I have no fucking idea what time it is. Time feels like it’s standing still as I sit silently in front of the campfire fire just outside the entrance of the old bunker a couple of miles from the clubhouse. My phone died hours ago, halfway through taking notes here and there while I talked to my key people and sent them all off to finish their intel gathering. No matter how the night shakes out, the club took a serious hit tonight. Someone has to pay, and whoever was responsible will get their own taste of judgment day.

No one fucks with my home and lives to tell about it.

Moonlight sends rays through the trees, making the place feel surreal. It’s a contrast to the shit storm we just went through. I’m so fucking frustrated as I straighten up that I punch my fist through the air as if delivering a bone-shattering blow to the cocksucker that fucked with Satan’s Saints. He’d be lucky if it’s just a beatdown. More likely than not, he’ll taste the oily metal of the barrel of my gun before we’re done with him. I don’t fucking care how bad that sounds. Violence for violence. That’s justice. And now that I’m thinking about it, I crave it.

“Feeling better now?” Axe calls out, crunching through the wooded area’s undergrowth with his heavy boots and wiping his face with a bandana. “From where I was standing, the score looks like, Silas: one…imaginary enemy: zero. Correct me if I’m wrong.”

“No, you’re good…and he fucking had it coming. Where’s everyone else?”

“On their way.” My closest friend sits on the log and stares into the fire, waiting for Cole and Tate. Dean isn’t expected back until morning.

“This was a long-ass twenty-four hours,” I tell him as I crack my neck. Some nature-crunching footsteps and raspy voices in the distance catch my attention. “Sounds like the guys are here.”

Axe adjusts himself and pulls out his phone.

“What time you got, bro?”

“After two in the morning.”

“That puts their attack at around eleven-thirty.”

Axe grunts out his agreement. “Because they can’t bomb us at a reasonable hour. That would be too fucking considerate of them. Whoever they are. Coward cocksucker fucks.”

Tate and Cole eventually appear through the thick brush. We exchange greetings and sit on the logs placed around the campfire, making a four-man circle to speak freely. I’ve been coming to this spot since I was a kid. I learned just enough wilderness skills from my army vet uncle Marty. The old guy was the club’s informal cub scout leader after he came home early from Vietnam with a blown-out knee. He hooked up with some hippy chick who claimed she was clairvoyant to everyone she met, and they became tree-huggers out in So-Cal after my old man died. I don’t know why this shit is surfacing in my head right now, but I can almost hear his gravelly old voice warning us back when we did our nature walks. Maybe because he believed in blood for blood, and settling a score with fists if possible, weapons if necessary.

This attack calls for exactly his brand of justice.

“Did you find any more leads?” I ask Tate as I taste the charred smell of burnt wood on the back of my tongue as I swallow.

“Yeah, those fuckers weren’t the brightest bulbs, Pres. I was out front when it happened, showing a hot piece that Harley restoration I’ve been working on. I saw them. It was two guys with ski masks, except they’d already pulled the masks up to their foreheads. They jumped into a fucking lime green piece of shit Escalade, and took off when they saw me running toward them. The Easter egg vehicle driving, tail between their fucking legs, can’t show their faces motherfuckers—”

I make a circular motion with my finger for Tate to wrap it up. If I don’t, he’ll go off on one of his rants.

“Anyway, someone else that was outside shouted out that they saw the cowards drop something around the outside of the clubhouse. But by then, the fuckers already got back to their fucking bunny mobile and made tracks. Just so you know, I ditched the sack demon and went looking around with some of the men to check the perimeter for whatever it was. Turns out it was two duffel bags, probably with a couple of low-grade explosives inside each one. I didn’t see it in time, boss. I barely had a second to shout out a warning before it went off. I had to duck and cover for a while before I took a chance and hopped on my bike to chase down the sons of bitches. They got away, but one of the members saw part of their plate number. That info with the make and model plus the pastel puke shade of that vehicle will make it a breeze to find.”

“Good job, Tate,” I say, considering everything he’s shared as it sinks in.

Cole motions toward Axe and pulls out a pad of paper from the inside pocket of his leather cut. He follows it up with a pair of horn-rimmed reading glasses I’ve never seen him wear before.

Axe didn’t either. He looks over at Cole, settling into a loud, full-bodied peal of laughter. Once he gets the cackling under control, he scratches his head. “Whose nursing home did you break into for those goggles, Gramps?”

Cole isn’t entertained. “Stop sounding so fucking amused,” he barks with a no-nonsense glare. “This is serious shit, and you’re sitting over there like we’re chatting about when you screwed that broad on your bike outside the clubhouse with a scotch in one hand and her twin sister at your back. You’re Sergeant at Arms, for fuck’s sake. Start fucking acting like it.”

Everything sobers up real fast as Cole reads from his notes. All the members’ accounts have one thing in common. They saw Los Diablos decals on the Escalade, Los Diablos patches on masked men’s cuts, and one of them yelled something in Spanish on the way out of the clubhouse driveway.

I can’t believe this shit. “That makes no sense,” I say, shaking my head. “They wouldn’t dare try something this serious with us. Not here at the clubhouse, and never this obvious. Their president wouldn’t let a war start without provocation. No fucking way.”

“It all points to the Los Diablos, boss. We have to face reality.” Cole slides his glasses off his nose, pocketing them in his cut. “In some ways, getting confirmation this fast makes things easy, but retaliation at a time like this, well, I don’t know. They’ve had a beef with us for a while, and I ain’t suggesting that we should let this attack go unanswered, Si. Because we can’t fucking do that. But they just strengthened their alliance with the Mongols. We need to be smart.”

“If they did it, I don’t care about who they partnered with. Vasquez is their President. That makes him accountable for all the sorry-ass loose cannons running around with his patches. They’ll have to pay. But I just want to know it’s them for sure.”

“Si is right,” Axe agrees. “We gotta deliver a strong message. You got me? They’ve been waving their dicks in our faces long enough. Now it’s time to show them we may like keeping the peace, but we ain’t afraid to wage war. And when we do, we need to bury them.”

There’s agreement around the small circle.

“I say we—” Tate starts.

Thank fuck Axe cuts him off quickly. “No one wants to hear your fucked-up necrophilia bullshit or whatever you want to call it. Leave the decision-making to the non-sociopaths.”

Tate spits at the ground. “You bitches have no idea how to have a good time.”

“Alright guys, listen up. We’re taking a vote. Once we’re a hundred percent sure it’s Los Diablos MC, if you’re in favor of taking an immediate stand, say aye. If against, then it’s nay.” I glanced toward Axe. “You’re up.”

“Aye.”

Simple. Straight to the point. I make eye contact with Tate.

“Aye,” he agrees. “Even if I don’t have a say in what we do with the bodies.”

Cringing a bit, I look over at Cole.

“Aye. There’s not even a question.”

“Dean’s not here, but we’ve already got a majority.” I take a breath. We’re sealing Los Diablos’ fate, which has its own set of repercussions. “We do this, we do it right. Once we confirm it’s them, we grab the AK’s, and Tate can bring the launcher. We’ll pay them a visit at dusk, and after the dust settles, I’ll have a sit-down with Vasquez. If he gives us any trouble or tries to deny what his people did, Tate gets to level their shit-hole of a campground. Whatever we’ve got to do to make things square.”

There’s a circle of nods in my direction, and Tate adds, “Sounds like a plan. Time to fuck up some Los Diablos scum.”