Page 23 of Bolt's Flame
Mystic rode up beside me, his face half-covered by his bandana, eyes narrowed as he scanned the horizon. “You think they’re stupid enough to show themselves out here?” he asked over the wind.
“If they are, they’re dumber than I thought,” I shouted, glancing at the tree line. “But somethin’ is giving them the balls to push into our territory.”
Mystic snorted. “We’ll cut those motherfucker’s balls off and shove ‘em down their lizard throats.”
The Dragon Fire weren’t brave, but they weren’t cowards either. They’d been encroaching more and more lately, testing our boundaries, and we’d had a few run-ins already. No one had died—yet—but we were on the edge of something, and if they kept pushing, blood was going to spill.
We took a sharp turn off the main highway, cutting through a dirt road in the woods, the sounds of our engines muffled by the thick canopy of trees. It was dark out here, the kind of dark that made you feel like anything could jump out at you from the shadows. But I wasn’t scared. Unlike Chain, it took a hell of a lot more than ghosts in the dark to scare me.
We slowed as we approached a clearing, all four of us moving in sync, years of riding together making us move without words. Mystic pulled up next to a large cluster of trees and cut his engine, raising his hand to signal us to stop. I followed suit, the quiet settling in around us like a weight.
Thunder and Spinner drifted in behind us, hopping off their bikes. “What do you see?” Spinner whispered.
Mystic motioned toward the edge of the clearing. “Tire tracks. Fresh.”
I climbed off my bike, moving toward where Mystic pointed. The dirt was churned up, the imprint of motorcycle tires clear in the orange clay. I crouched down, running my hand over the track. “Definitely not ours,” I said, standing up and looking around. “Looks like they came through here recently.”
Thunder swore under his breath. “Dragon Fire?”
“Who else?” I said, scanning the area. “They’ve been sniffin’ around here for weeks, getting bolder.”
Mystic pulled out his phone, snapping a few pictures of the tracks. “This is our territory. It’s almost like they’re beggin’ for trouble.”
“They’re asking for an ass kickin’,” Thunder growled, cracking his knuckles. “And if they’re trying to push us, we’ll give them exactly what they’re askin’ for, just like Drago’s dear ole grandaddy.”
I felt the familiar burn of anger flare up in my chest. I hated these scouting runs, but I hated even more that Dragon Fire thought they could make a move on us. They were cocky, and they thought they could muscle their way into our space without consequences. But The Devil’s House wouldn’t back down, and if like Devil suggested, and we had to call in backup, then so be it.
“We keep lookin’,” I said, heading back to my bike. “I want to know how far they’ve come into what don’t belong to them.”
Thunder and Mystic followed as I kicked my engine back to life, the roar breaking the stillness of the night. We rode deeper into the woods, following the trail of tracks that led us further into the dark. The tension was thick between us, all of us on edge, waiting for something to happen.
After a few more miles, the tracks veered off the path and disappeared into the thick underbrush. We stopped again, this time more cautiously. The trees closed in around us, the shadows darker than before.
Spinner scanned the area, his eyes sharp. “We’re close to that old, abandoned paper plant,” he said. “Think they’re hidin’ out there?”
“Only one way to find out,” I murmured.
We rode in as quietly as we could, the sound of our bikes muffled as we moved through the trees, until the looming shape of the paper mill appeared in the distance. It was a decaying relic of a time long past, its rusted machinery and crumbling walls barely visible in the moonlight. But it was remote, hidden, the kind of place you’d go if you didn’t want to be found.
We stopped just outside the old factory, cutting our engines and listening. The night was quiet, too quiet.
I nodded to Mystic, Spinner and Thunder, motioning for them to follow me as we moved toward the mill on foot, our boots crunching softly in the leaves. My hand instinctively went to the gun under my cut, the familiar weight comforting as we crept closer. I didn’t know what we were about to walk into, but I wasn’t taking any chances.
We reached the edge of the building, pressing ourselves against the wall. Mystic peered around the corner, then pulled back, his expression grim. “They’re here. At least five bikes, maybe more inside.”
Thunder’s jaw clenched, his fingers itching for a fight. My brother loved to draw blood—maybe too much. “What’s the plan?”
I thought for a second, then nodded toward the bikes. “We disable their rides. Let them know they ain’t hidin’ shit. We don’t have the manpower for anything else.”
Mystic grinned, already pulling out a small blade. “I’d rather do bodily damage, but fuckin’ with their bikes will work.”
Our motorcycles were our babies, and to have it hurt, hit something deep and personal that only a biker would understand.
We moved quickly, slashing tires, mutilating paint jobs and cutting wires, our movements silent and efficient. By the time we were done, Dragon Fire wouldn’t be going anywhere fast.
As we worked, a flicker of movement caught my eye. I looked up, my pulse quickening as I saw one of their men standing in the doorway, his eyes widening as he spotted us.
“Shit,” I muttered. “We’ve been made.”