Chapter 7 - Smoke on the Interstate
The needle on the speedometer of Rook’s customized Harley crossed ninety miles per hour as we rocketed north on Route 4, the freezing night air tearing at our jackets like jagged glass.
Behind us, a second Iron Lantern bike ridden by Miller—one of our younger road prospects—roared through the sleet, carrying a second helmet wrapped around the handlebars. But my mind wasn't on the road; it was fixed entirely on the smoke rising over the horizon where our Beckford clubhouse used to stand.
By the time we crested the final ridge overlooking the old industrial garage, the compound looked like a war zone.
The corrugated metal roof had caved inward, collapsing into a raging inferno of orange flames and thick, oily black smoke that billowed high into the winter sky. Two unmarked tactical vehicles were parked sideways across the gravel yard, their doors open, abandoned in the hasty retreat.
Rook cut the Harley’s engine fifty yards out, sliding the heavy machine to a gravel-skidding halt. He didn't wait for the wheels to stop spinning completely before he vaulted off, his heavy boots hitting the dirt with a thud.
“Cutter!” Rook roared, his deep voice carrying easily over the crackle of burning timbers. “Cutter!”
We rushed past the shattered skeleton of the front office bay. The workbench where our brothers had gathered just hours ago was splintered into charcoal.
And then, near the back tool racks, a groan broke through the hiss of popping wood.
“Dean... damn it, boss... took you long enough,” a voice choked out.
We sprinted around a collapsed steel beam. Cutter was half-propped against the tire rack, his leather cut scorched along the left shoulder, blood soaking through his jeans near his knee where a round had grazed him. Boomer was kneeling beside him, tearing a strip of cotton from an old shop rag to bind a gash on Cutter’s forearm.
“Where are the others?” Rook demanded, dropping to one knee and grabbing Cutter by the shoulders.
“They hit us hard, Dean,” Cutter wheezed, coughing up a mix of soot and blood. “Ten guys. Professional grade. They didn't want a firefight—they wanted the server. When we told them it was already locked down in the county vault under federal seal, they dropped incendiary charges and cleared out in thirty seconds flat.”
Rook slowly stood up. He looked around the burning remains of the brotherhood’s home—the place where we had spent years rebuilding our lives, fixing bikes, and keeping to ourselves.
“They didn't want the server,” Rook said quietly, his voice dangerously low. “They wanted to see if we’d burn with it.”
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out, expecting a call from the local fire department or state police. Instead, it was an incoming text from an unlisted number.
I unlocked the screen. A single photo filled the display: Eli Bennett and little Lucy sleeping in their hospital room, captured through the window by someone standing right outside Room 412.
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Below the photo was a text message: “You can’t hide them behind an old man and a doctor, Mr. Mercer. Bring the real ledger to the rail yard by dawn, or the kids’ monitors flatline.”
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