This time, it wasn’t just a visual nightmare. It wasn’t just a flashback. This one came with sounds and smell—the screams and groans, the shouted orders, the cries to take cover, the heavy whomp of the chopper overhead, laying down a line of fire into the rock-studded hills where the insurgents hid. The smell of dirt and sand, of sweat, the coppery scent of blood. He was back there, the scorching heat, the dusty sand invading his nostrils, inhaled into his lungs; the thud he felt in the pit of his stomach when the mortar rounds went off with a thump and a whoosh, followed by the shrieks and screams when the IED exploded.

Grady was caught in the nightmarish scene, more than half asleep, though a tiny part of his brain was telling him he wasn’t there, to wake up, to open his eyes and leap from his bed . . . the rest of his brain trapped him in the hellhole he couldn’t escape. Not then, not now, not ever. All he could do was endure . . . 

They came at that point between wakefulness and sleep, that twilight spot where he knew he wasn’t quite asleep, on the very cusp of it, just before he dropped off. Tonight, his dream was filled with explosions, dirt and debris flying everywhere. Caught in the midst of the dust ball were body parts. In the moments leading up to it, the armored truck jolting and rumbling along a dirt road, everyone in position, rifles at the ready. Overhead, the chops and wash of rotor blades of the chopper, ready to engage at any second, and then came the confrontation. From one second to the next. Heart-pounding tension, eyes wide, fingers on triggers, waiting and watching. The attack from the hills, their enemies hidden behind rocks, rudimentary mud-and-clay structures, and emerging from their hidey holes in the ground. The chopper released a missile, and then the gunfire, the explosions, the shouts, and the orders all wrapped into overwhelming cacophony.

The noise, the screams, echoing and never-ending, repeating as if on a loop, the noise itself taking hold of every muscle and cell in his body. He smelled the blood, felt his hands pressing on wounds, hot blood oozing between his fingers, his heart pounding, his ears ringing not only with the sound of gunfire all around but with his own myriad of emotions.

He tried to rouse himself from the nightmare, but he couldn’t move, couldn’t escape. His mind knew somewhere that he wasn’t really there, and yet he was. He knew he was dreaming, and yet he felt trapped in that hellhole in Kandahar, in that desert with its barren mountains with no end in sight, always the hunted or the hunter, no in between. The screams shredded his brain, leaving him gasping for breath, thrashing, trying to claw his way out of the depths of the nightmare . . . as a single, horrifying memory pushed its way to the surface.

David . . . face smeared with dirt and a trickle of blood dripping from beneath his helmet, eyes wide and expression fierce in the midst of the fight . . . and then in one second, maybe even a millisecond, the sound of the explosion, sand spurting everywhere, the look on David’s face seconds before . . . Grady would never forget the horror of watching his best friend flung backward, blood everywhere, rocks pelting him as he slammed onto his back on the ground ten feet away. Grady had dived for the ground as well, arms tucked behind his head, the rocks pattering against his helmet . . . but then he looked up as the dust settled ever so slowly, and he saw the dismembered leg, the bloody fatigues, and realizing, he choked back a cry . . . 

It was at moments like this, waking up from a nightmare that wasn’t just a nightmare, but reality come to visit him in his dreams, that he wished he had the guts to end it all. It would be so damn easy. No one would even care.

He jolted upright in bed, panting heavily, tangled in sweat-soaked sheets, his heart pounding erratically, a wave of dizziness nearly spilling him over the side of his bed.

Grady growled with despair, head in hands . . . if he could just reach his gun, if at this moment he could feel the cold, hard metal of his gun in his hand, he might be tempted . . . might be tempted to end it all. Forever. For that very reason, he didn’t sleep with his gun under his pillow or on the small bedside table anymore. He would take his chances if someone barged into his room. Having the gun so close at hand was not a good idea, at least at night. Keeping it elsewhere took away the temptation. Most of the time.

It wasn’t even that he really wanted to live. His life wasn’t worth anything anymore. But he couldn’t leave Callie. She needed someone to watch over her, to keep her safe. He’d already let down David in the worst way possible. He was damned if he was going to fuck up again and leave the love of his life unprotected.

Grady reached up and scrubbed a hand over his face. Callie was the love of David’s life. That’s what he’d meant. Nothing else. That wasn’t possible, shouldn’t happen.

He sighed, throwing back the thin sheet covering him. He didn’t have too much trouble falling asleep, but staying there was another thing entirely. Tonight had been one of the worst Grady had experienced in the past couple of months. It had come to him after a ludicrously brief period of blessed REM sleep.

He didn’t know how long he sat there, hunched over the side of the bed, elbows on his knees, head cradled in his hands, fighting the remnants of the nightmare, fighting through tears he refused to shed, fighting through the grief and the guilt. Maybe if he’d been ahead of his friend, it would have been him blown to pieces and not David. Callie wouldn’t be a widow. Grady had no one. It should’ve been him. He should’ve been the one to die. No one would miss him. Well, maybe David would occasionally, but he’d have been fine. He wouldn’t have left a wife behind.

Noises echoed from outside, followed by a chortle of laughter. He turned toward the window. Sometime during his mental torture, dawn had brightened his cabin. He rose from the bed and padded on bare feet toward the kitchen counter. He needed coffee. Strong coffee. More laughter sounded from outside. After the hellish night, relieving the nightmare of David’s death once again, the sound of that laughter grated on his nerves. The blood pumped through his veins. He stood, trembling, hands balled into fists, striving to tamp down his anger. One second at a time, he strove to calm his temper, focused on preparing the coffee, dumping coffee grounds without measuring into the paper filter. Taking the pot to the sink and filling it with water, pouring the water into the receptacle of the coffee machine and then turning it on, staring at it, willing it to hurry up.

The laughter again. Heart pounding anew, his temper riled, he shook his head and strode to the door, swung it open, and stepped into the threshold, not caring that he wore only a pair of dark blue boxers.

“Shut the hell up!”

His shout prompted startled glances from two prospects. For a brief moment he had to work to remember their names . . . Longfellow, barely twenty-one years old and the youngest of the group. He was fond of poetry, although he butchered it mercilessly. The other one was Tex, origin of that nickname obvious. Both were working on their bikes about twenty yards away, sitting cross-legged on the ground behind Longfellow’s bike, wrenches in hand. For a second, the two of them stared at one another, and then Longfellow said something to Tex and they both laughed softly, shook their heads, and went back to their bikes.

Grady saw red. A red haze that prompted a renewed and harder pounding in his head, making the veins in his neck pulse as his hands curled into fists. He told himself to turn around, walk back in his cabin, and slam the door, but he couldn’t. He walked toward them, not giving a shit about the hot sand beneath his bare feet, his rational brain telling him to stop, the other half wanting to pound their faces to a pulp. When the rage came on him like this, suddenly and seemingly out of nowhere, he couldn’t control it.

When the two realized he was coming toward them and recognized the look in his eyes, they scrambled up from the ground and without any sense of embarrassment, ran toward the main building. Grady stopped then, his chest heaving. He must look like an idiot standing in the middle of the dirt-and-gravel parking lot, naked except for his boxers, ready to fight anything that came near him. Moments later, Levi stood in the doorway, arms akimbo, watching him. With a sigh, Levi stepped outside, closed the door softly behind him, and approached Grady, pausing a few feet away.

“I smell coffee,” he said.

Grady blinked, his brain once again scrambling to process what Levi said. Finally, he took a deep breath, cleared the haze from his head, relaxed his hands, and nodded. He promptly turned and returned to his own cabin, Levi following. Damn, he needed to get a handle on this rage, or he wouldn’t even have the club left. He couldn’t live like this. And yet . . . despite his best efforts, he couldn’t control it. His hands still trembling, he walked to the kitchen counter and grabbed two mugs. He poured coffee into both and carried them to the small card table that served as his kitchen table. Levi had already seated himself in one metal chair, and Grady took the other. They both sipped coffee for several moments, neither of them saying anything. Finally, Levi set his mug on the table and looked at Grady.

“Bad night?”

Grady said nothing but gave a short nod. He winced, glanced out the open front door, and stared at nothing in particular, not wanting to meet Levi’s knowing gaze. Levi knew about his . . . issues. They didn’t talk about it much, but Levi understood, even without Grady having to explain himself. Like him, he sensed the Levi was haunted by something in his past, something that he never spoke about. Perhaps that’s where the almost instant understanding between the two of them had come from—a shared horror in their past.

“You’ve got to control yourself, Grady,” Levi finally said, speaking softly, then lifting the coffee mug to his mouth and sipping. He lowered the mug again. “I’ve always counted on you, and I’ll continue to do so. But you’ve got to get that volatile temper of yours under control, or you’ll be no good to me.” He shrugged and tried to smile. “You get yourself arrested or killed, who am I going to rely on to keep this group together?”

Grady looked down at his coffee, slowly turning the mug on the table, not drinking, not speaking. Levi continued. “You know I don’t usually push myself into someone else’s business, but I’ve noticed the change in you lately. What’s going on in that head of yours?” He raised his hand as Grady opened his mouth to speak. “It’s not just the flashbacks. I know you well enough to know that. So what’s going on?”

Grady closed his eyes, heaved a sigh, and then looked at the one man besides David that he’d ever considered a true friend. His loyalty to Levi was unswerving, and he deserved the truth.

“You remember David?”

Levi nodded. “You told me about him.”

“His widow, Callie. I’ve been trying to keep an eye on her . . . from afar. She doesn’t need someone like me in her life.” Grady watched Levi as he processed his words. Seeking out the hidden meaning in them. He shrugged.

“Any you don’t think she would welcome your presence because . . . ?”

“Because it’s my fault that David is dead. It’s my fault that she’s a widow.” Again, a surge of emotion rushed upward, nearly taking his breath away with the force of it. Guilt . . . he never imagined guilt could lay such a heavy burden on someone’s shoulders. It felt so heavy, dragging him down more and more each day.

Levi tilted his head, studying his coffee. “From what you’ve told me about it, the intel was off. You’re not a psychic. You couldn’t have anticipated—”

“I was the team leader. Despite my doubts about the intel, I proceeded. I should have questioned—”

“You were a soldier, Grady. You don’t question orders. You know that as well as I do.”

Neither of them said anything for several moments after that. Grady finally took his first sip of coffee, then placed the mug back down on the table. He had to get out of there, blow off some steam before he did something he’d really regret. “I’m going hunting today, looking to catch me a Joker. Send a message.”

Levi said nothing but finished his coffee, nodded, then stood.

“Watch your back out there, Grady.”

Levi left his cabin, and Grady shook off their conversation. It was one thing to know that he had to get a handle on himself, quite another to do it. He abruptly stood and quickly donned jeans, boots, and a T-shirt. In less than ten minutes, he sat on his bike, started the engine, the rumbling settling his still-shattered nerves, and roared through the open lot and out onto the highway.

Less than an hour later, his meanderings took him to the southern outskirts of the Fort Sill military base. He was growing bored, toying with the idea of just riding off into the hills for a while, to think. His thoughts drifted back to Callie. He’d purposely tried to pretend it had never happened, that he’d never slept with his best friend’s widow. Why had he allowed himself to push things so far with her? Of course, it took two to tango, and she hadn’t seemed to hesitate, but she was vulnerable. Lonely. He knew that. She had gone along with it and seemed to enjoy herself, but still. Had he misread? Grady shook his head violently. He had no business even thinking, even contemplating any kind of a future with her. How could she overlook who he was now? The fact that he rode with the Steel Kings, the fact that sometimes he stepped beyond the boundaries of the law? He wasn’t a part of the hardcore scene, and neither was Levi. They weren’t Boy Scouts, either. Still—

He spotted a motorcycle. The rider didn’t look like one of those fly-by-night riders. Not a traveler, and not a cruiser. No, that chopper was decked out, with high handlebars, low back end, and fat wheels. Grady eyed the bike as it turned off the highway and onto a side road. Less than a hundred yards behind and curious, he followed. It wasn’t long before he recognized the insignia on the rider’s leather jacket. His heart leapt with excitement, and blood instantly thrummed through his veins, anticipation prompting him to throttle his bike forward, pick up speed, and lean over the gas tank, as if by desire alone he could catch up to the guy. A Joker.

It took the Joker about five hundred more yards to realize he was being followed, Grady closed the distance between them. The Joker turned to look behind him and then accelerated. Grady followed suit, his heart racing with anticipation. He didn’t expect this to be the guy that had shot at Levi, but at the moment, any Joker would do.

They were large and seemingly growing by the day, claiming a quickly growing territory that in the past ranged from the border of Mexico to the south and west toward Albuquerque, north toward the Panhandle and beyond. They had made inroads to Arizona and Southern California and were trying to take over central Oklahoma and beyond.

That would never happen. Not if he could do anything about it. The Steel Kings were relatively small and localized, maybe fifty members to date, while the Jokers numbered well over a hundred by last estimated count—but they had something that the Jokers didn’t: Levi “Vlad” Hancock as their leader. He wasn’t sure how he did it, but Levi had the skill and charisma to get other clubs behind him when needed, as well as local authorities.

For now, though, one Joker would do.

Grady didn’t go out of his way to make enemies, even in the past year, but he hated the Jokers, every single one of them. They were bad dudes with seemingly no limits nor concepts of boundaries. They thought nothing of harassing locals, be they men, women, or children; it didn’t seem to matter to them. They dealt in drugs, sex, weapons, and God knew what else. While Grady was no prude and definitely not a do-gooder, he didn’t like the fact that the Jokers thought nothing of trafficking meth—even around elementary schools! They transported it and other deadly and often tainted product up north of the border. All they cared about was making money, intimidating people, and eliminating rivals.

Grady laughed as he closed in on the wheels of the Joker, squinting against the dirt and dust rising from the fat tires. The rider, a dark-skinned, black-haired Latino, wore tattered jeans, a T-shirt under his leather jacket, and black boots. A dark blue bandanna spanned his forehead. He looked back over his shoulder at Grady and grinned, gunned his bike, and shot ahead. Grady followed suit, closing the distance between the Joker’s rear wheel and his front wheel. After a moment’s hesitation, knowing it could all go so wrong, Grady deliberately bumped it. The Joker’s bike lost traction, its back end weaving back and forth, forcing him to slow down in the inch-inch deep sandy soil of the rutted road that only occasionally hardened to a concrete-like substance marred by grooves and ruts.

The Joker scrambled to hang onto his jerking handlebars with one hand while he reached inside his jacket with the other. Grady eyed the dark black and recognized the automatic pistol. Shit. He wasn’t armed. Growling, the fury once again overtaking him, Grady again tapped the Joker’s back wheel, causing him to swerve to erratically, the entire bike wobbling, unable to retain his momentum or his balance. The Joker made an attempt to aim his gun over his shoulder, but before he got off a shot, the bike hit a thicker patch of sand. The front wheel caught and jerked to the side, and both Joker and his bike spun off the road, the Joker flying through the air before he landed hard maybe ten yards from his bike. He was up immediately, scrambling for his gun that lay in the sand near his bike, its back wheel still spinning.

Grady laid his bike down, came up in a tucked knee roll, and without hesitation, bent nearly double and charged the Joker, tackling him like a linebacker, both of them flying to the ground. He got a nose full of desert dust as he landed hard, his knee scraping against the desert brush, inches away from a cholla cactus, its spines as sharp as needles and a bitch to see once they imbedded in the skin. Grady rolled again and straddled the Joker. The man lay on his back, twisting from side to side, eyes wide with fear as Grady’s hands wrapped around his throat. He began to squeeze, the red haze blurring his vision, the veins on the back of his hands and his forearms distended as he squeezed. A choking, garbled sound escaped the Joker’s throat. His eyes bulged in panic.

“Is this what you wanted, you fucking bastard? You want to tangle with the Kings? Well, you got it.” He sneered, watching the guy’s mouth open and close like a fish out of water. He wanted to keep choking him, didn’t care if he killed the guy . . . out of nowhere, Callie’s face swam into his mind. Her warm eyes, the way she felt in his arms, the despair that connected both of them. He could kill this guy, pull him into the brush, and no one would ever find him. But . . . with a loud curse, Grady released his grip on the Joker’s throat and instead balled his fist and slammed it against the side of the guy’s head. “Stay out of our territory,” he threatened. “Unless you want an all-out war, and I can promise you, it won’t go well for you. Comprende?”

The Joker sneered back, regaining a bit of his bravado. “I’m not in your territory now, esé, so what you can you do? You want to kill me, go ahead. We outnumber you five to one.” He tried to laugh, but gagged instead.

Grady recognized the fear in the Joker’s eyes, the feigned bravado, eyes darting around as if miraculously, one of his club members would suddenly appear to save the day. His pulse throbbed in his throat, his chest heaving, his skin taking on a greenish pallor.

“It’s easy to be brave when you travel in a pack,” Grady snarled. “Where are your friends now, amigo? Not so tough by yourself, are you?” He began to squeeze again, and the Joker appeared to realize that Grady wasn’t playing around. His eyes bulged as Grady narrowed his eyes on him, mouth twisted with scorn. Suddenly, Grady caught a whiff of ammonia. Shit, the guy had pissed his pants. He grumbled in disdain and quickly stood, gazing down at the wet spot on the crotch of the guy’s jeans.

“Get out of here,” Grady snapped. “Go back to your leader, El Stupido Lobo, and give him a personal message from me.” He stared down at the guy, who was still lying on his back, breathing hard as Grady stepped to the Joker’s motorcycle, plucked the gun from the sand, and pointed it at the Joker. The Joker sent a narrowed glare his way for insulting Lobo, their leader. “You know who I am, right?”

The Joker stared at him a moment, licked his lips, and then swallowed, his Adam’s apple bouncing nervously. “You’re the crazy dude, the Sergeant at Arms for the Steel Kings.”

Grady grinned. “Very good. Now you tell Lobo exactly what I said. Because if I see any of you in our territory again, you’re going to die. You won’t know when, you won’t know how, but it will be when you least expect it. So you better grow eyes on the back of your head, esé, because I’m going to be there, just waiting. Comprende?”

Grady didn’t wait for the Joker to answer. He walked back to his bike, his palm wrapped around the butt of the Glock that he’d plucked from the sand. Without warning, he turned, aimed, and fired off five quick shots in succession. Each of them were precisely twelve inches away from the Joker’s head, spitting sand that stung the Joker’s face as he closed his eyes and screamed. Grady laughed, lifted his bike out of the sand, and sat astride the saddle, sending the Joker one last wicked grin before he kicked his bike into gear.

He took off, his laughter floating behind him as he headed further into the desert. He let loose an excited howl, knowing that he shouldn’t get so excited at the scent of battle, but he couldn’t fight it. Never had. Still. His head pounding, the adrenaline still flowing through his veins, he headed deeper into the deserted plains. He wanted to calm down, to think, confused by the image of Callie in his head the moment he was prepared to choke the life out of the Mexican rival. Why had he stopped? If her face hadn’t popped into his head at that moment, would he have done it? Would he have choked the guy out, left him in the desert to rot?

Hell, yes.

He needed to get his head straight. His violent temper was no good for anyone, and especially not Callie. One of these days, he’d end up in jail, or maybe—blessedly—dead.