Chapter 1

Backdraft

My head is pounding like a jackhammer when I come to hogtied on a slab of concrete. Slivers of light streak the floor in front of me, scattering around the fragments of dust floating in the air. I follow the glare up to their source and find myself enclosed in a small space made from old, worn boards. The pungent smell of musty, rotting wood mixes with the stench of sweat from the suffocating heat pressing down on my sore body. Shifting my weight into an upright position, I pry my arms apart with all my strength. The tape around my wrists snaps, letting me quickly undo the binds around my ankles. When I draw my hand to the back of my head, I find the reason for the pain. There's a knot the size of my fist, hurting like a motherfucker under my touch. The blood sticks to my fingers as I slowly recall what happened.

I tracked my target down to a secluded area deep in the steep hills outside Nashville, Tennessee. I spent days searching for a way into the guarded compound surrounded by thick growth of oak, hickory, and maple. Circling the surrounding terrain and formulating a plan to penetrate the point hiding deep within the wooded area. The compound was surrounded by jagged rocks and thick brush, damn near impenetrable from any point but the main road leading in. I was ready to run through the gate, guns blazing, when an opportunity I had to take presented itself. The convoy of trucks slowly climbing the narrow gravel road to the top provided the perfect cover. Ducking out of the brush, I hoisted myself onto the tailgate of the rear truck and slipped into the back.

The bumps and dips in the rocky terrain are the perfect distraction for my added weight until the convoy rolls to a stop. Laying still, I wait while the driver exchanges words with another man on foot. Boots grinding heavily on the gravel sends warning flares off in my gut. With adrenaline coursing through my veins, I spring into action. Digging into the concealed pocket of the tactical vest strapped beneath my cut, my fingers close around a small bottle cap. Swiftly, I rip open a pack of cigarettes, extracting a lump of malleable clay. I mold it expertly around the head of a match and a remote charge, ensuring its secure placement within the cap. My heart pounds in my chest as I survey the interior of the truck's cargo bed, searching for a prime location to plant it. I pinpoint the perfect spot, nestled snugly within a groove along the top ledge. As I tap the cap against my knuckles, a surge of anticipation courses through me. What it lacks in size and devastation, it makes up for in shock and awe. With quick fingers, I affix the cap bomb. Despite my training and knowledge, the most challenging part lies in waiting for the opportune moment to unleash my calculated assault. Every second feels like an eternity, poised on the brink of chaos, awaiting the perfect moment to detonate my calling card.

As the footsteps grow closer, I roll out of the back and dive for cover while they make their way down the line searching the trucks. Once again, I find myself up to my neck in overgrown weeds. I'm so sick of the fucking woods. I grew up in a small town where all I ever found was boredom and trouble. We didn't have trees with trunks as thick as I am like they do out here. My mind drifts back to a fire I set to some rotted trees, doused in kerosene, that needed to be cut down. The breeze picked that shit up and snowed burning ash downwind for days. What can I say, growing up in the middle of nowhere the only thing for teenagers to do is drink, fuck, and set shit on fire. It took moving to the city before I came into my own and developed the skill set that earned me the road name, Backdraft.

Swatting at the gnats and mosquitoes, my foot catches on something sharp. Flaying my arms outward to catch my balance only serves as a propeller as I careen into the dirt. The shrill wail of an air horn has me scrambling to my feet and taking cover behind a tree while I search out the source of the alarm. The foliage is thick and the best I can tell is it's somewhere overhead. The snap and crackle of twigs and branches means I have company. Even with a silencer on my Glock 19, bullets will only draw more unwanted attention, so I click the safety in place and tuck my gun into the holster under my cut. This fight will have to be handled silently.

I'm skilled in many things, fighting is just one of them. When you grow up like I did, you learn how to defend yourself first and how to fight second. While other boys my age were hitting dingers on the baseball field or running the ball, I was mastering both and those skills are about to become invaluable. I move through the maze of trees and weeds as quietly as a man of my size can. The best way to win a fight is to never let them see you coming. Staying in the shadows of overgrown brush, I move toward the footsteps. Positioning myself just out of sight but very much in earshot, I draw out a long, low whistle. The man stills in his tracks, his back taut as he scans for the source he'll never find. From behind him, a branch rustles through the leaves, after leaving my hand in a stealthy javelin throw. He jerks around, drawing his gun higher. While his back is turned, I reposition myself behind another large tree a few feet over and repeat the process. His head snaps around as I draw out another long whistle, now an octave higher. Followed by the frantic snap of his neck as he spins towards the rock that lands behind him with a heavy thud. Shifting to the right, I use my advantage to haul myself towards him. As he twists back around, I reach out and grab him by the throat. Twisting my arm, I force him to the ground while he gasps for breath. Before I can reach into my pocket for my blade, a sharp sting rips through my head and everything goes dark.

I'm still processing my predicament when a subtle beep disrupts the silence, followed by the distant tick of a clock.

Fuck.

I've done enough research on this group to know exactly what I'm dealing with even before I make it to my feet and locate the bomb. The ticking rapidly increases as the timer counts down. Stalking toward the door, I grip my hand around the handle and push. The resistance confirms my suspicions, I'm locked inside. With a fucking bomb.

Son of a bitch.

I'm way over my head here. I'm an expert on how to stoke a fire or starve a flame, hell I can make pipe bombs and gasoline traps with my eyes closed but this is on a whole different level. I study the contraption of metal and wires, scratching my head. This is unlike any nine-one-one drama on television. I have no idea what wire to pull but I know who might. Thank fuck the stupid pricks left me with my phone and my weapons. I can only assume they figured either the bomb would tear me limb from limb or if I broke free, I'd blow my brains out first.

There are only seven numbers in my contacts with the first being my President. Hitting call on my cell phone, I switch it to the speaker and sit it down. While waiting for an answer, I search my surroundings from top to fucking bottom.

"Pres, I'm in fucking trouble here. In ten minutes, I'm a dead man unless someone knows how to get me out of this shit."

"Talk about balls to the wall, brother. Hang tight," Aero's voice is faint, but I make out the sound of him calling in the troops. There are muffled voices and shuffling coming through the line.

I haven't taken my eyes off the timer since I realized there's not a quick exit. With my bare hands the only tools at my disposal, it would take too long to peel the weathered boards off the rusty nails and break free.

Time I don't have.

The timer clicks as the red numbers staring back at me roll over to eight minutes. The sound of rushed feet and a slammed door is my cue.

Click…

Eight minutes…

"I don't have a lot of time." My voice is laced with tension. I'm literally up against a ticking clock, there's no time for fake pleasantries and bullshit conversation. I'm not a man of many words anyway. "I found the guy we've been tracking, but he caught me. The room I'm in is rigged with a bomb, and it's unlike anything I've ever seen before."

"Alright, Backdraft, tell us everything you see," Hashtag says, picking up on the severity of what I'm telling them.

"The bomb's in a metal box, surrounded by wires and some kind of electronic panel. There's a digital timer counting down on the top." I speak as clearly as I can, given the fact that my heart is thudding in my throat. For a man who thrives on chaos and chasing the adrenaline high, I'm riding an all-time low right now as the timer clicks yet again with its warning I'm running out of time.

Click…

Seven…

"What color are the wires? Can you see any markings?"

"It's a jumble of red, black, and yellow wires. No markings or labels, and there's a mix of thin and thick wires."

Click…

Six minutes…

I can hear Hashtag furiously pounding at the keys on his laptop.

Click…

Five minutes…

"Okay, listen carefully. We need to find the main power source and disable it. Look for a thick, black wire. It should be connected to a battery or power supply."

Click…

Four minutes…

I'm all thumbs and fat fingers as I walk them down and around the wires, tracing each one until I locate the one matching his description. "Got it. I see the thick black wire connected to a battery pack."

"That's the one," Hashtag confirms. "Now, we need to trace the path of the other wires to see which one is connected to the detonator. Can you see a yellow wire leading away from the timer?"

Click…

Three minutes…

"Yes, there's a yellow wire going from the timer to a small metal box."

"That's the detonator," Hashtag declares. "We need to cut that wire without triggering the bomb. Take a deep breath, Backdraft. You've got this."

Click…

Two minutes…

I wipe the sweat from my forehead and inhale a deep breath. This is the life or death high I've spent most of my life chasing but if I'm honest with myself, I prefer not death. "Alright, I'm ready."

Flicking my blade open, I grip the wire between my thumb and forefinger with my left hand and press the sharp steel to the plastic casing with my right. One last deep breath and I slice through the wire just as the digital display rolls over again.

Click…

One minute…

"Talk to us, Backdraft." Aero barks through the crackling interference on the line.

"I got it." A heavy rush of breath rolls over the blood on my lips when the timer freezes. If it weren't for my Club, my brothers, my family, I'd be a dead man right now.

As foreign as those words taste on my tongue, I've never meant anything more. Until the call from Jameson that a new chapter was forming in Atlantic City and he wanted me to meet with Aero for the position of Enforcer, I thought I was destined to roam the open roads alone. A man with scars as deep as mine is made to walk with the shadows. A face like this can kill.

Now that I've bought myself another day, that's exactly what I'll do. Locate my target and take every one of these punk-ass motherfuckers to the ground.