The evening came to an end, and we headed to Lucas’ place to rest.

  I woke to the warmth of the rising sun. The scent of bacon pulled me to the kitchen, where Lucas had already laid out breakfast—crispy rashers, blueberries, and pancakes. My favourite. I devoured the meal without hesitation.

  “Gonna head to the store, grab a pack of Redwoods. Wanna come?” Lucas asked.

  “Sure,” I replied. I didn’t have anything better to do.

  We hopped on Lucas’ Manchez and cruised down to a store off Zancudo Avenue in Sandy Shores. The wind hit our faces, the desert morning surprisingly cool. As Lucas paid for his smokes, I stared out the dusty window. Small, private planes kept landing and taking off from a nearby airstrip.

  “What the hell are those planes hauling?” I asked. “People? Drugs?”

  “Oh yeah. Mainly drugs. That’s a huge route—”

  “GET THE FUCK ON THE GROUND!”

  The door slammed open. A man barged in with a shotgun, flanked by two others—one with long dreadlocks, the other limping badly on his left knee.

  “Yo! Chill, Trevor! It’s me—Lucas!”

  “Who? Oh, right. Lucas. You work with those dickhead brothers in Grapeseed?”

  “Not exactly—”

  “Shut the fuck up and get on the floor, motherfucker!”

  We dropped immediately. Trevor barked at the clerk, who scrambled to empty the register. Moments later, they were gone—peeling off in a red van, tires screeching, one final shotgun blast echoing in the air.

  Lucas stood and brushed off his cargo pants. “For fuck’s sake. Now we’ve got him on our backs. I told you—he’s fucking mental. He’ll do anything to fund his business.”

  Just as we stepped outside, Lucas’ phone rang. He flipped it open.

  “Yo, what’s up, Andy? No way—when? Fucking hell. This day couldn’t get any worse.”

  He hung up.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “My fucking weed farm’s been pillaged.”

  “By who?”

  “No idea. We need to go. Now.”

  I jumped on the back of the bike, and we shot off—cutting across dirt paths and dry creek beds, the Manchez kicking up sand behind us.

  At the farm, we were greeted by a short guy with a sharp beard and slicked-back hair.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  “Lucas! We lost everything. The weed, the plants—even the staff got attacked. They all ran away!”

  “Fuck, man!” Lucas shouted.

  “By the way, this is Tom,” he added, gesturing to me. “Andy, meet him quickly—we’ve got work to do.”

  We nodded at each other, then entered the large garage. The pungent smell of weed hit me hard—a thick cloud of smoke and failure. Inside, plants were trashed, soil scattered. Whoever did this, they moved fast.

  “You got any security cameras?” I asked.

  “Nah. That shit’s too expensive,” Lucas replied.

  “Any idea who it could’ve been?”

  “No. I don’t have enemies around here.”

  “Seems like there were a few of them,” Andy said.

  “Any gangs around here?” I asked.

  “Not really,” Lucas shrugged.

  We scoured the place for hours, came up with nothing. Finally, we headed back to Grapeseed. Andy split off, heading toward his trailer by the Sandy Shores runway.

  By the time we got home, the sky was pitch black. I sat on the back of the Manchez when suddenly—

  “Shit!” Lucas screamed.

  A bright, flickering light illuminated the sky ahead.

  “The house is on fire!”

  Lucas slammed the brakes and sprinted toward the blaze. I followed. The house was completely engulfed. Only the kitchen counter remained upright—everything else was ash and ruin.

  We sifted through the remains, desperate for any sign of who did it. Nothing. Not a single clue.

  “Why would someone attack me?” Lucas muttered, pacing. “What the fuck... I’ve never had issues with anyone!”

  “This is serious,” I said. “Someone definitely wants you gone.”

  “Yeah, man... I’m gonna make some calls. Wait here.”

  Lucas stepped into what used to be his garden. I stared out across the Alamo Sea, the sunrise casting gold over the water. In just one day, I’d been shot at, robbed, and now arson? Blaine County felt like an open asylum. Still, the landscape was beautiful in a weird, surreal way.

  Suddenly—

  “TOM! HELP ME!”

  Lucas’ scream snapped me back. I bolted through the burned-out house and into the yard. Three men in leather jackets were forcing him into a van. A bag covered his head.

  “Hey!” I shouted, sprinting toward them.

  Too late. The van peeled off, tires screeching. As it turned the corner, I saw the emblem scrawled on its side: “The Lost MC.”

  I rushed back to the Manchez—but someone was crouched over it, slashing the front tire with a knife. He wore the same leather colours.

  I launched at him, kicking the back of his knee. He collapsed, grunting in pain, then swung the knife wildly. It sliced my sleeve and grazed my arm.

  Fuelled by rage, I slugged him across the face. He dropped, unconscious.

  I jumped on the bike and took off, struggling to steer as the front tire wobbled. The handlebars shook violently, the bike veering left every few seconds. Still, I could see the Lost MC van in the distance.

  They were headed for the airfield. I pushed the Manchez to 130 mph. As they reached a red-and-white plane, I saw them dragging Lucas out and loading him inside.

  My grip tightened on the throttle. My lungs burned. My eyes stung. I wasn’t going to let them take him.

  I launched off the road, hit the tarmac, and sprinted toward the plane. It was already moving. I grabbed the ledge near the rear window and smashed it with my elbow.

  I reached in, grabbing a guy by the neck. He kicked and thrashed as I held him in a chokehold. The plane picked up speed, and my feet lifted off the ground.

  His veins bulged against my grip. He fought hard—but I held harder.

  Eventually, he passed out. His limp body slipped out of the window, and gravity took over.

  So did mine.

  We both crashed.

  I hit the ground hard. The man’s body landed on top of me, knocking the wind from my lungs.

  I shoved him off and gasped for air. The plane soared away, vanishing into the distance.

  Lucas was gone.

  “AHHHHHH!” I screamed, my voice cracking with fury.

  I looked down at the biker’s face—bloodied, unconscious.

  I snapped.

  Fist after fist crashed into his face. His jaw cracked. Cheekbone shattered. I reached into my pocket, pulled out the same knife he’d used, and kept going.

  Stab. Slice. Gouge.

  Blood sprayed. His face became pulp. His humanity disappeared.

  Eventually, I stopped. My arms trembled. My hands were soaked red. My chest heaved.

  I stood up, stared at the horizon—sick to my stomach, haunted by what I’d done.