Page 11 of Bullet

“Those motherfuckers. We’ll find them and make them pay for this.” Smoke slams one hand, heavy with chunky metal rings, into his open palm.

If I was twelve, I’d call Smoke my best friend. When he came over from the Berserkers, it wasn’t easy making his way in a new club, but we bonded easily enough over this very building.

My range.

A shared love of guns was the easy part. Not breaking every bone in his body over his sarcastic yap is the tough bit, but for the most part, his annoying personality makes us all smile and laugh.

It’s hard to believe that this razed pile of smoldering ash was once a proud structure.

Tyrant and Raiden are talking to the fire crew. They know a bunch of those guys personally, and most of the cops in Hart as well. The men are soot stained and weary. The range is on the edge of Hart, past the golf course, and while there weren’t any buildings for the fire to spread to and burn down, they tried their best to contain it when it was clear that the building couldn’t be saved.

It was Tyrant who got the call. We were still in Seattle at that same motel, due to ride out in the morning. We moved out even though it was just after two on a Sunday morning and pitch black. Most of us weren’t asleep or planning on it anyway.

In the course of one single weekend, my entire life has crumbled.

I’m going to trial for something I didn’t do. This building, which I bought with my own savings and spent so many hours renovating with the club, pouring my heart and fucking soul into, is destroyed.

So yes. My impeccable control is slipping. I’m angry. I’m exhausted. I want to find Harold Jacobs and make him pay every bit as much as Smoke does. Because even though there’s no proof, I know he’s behind this.

“We’ll rebuild,” I state flatly, like I’m not burning to commit outright murder.

Smoke’s face transforms into incredulity. “We’ll rebuild? Just like that? So the fuckers can burn it down again? Everyone knows this was Harold’s work. He might have had someone else do this, but he gave the order, no doubt. All for what? Because his prick son bashed his own face in on your thick skull? Since when does a club allow someone to hit them like this with utter impunity?”

I steer Smoke away from the smoldering rubble behind us, guiding him deeper into the parking lot, towards the bikes we parked all along the edge. I don’t want anyone else to overhear this conversation, certainly not the firefighters who are still buzzing all over the place.

The heat from the blaze, though it’s no longer blazing at all, hits us even at the edge of the parking lot. Sweat prickles under my leather jacket. I know I reek. I’m dirty, unwashed, and weary of all of this, andall of thishasn’t even been defined yet. It’s probably just fucking starting.

I run my hand through my hair, cursing when ashes rain down in front of my face.

“What we do to Harold or his son isn’t our call,” I caution Smoke. “In your own club, you certainly couldn’t go off making decisions like that. I know Zale.” I don’t have to say that when he was our prez here, he was fucking crazy at the end. He caused Raiden to go to prison, set the whole thing up himself, and tried to have his own son killed as retribution for taking over as Prez when his dirty hands became clear to the club, and he was kicked out. “He wouldn’t have stood for that at all.”

“Tyrant’s nothing like Zale.”

“Don’t mistake his kindness and goodness for softness. He’s worked hard to make Hart the kind of town we can be proud to live in, but also a place where the civilians aren’t scared of us, where the cops aren’t hunting us, where no one hates us. We can’t just go off half-cocked, pulling a bunch of vigilante shit.”

“He burned down your fucking range, man. We loved this place. You didn’t do anything, but you were hauled off into the copshop in Seattle. You have to go to court. And now you’ve lost the one place you cherished.”

“It’s not the one place.” I kick at the asphalt with the toe of my boot, the loss weighing heavy on me, even though on the exterior, I’m perfectly calm. “This is going to be far reaching. We might be facing another lockdown. We don’t know what kind ofthreat Harold is going to pose if he can do something like this. It’s complicated, though. He’s had access to the innerworkings of this club since Zale was running it.”

Smoke’s hands curl into fists. “All the more reason to silence the fucker.”

“Tyrant doesn’t condone murder.” I make sure those words are low and that I lean in close to deliver them. “He’ll want to do this legally, if he can.”

His father had him tortured, Raiden and other guys imprisoned. Zale forced his daughter to marry Raiden in some sick revenge scheme and then he kidnapped her. Ella could have killed him, but instead, she gave him the option of turning himself in and taking responsibility for his crimes. Tyrant approved of Zale doing time instead of going to ground.

“Put a bullet in a man’s head and he can’t talk,” Smoke insists. He’s got his own flames burning in his dark eyes. I’m not sure what he’s done in the past, but I wouldn’t doubt he’s left a trail of bodies.

I’ve never asked. I try not to think about it.

My own hands are far, far from clean, even if what I did was sanctioned under my job title. I’ve saved lives too, but in order to save them, there were times when life had to be taken. Bad men, yes, but still men. Still human.

“We need to be careful with Harold,” I caution. I wouldn’t put it past Smoke to go off on a witch hunt. Vigilante justice is indeed his own personal language. He’s snarky, sarcastic, and loves to joke around, fuck around, and ride his bike. He’s a good man at heart, but he also doesn’t have the right dose of fear thatplagues most people, and violence seems to run in his blood. “If he has the balls to do this, he’s had the balls to shore shit up as protection. If we come at him, there’s a good chance he’ll just release it all. What happened in Seattle just proves how easily he can. We’re protected in Hart, but the shit that we do, the guns and the farms, they aren’t in Hart.” I don’t need to say that there have been bodies. Maybe not put to ground by myself, but by other men in this club.

Lynette wasn’t exactly wrong about the criminal element. We might be better than most clubs, but that doesn’t make us fucking saints.

“Where the fuck are we supposed to blow off frustration now? We have no range, and we can’t use Harold as target practice.”

I clap Smoke on the shoulder, thankful he’s setting at least a small portion of his rage aside. It’s still burning as hot as that smoking mess in the background in my own chest, but I have to follow my own advice and let it be for now. It’s not like I’m going to fucking forget about it. It can keep right on burning, but I can’t let it consume me.

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