The silence in the warehouse was more violent than the explosion on the screen. For a heartbeat, the only sound was the jagged, frantic breathing of forty men who had just watched their history, their sanctuary, and their home turned into a plume of black smoke. The flickering blue light of the jumbotron reflected off the chrome of the bikes, casting long, ghoulish shadows against the corrugated metal walls.
Dax stood perfectly still, his silhouette carved from the darkness. His good hand was clenched into a fist so tight the knuckles threatened to tear through the skin. I could feel the cold rage radiating off him a silent, seismic pressure that made the air in the warehouse feel thin.
"That was the infirmary," Tank whispered, his voice cracking. "Shorty was still in there. And the arch
