I Woke Up To The Sound Of SWAT Battering Down Our Clubhouse Door. The Cops Said We Burned Down The Community Center… But The Real Monsters Were Watching From A Black SUV Across The Street.

I Woke Up To The Sound Of SWAT Battering Down Our Clubhouse Door. The Cops Said We Burned Down The Community Center… But The Real Monsters Were Watching From A Black SUV Across The Street.

Chapter 1: The Raid

I didn’t wake up to an alarm clock. I woke up to the sickening crunch of a heavy steel battering ram destroying our front gate.

Dust and dry rot sprinkled down onto my face from the ceiling.

My chest tightened. I could already taste the metallic, burning tang of tear gas leaking through the cracks in the drywall.

I rolled off the mattress, my bare feet hitting the cold, sticky concrete. My hands were shaking so bad I almost dropped the 9mm I snatched from the nightstand.

Outside, the desert night was lit up like the Fourth of July. Red and blue lights strobed violently through my broken window blinds, painting the room in jagged shadows.

A megaphone crackled. The heavy, distorted sound echoed off the canyon walls behind our compound.

“Iron Crows, this is the Sheriff’s Department. Step outside with your hands empty. We have warrants for six counts of capital murder.”

Murder? The word hung in the air, heavy and completely wrong.

Sure, we were a motorcycle club. We ran some underground poker games and moved untaxed whiskey out of Nevada. But we weren’t killers.

My bedroom door flew open, the knob smashing into the drywall.

It was Tommy, my VP. His face was ash-white in the flashing emergency lights. He was breathing hard, gripping his leather vest.

“They set us up, brother,” Tommy choked out. Panic dripped from every word.

“What are you talking about?” I whispered, pressing my back flat against the wall by the window.

“The community center fire,” he said, wiping sweat from his forehead. “They found the empty gasoline canisters and the burner phones in our private lockup. Mayor Vance’s guys must have planted it last night.”

My stomach dropped into my boots. The fire that killed six people yesterday. The entire state was out for blood.

And somebody had just painted a massive, glowing target on our backs.

Heavy tactical boots pounded up the wooden stairs down the hall. Walkie-talkie chatter grew louder.

We had about ten seconds before they blew the door off its hinges.

And in this county, cops don’t ask questions when they think you burned a politician’s family alive. They just pull the trigger.

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