Page 21 of My Single Dad Biker

He moves first. Fast for a man his size. Knows what he's doing. Combat training or prison or both. He comes in high and I duck under and drive my elbow into his ribs on the way up. Hard. I feel cartilage compress and possibly crack.

He grunts but doesn't slow. Swings back and catches me across the shoulder. Solid hit. My whole arm goes numb for a second and then the feeling comes back sharp and hot.

We trade for maybe thirty seconds. He's experienced and heavy and uses his weight well. Knows how to take a hit and keep moving.

I'm lighter and faster and angrier and anger makes me precise.

I get him turned around and slam him against the concrete block wall.

My forearm goes across his throat with enough pressure that his breathing goes thin. My other hand pins his shoulder. He tries to get leverage but there isn't any. Not from this angle.

"You had product half a mile from where children go to school," I say. My voice comes out flat and cold and I can hear it like it's someone else talking. "You understand why that's a problem."

He's struggling for air but manages to rasp out, "Just storage."

"Not anymore."

I lean in closer so he can see my face clearly. See what I'm thinking. What I'm willing to do. What this means for him specifically.

Then I pull back just enough to hit him once more. Controlled. Placed. Solar plexus. Hard enough that all the air goes out of him and his knees start to fold.

I let him drop.

He hits the concrete and curls on his side trying to breathe. Not unconscious but close enough. I watch him for three seconds to make sure he stays down.

Tate appears at my shoulder. The prospect he was handling is on the ground near the entrance. Not moving but breathing.

"Front's clear," Tate says. "Other prospect's bleeding but he'll make it. Third one's in the wind."

I look at Sully. He's managed to get to his hands and knees and he's crawling toward the back exit. Slowly. Leaving.

We let him go. The message is more useful if someone survives to deliver it.

Clint comes through the front entrance with the other brothers. He looks at the product. Looks at Sully crawling away. Looks at me.

"Clear it out," he says.

We work fast. Haul the product outside into the open air away from the building. Gasoline from the truck.

I'm the one who lights it. Stand there watching the first flames catch and spread and within thirty seconds it's burning hot enough that we have to step back.

The warehouse is next. More gasoline. More fire.

It goes up faster than I expected. By the time we're back on our bikes the whole structure is engulfed and black smoke is rising into the sky and I can hear sirens starting in the distance.

We're two miles out when the fire trucks pass us going the other direction.

My shoulder is throbbing now, deep ache that's going to turn into a bruise the size of my hand. Knuckles on my right hand are split and bleeding from where they connected with Sully's ribs.

The adrenaline is still flooding my system in waves and I'm too wired to sit still.

I should go home. Get Louis. Do the evening routine. Process what just happened.

I get in my truck and my hands turn toward Oak Street before my brain catches up.

Katherine's car is in her driveway. Lights on in the front room and the kitchen. Seven minutes past seven. She's probably making dinner.

I sit at the curb with the engine running trying to come up with a justification for being here that makes sense. I can't find one.