Jax’s POV
The desert ain’t quiet. Not really. It’s got a low hum—wind over sand, the buzz of insects, the creak of old metal baking in the sun. But as we rolled up to the old Junkyard, the silence was too damn thick. It was the kind of quiet that sits in your gut like a cold stone.
I killed my engine at the gate. My Harley’s rumble died, and the quiet got louder. Behind me, six of my Reapers did the same. Six engines cut out, one after another. Then nothing.
The Junkyard fence was busted open, hanging off one hinge. That was new. Grizz pulled up beside me, his face hidden behind his sunglasses. He didn’t say nothing. He didn’t have to. We both felt it. This was wrong.
“Smoke,” Bullseye, one of my younger guys, muttered, pointing.
A thin line of gray smoke was drifting up from behind
