Engines fire in unison. The sound hits like thunder. I feel it in my ribs, in my scars, in the quiet part of me that still mistakes motion for peace.
We cut through the city fast. Me, Trigger, Torch, Dagger, Bones, and Red in the van behind us. Traffic is light. The air tastes like fuel and dust. For a while, it almost feels normal. Then instinct kicks in.
“Eyes up,” I mutter into the comm. “Tail on our six.”
Trigger’s voice crackles back. “You sure?”
“Yeah. Two bikes. Los Demons colors. Trying to blend with traffic.”
“Motherfuckers never learn,” Dagger growls.
Capone’s voice filters through the static from base. “Stay on route. If they follow, we’ll deal with it.”
I ease off the throttle and watch the mirrors. The Demons hang back, pretending to be casual, waiting for their chance.
The city thins out ahead of us. Factories give way to sun-bleached warehouses and empty lots. Every mile south, the noise fades, leaving just the hum of engines and the itch between my shoulder blades. The air feels too still, too quiet, like theroad’s holding its breath. I catch Trigger’s gaze in the mirror. He nods. He feels it too.
It happens in the space between one heartbeat and the next. A rust-colored truck lurches from a side street and slams into the van’s flank. Red’s curse bleeds through the comm just as gunfire erupts, sharp cracks tearing the morning open and sending shards of asphalt spraying beneath our tires.
Trigger and Torch drop low, drawing their weapons. Dagger peels left, engine howling. Bones yells something I don’t catch and charges straight into the chaos.
I throttle hard, sliding in behind the attackers. Their patches flash red and black. The lead shooter swings his rifle slowly toward me. I fire once, steady and controlled, and watch him fold backward off his bike, his body tumbling across the pavement in a blur of denim and dust.
Another rider sprays rounds wide, a bullet clipping my mirror and sending glass spinning into the road. I duck, skid, and return fire in one smooth motion, the shot blowing his front tire and sending his bike cartwheeling in a shower of sparks.
The world narrows to noise and muscle memory of smoke, screams, asphalt, and heat.
Red’s voice breaks through the comm. “Van’s hit but rolling!”
“Keep it that way!” Trigger barks back, already reloading.
Less than a minute later, it’s over.
Steam hisses from the wrecked truck, smoke drifting into a sky too bright for what just happened. Bodies lie scattered across the road.
Dagger kneels beside one of the fallen. “Christ,” he mutters. “He’s a kid. Eighteen, maybe.”
I walk closer. The boy’s eyes are open, still surprised. A crooked Los Demons patch was barely sewn onto his vest. No scars yet. No stories.
The blood on my gloves is still wet, and when I search for anger or regret, there’s nothing there. Just a hollow stretch of quiet where both should be.
Trigger grips my shoulder. “You good?”
“Yeah,” I lie.
He studies me a beat, then nods. “Let’s clean this up and roll. Capone will want a full report.”
We move without speaking, pouring gasoline, checking the road, and wiping down what needs wiping. Dagger pours gasoline over the wreck while Torch checks the road for witnesses. When the fire catches, it climbs fast, flames swallowing twisted metal and spilled blood alike, turning the wreckage into heat and smoke until nothing is left but blackened frames. Bones kicks a broken helmet, muttering something that sounds like a prayer and a curse combined.
By the time we roll through the gates again, the sun’s merciless overhead.
My gloves are stiff with blood and smoke. My shirt reeks of fuel.
Capone’s waiting on the porch, cigarette burning low. “How bad?”
“Five down,” Trigger says. “One kid.”
Capone’s jaw tightens. “Los Demons want a war, they’ve got one.”