Chapter 24 Chapter twenty four
The world outside the trailer vanished in a roar of liquid fire. The heat was instantaneous, a blistering wave that hammered against the metal walls and turned the air inside into a suffocating lung-burn of gasoline fumes. Through the open door, I saw the night sky of the lumber yard transformed into a chaotic orange hellscape. The pile of cedar logs ten yards away had become a massive, crackling pyre, the sap inside the wood popping like small-caliber gunfire.
Dax didn't hesitate. He grabbed the heavy fire extinguisher mounted by the door and unleashed a freezing blast of chemical foam, carving a narrow, white path through the flames on the threshold.
"Get in the truck, Mia! Start the engine and prepare to ram the north gate!" Dax roared, his voice cracking against the roar of the fire. He shoved the brass knuckles he’d given me into my hand, his eyes wide with a lethal, focused clarity. "If the trailer stays stationary, we’re sitting in an oven. Move!"
I dived from the trailer, the soles of my boots hissing as they touched the scorched gravel. I sprinted for the cab of the lead rig, my lungs screaming as I inhaled the thick, black smoke. Around me, the Iron Wolves were moving with the synchronized violence of a pack under siege. I saw Tank swinging a heavy iron pipe, a dark silhouette against the wall of flames as he intercepted a figure emerging from the tree line. These weren't the polished agents from the pier; they were the dregs of the local Georgia chapters men with nothing to lose and a bounty to claim.
I vaulted into the driver’s seat of the truck, my hands shaking as I jammed the key into the ignition. The heavy diesel engine groaned, coughed once, and then roared to life with a guttural scream that felt like a challenge to the forest. I checked the side mirrors. The trailer was still hitched, but the flames were licking at the rear tires.
"Dax, get in!" I screamed, leaning out the window.
But Dax wasn't looking at the truck. He was staring into the darkness of the lumber yard’s main office. A figure had emerged on the roof a silhouette holding a long-barreled rifle equipped with a night-vision scope. The red laser dot danced across the gravel, searching for the President’s chest.
"Sniper!" I shrieked.
Dax dove behind a stack of rusted pallets just as the first high-velocity round shattered the truck's windshield, showering me in cubes of safety glass. I stayed low, the steering wheel my only shield. My heart was a frantic drum in my ears, drowning out the shouting and the crackle of the fire.
The sniper was pinning us down. If I didn't move the truck now, the trailer would go up in a secondary explosion from the fuel tanks. I looked at the north gate a rusted chain-link barrier reinforced with heavy timber. I didn't have a clear path, and I didn't have the Wolves' escort.
"Reaper, take the flank!" Dax’s voice came over the radio, distorted by static and the sound of his own breathing. "Tank, suppressive fire on the roof! Mia, on my signal, you floor it. Don't stop for the gate, don't stop for the men. You keep that trailer moving until you hit the interstate!"
"I’m not leaving you here!" I yelled back, my grip tightening on the gear shift until my knuckles turned white.
"You're not leaving me, you're clearing the path!" Dax fired three rounds toward the roof, the muzzle flashes illuminating his grim, blood-streaked face. "Go now!"
I slammed the truck into gear and stomped on the accelerator. The heavy tires spun, spitting gravel and mud as the rig lurched forward. The trailer swayed violently, the metal groaning as it cleared the circle of fire. I saw the sniper shift his aim toward my tires, but a sudden explosion from the lumber office likely a well-placed grenade from Reaper sent the roof collapsing in a shower of sparks and debris.
I hit the north gate at forty miles per hour. The impact was a bone-jarring thud that sent the steering wheel spinning in my hands. The chain-link fence tore away like wet paper, the timber supports snapping with the sound of cannon fire. I didn't look back. I kept the pedal to the floor, the truck’s headlights cutting a desperate path through the pitch-black forest road.
For three miles, I drove with my teeth clenched, the wind whistling through the shattered windshield. I kept my eyes on the rearview mirror, waiting for the swarm of Harleys to appear. The woods were silent, a dark, oppressive wall of pine that seemed to stretch on forever.
Then, a single headlight appeared in the distance. Then another. And another.
The Iron Wolves emerged from the shadows like ghosts. They were battered, their leathers scorched and their bikes covered in soot, but they were upright. At the head of the pack, Dax rode his Harley with a savage, unrelenting speed, his face illuminated by the green glow of his dash lights. He pulled alongside the cab, his visor up, his eyes meeting mine for a fleeting, electric second. He didn't smile. He just gave a single, sharp nod.
We hit the Florida border at three in the morning. The humidity became a physical weight, the air smelling of swamp water and salt. We bypassed the main checkpoints, taking the backroads through the Everglades where the only witnesses were the gators and the moon.
As the first light of dawn began to grey the sky, the skyline of Daytona appeared on the horizon a jagged line of hotels and grandstands rising from the sand. The city was a hive of activity even at this hour, the distant hum of high-performance engines a constant, underlying thrum that signaled the start of the Championship week.
We pulled into a secluded warehouse district near the back of the Speedway. The facility was owned by an old contact of Dax’s father a man who had no love for the Death Dealers but an even deeper love for cold, hard cash.
The Wolves fanned out, securing the perimeter with a practiced, weary efficiency. Dax climbed into the cab of the truck, his movements slow and pained. He sat in the passenger seat, his head leaning back against the headrest, his eyes closed.
"We made it," I whispered, reaching out to touch his hand. It was cold, covered in a fine layer of ash.
"We're here," he corrected, opening his eyes. They were bloodshot, the obsidian depths replaced by a weary, haunted amber. "But the Queen is already inside the walls, Mia. I could feel her on the road. She wasn't trying to stop the truck back in Georgia. She was just thinning the herd."
I looked at the Norton in the trailer. The silver Engine sat in the shadows, looking more like a weapon than ever. I felt the weight of the brass knuckles in my pocket and the map of the fuel bunkers in my mind.
"Then we stop playing defense," I said, my voice hardening. "If she wants a funeral pyre, she’s going to be the one on it."
Dax looked at me, a slow, dangerous smile spreading across his face. He reached out, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw, his touch a promise of the violence to come.
"That's my Ghost," he murmured.
He stood up, looking out the shattered windshield toward the towering silhouette of the grandstands. Suddenly, his radio chirped a high-pitched, frantic signal that made him stiffen.
"Pres, you need to see this," Reaper’s voice came through, sounding hollow. "The jumbotron in the infield... it just went live."
We ran to the warehouse door and looked toward the track. A massive screen, visible even from the distance, flickered to life. It wasn't showing race highlights or advertisements. It was a live feed of the Iron Wolves' clubhouse in Coldwater.
The building was a hollowed-out shell, surrounded by black SUVs. And standing in the center of the scorched lot, holding a white helmet in one hand and a flare in the other, was Elena. She looked directly into the camera, her lips moving in a silent countdown.
Then, the clubhouse exploded.