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Diablo stiffened.
“You’re the bastard who did this to me.”
He launched off his stool but I clamped a hand on his shoulder, holding him back. The man gave a mock bow.
“Tyson Acosta, at your service,” he said. “Freshly voted into the role of President with the Howlers.”
He turned around, proudly presenting his back to display his MC patch—a wolf’s skeleton with dripping blood on its teeth. A series of swords bristled from its spine.
Brewer braced his hands on the counter, his voice low and carefully controlled when he spoke.
“I can’t tell if you have the biggest set of balls to walk in here by yourself.” He paused then added, “Or if you’re just plain stupid.”
Acosta’s eyes narrowed slightly and his confident grin went rigid.
“Well, this will be Howler headquarters when you boys finally get your asses out of my town. I had to scope out the landscape.”
“You’ve got a death wish, pal,” I said.
He chuckled.
“I don’t see any of you making any attempt to stop me.”
Tank pushed his chair back. The scrape of wood echoed in the silent, tense room. Mack and Axel rose to their feet, too, shifting closer to flank him, signaling they were ready to back him up. As tempting as it was to pummel Acosta into the floor right here and now, that really would ignite an all-out war. There was no way he waltzed in here without a plan to protect himself if things went haywire.
Acosta held up his hands in a gesture of surrender.
“Don’t worry, boys. I’m leaving. There’s no need to fight.”
He drifted towards the door, making eye contact with every man he passed, staring them down.
“Oh,” he said, as if he wasn’t purposefully about to give one more proverbial twist of the knife before his exit. “You might be interested to hear there’s a little cafe in town that got a free makeover a few minutes ago. My boys were very…enthusiastic.”
Then Acosta was out the door. Axel darted after him, followed by Mack and Rooster. But the roar of several motorcycles indicated Acosta was gone, along with at least a few of his club members to cover him if we tried anything.
“Red, Crow,” Brewer said. “You’re with me. Let’s take a look around town. See what kind of damage is waiting for us. After that, we’ll have a meeting and figure out what we can do to put an end to this.”
Thirty seconds later, we were on the road. It didn’t take long to find the cafe Acosta had mentioned. The blue and red glow of police lights illuminated the settling night, chasing away the shadows. As we drew closer, clusters of people gathered on the sidewalk. Tire marks blackened the asphalt.
Ditching our bikes and our kuts a few blocks away, we headed in on foot. Police would be suspicious of anyone affiliated with a motorcycle club right now. There was no need to draw unwanted attention to ourselves.
When we rounded the corner and the cafe came into view, it looked like a war zone. The windows were shattered and thin ribbons of smoke curled toward the sky. Broken glass littered the parking lot like fallen stars reflecting the police lights. Scorch marks blackened the interior of the cafe. Tire marks streaked the pavement here, too, indicating a wild pattern of wheelies and donuts.
The Desert Howlers had passed through like a pack of rabid animals, racing, smashing, burning in their wake.
Along the wall of the cafe was the familiar bleed of red spray paint.
FEAR YOUR HOWLERS
Brewer tapped me on the shoulder.
“Come on, we should get out of here while we can. We’ve seen enough. Don’t need the cops noticing us.”
I nodded and turned to go.
Then I spotted her amid the wreckage—the lingering onlookers, the shards of glass, the milling officers.
Abby stood alone, her arms wrapped around herself. She looked like she might have been dressed up for a date, judging by the soft drape of her skirt and the delicate fabric of her blouse. Her hair was down—shorter than I remembered it—spilling around her shoulders, studded with pieces of glass. A flash of blood marked her right temple, just outside her hairline.
