Page 16 of Everest

“Find anything?” Payton asks.

“Nah,” I say, not needing them to worry. “Get some sleep.”

They hesitate, then head toward their rooms. I pull out my phone and dial Riggs. He picks up before the first ring finishes.

“What ya got for me, brother?”

I sigh, rubbing the back of my neck. “Someone was here, snoopin’ around the shed near the river. No sign of them now.”

There’s a beat of silence, followed by a sigh. “Stay put for the rest of the night, just in case.”

“Got it.” I wait for the call to end, then glance across the room at Catcher, leaning against the bar with his arms crossed over his chest. His face is a mask of anguish, eyes shadowed and intense as if each thought is a silent scream. It looks like the weight of hell is crushing him, carving deep lines of worry into his brow and tightening his jaw in a fierce battle against the heaviness of his memories. But to be fair, he always looks that way. If I carried that amount of pain from a past like his, my exterior would reflect it, too. “I’m crashin’ here for the rest of the night, but I need to grab my bike," I tell Catcher. “Parked it on the other side of the mill.”

Catcher nods but doesn’t speak.

I step back outside and roll my shoulders. The air is heavy as I move through the darkness, my senses on high alert. A feeling, the kind that settles deep in your gut before shit hits the fan, claws at me as I trek my way toward the mill.

I close in on my bike.

Then, an explosion rocks the ground, and a wave of energy slams into my chest, throwing me backward. I hit the ground hard, gravel biting into my palms. My ears ring, the force knocking the breath from my lungs. Heat rolls over me in a blistering wave as fire lights up the night like the gates of hell just blew open. The old mill is an inferno, flames clawing skyward along with thick black smoke. The scent of burning oil, scorched metal, and gasoline fills the air.

I push up, my vision swimming, blurred by the heat and smoke. I notice my bike lying on its side a couple of yards away. I get to my feet and make my way to it, needing to get it and myself away from the inferno. Not far from my bike, sitting on the ground is a red gasoline can that wasn’t there when I left my ride earlier. I crouch, getting a better look, making sure not to get my prints on it.

But something else catches my attention.

Scrawled in thick black Sharpie on the bike’s blue gas tank are the words ‘Watch your back.’

My blood runs cold as anger boils beneath the surface.

Sirens wail in the distance, indicating that authorities will be here soon, so I need to get the hell out of there before they arrive. The last thing the club needs is the cops sniffing around, thinking the Kings are linked to this.

Gritting my teeth, I maneuver my motorcycle off its side, gripping the handlebars tightly as I push it upright and back to the clubhouse—sweat clinging to me, thick with the stench of smoke.

Up ahead, under the streetlight’s glow, I notice Catcher jogging toward me, his expression tight. “You good?”

“Yeah,” I huff.

Catcher’s gaze drops to my bike, his sharp eyes catching the message left on the gas tank. His head snaps up. “Who’d you piss off?”

My jaw flexes.

“Think the fire and the trespasser are connected?” Catcher walks beside me.

“Don’t know.”

Once inside the clubhouse, I yank my phone from my pocket and call Riggs again, and he answers immediately.

“What?”

“We might have a problem.”

“Talk,” his tone darkens.

“Someone blew up the mill. It’s burnin’ to the ground as we speak.” I exhale. “And someone wrote 'Watch your back'across my bike’s gas tank.” There’s a beat of silence before I add, “I think it might be linked to the fucker peddlin’ pills we tossed out the bar the other night.”

“What makes you think that?” Riggs questions.

“I had a second run-in with him and another pusher outside the boxing gym hours ago. He mentioned his boss wasn’t too pleased with us interfering with his operations.”

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