’s the third truck?”
No answer. Just the metallic click of a safety. That’s all I need.
The shot tears through the air, and the man’s shoulder bursts red as the force spins him sideways into the scorched metal.
Before he can hit the ground, Dagger moves in a blur, blade flashing once in the morning light, and the second guy drops hard, clutching his arm and howling into the empty yard.
“Talk,” I growl, grabbing the wounded one by his cut. The heat from the wreck still clings to the leather, the smell of charred oil rising with each breath. “Where’s the load?”
He spits blood. “Gone. Already north.”
“Who’s running it?”
He grins, teeth pink. “Your old friends.”
My grip tightens. The Hellhounds. My past. My failure. It hits all at once.
I slam him into the truck. ‘If you’re lying…’”.
“I ain’t!” he yells, eyes wide now. “They’re working for Lattimer. Got paid in cash and powder. Said they’d deliver to his warehouse before nightfall.”
Dagger curses under his breath. “Motherfucker.”
The guy wheezes out a laugh. “Too late to stop ’em, boys. They’ve already.” The bullet hits him clean and fast. I don’t even realize I’ve fired until the echo fades.
Dagger stares, jaw tight. “He could’ve told us more.”
“He told us enough.” My voice comes out rough. “And if he was right, we’ve got a problem bigger than missing trucks.”
He wipes blood off his cheek, nods slowly. “Then we tell Capone before this turns biblical.”
I look back at the burned trucks. The heat, the smoke, the scars. My mark once.
Every instinct demands revenge. But beneath it all, fear waits. Not for myself, but for the people connected to this place.
For her.
The ride back is quieter. No jokes this time. Just wind, engine noise, and the sound of my pulse trying to burst out of my chest.
When the compound finally comes into view, the weight on my shoulders feels ten times heavier. Capone’s waiting by the garage, cigarette hanging from his lips. Red and Trigger stand nearby, tense.
“What’d you find?” Capone asks as we kill the engines.
“Two trucks burned,” I say. “Third gone. Hellhound insignia at the scene. Lattimer’s ‘L’ branded into the asphalt.”
Capone’s face hardens. “You sure?”
“I saw it with my own eyes.”
Dagger adds, “They’re working together. Old Hellhound cells. The kind that don’t follow rules anymore.”
Trigger lets out a sharp whistle. “Christ. That’s a nightmare cocktail.”
Red shakes his head. “You think they’re rebuilding under Lattimer’s money?”
“Yeah,” I say. “And it’s personal.”
Capone grinds his cigarette under his boot. “No retaliation yet. We find out what they want first.”
Trigger frowns. “And if they come for us first?”
Capone’s gaze sweeps the yard, meeting each of ours. “Then we bury ’em where they stand.”
The brothers nod, silent understanding passing between us. No speeches. No bravado. Just the truth. We’ve been here before, and we’ll bleed here again.
As the others drift off to prep, I linger by my bike, staring at the grease stains on my gloves.
Dagger claps my shoulder. “You good?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
“Liar.” He smirks. “But I get it.”
I glance sideways. “You ever wake up one day and realize the thing you ran from your whole life is waiting at your door?”
He tilts his head. “Yeah. Usually holding a knife.”
That actually makes me laugh, low and rough. “Fair point.”
He heads for the clubhouse, calling back over his shoulder, “You need a drink, brother. Or a woman. Preferably both.”
“Yeah,” I mutter. “Probably.”
But when I look at the windows, I see Syvannah silhouetted in the warm glow of her lamp, her hair loose over her shoulders, standing still like she’s been waiting for me to come back in one piece.
Even from this distance, I can feel the pull toward her, quiet and constant, the only thing in this place that feels steady.
The only thing I want right now isn’t revenge. It’s to walk to her room, press my forehead to hers, and make sure she’s real.
Instead, I light a smoke and whisper into the rising heat, “They shouldn’t have come here.”
The words hang in the heat, steady and deliberate, carrying more weight than any threat I could shout.