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The gate is wide open. And inside, not a single motorcycle in sight.

Just Diesel's Charger, sittin' there alone in the lot like a dog waitin' on its owner. Black on black, chrome catchin' nothin' because there ain't nothin' to catch out here but starlight and silence.

He's not waitin' for me in his car. Not inside the club either. Just leanin' against a porch post with his arms crossed, casually smokin' like a man who's got nowhere to be and all the time in the world to get there. I can see the little orange spark from his cigarette floatin' in the dark, brightenin' when he pulls, dimmin' when he exhales.

I park my truck next to his car and kill the engine. Sit there for a second with my hands on the wheel, just breathin'. Then I step out.

Montana fall has finally decided to show up, and I mean really show up—not that half-assed chill we been gettin' for weeks but the real thing. The kind of cold that hits your lungs like swallowed glass. Below freezin' for the first time since spring, and the air tastes like iron and frost.

My boots hit the dirt and the cold crawls up through the soles like it's been waitin' for me.

Diesel pushes off the post, flicks ash into the dark, and comes towards me with that slow heavy walk of his. Built like a wrecking ball, that man. Shoulders wide enough to block a doorframe. Hands that look like they were designed for one specific purpose and it ain't shakin' yours.

He whistles. Long and low, like a man genuinely impressed, and I realize he's not lookin' at me—he's lookin' past me. At the truck.

"Nice wheels, Demon." He circles the front end slow, eyes runnin' over the two-tone paint, the chrome bumper catchin' what little light bleeds off the porch. Runs his hand along the fender like he's assessin' livestock. "Where the hell did you get that beauty?"

I pan my hand at it—at the Ashby Ranch logo stenciled on the door that he can't even see in this dark. "Family perks, doncha know. Believe it or not, this was a gift from my future brother-in-law."

Diesel snickers. Shakes his head slow. "Typical rancher."

"Yeah," I agree. Not angry about it though. "It comes with a job too. That motherfucker had me out ridin' fences last week, Diesel. An actual goddamn fence line. Like we're livin' inside a fuckin' Eagles song. On a three-year-old filly to boot. One that just got broke the day before."

Diesel stops circlin' the truck and looks at me, allowin' himself a real laugh. "Did ya die?"

"I did not."

He comes close enough to clap me on the back. Then things get serious because we are not meetin' out here to shoot the shit. This is a serious goddamned thing we're doin'. "It's all ready," he says. Nothin' but business now. "Where you wanna start?"

"The back, I guess. We'll work our way up."

Diesel drops his smoke into the dirt, hits it with the heel of his boot, then leans down to pick up the butt, slippin' it into his pocket.

Leave no trace. Which has nothin' to do with saving the fuckin' planet and everything to do with DNA.

Though, there will be no doubt about what happened here tonight.

That's kinda the point.

I follow Diesel behind the clubhouse, past the laundry, and all the way out back to the blind. My secret little place, once upon a time.

The whole thing smells like gasoline and on the little picnic table nearby, I can just make out a beer bottle with a rag stickin' out of the top.

Diesel walks over to it, then back to me. He slides me a side-eye. "You wanna, or shall I?"

I take the Molotov cocktail, fish out my lighter, and set the rag on fire. Then, with absolutely no hesitation, I throw it through the open window.

There's a crash first. Glass breakin' somewhere inside, the bottle findin' its mark against somethin' solid. Then the whoosh—a deep, hungry inhale like the fire's been holdin' its breath in that bottle and now it's free, and angry, and about to eat every goddamn thing it touches.

Then the blaze.

I feel the heat on my face before I see the full glow. And the orange halo seeps out slowly, bleedin' into the darkness like a wound that won't close. Pushin' back the black. Not much. Just enough.

The blind glows from the inside now. My little chapel. My secret place where I wrote down every thought I was too fucked up to say out loud. Every poem that wasn't really a poem but more like a prayer to a God I was so sure wasn't listenin'. All of it catchin' fire. All of it turnin' to ash, and smoke, and risin' up into a sky that don't give a single fuck about any of it.

Diesel and I step back, watchin' it.

But only for a moment. That's all I give it. The time for bein' sentimental was last week, when we sat in church and put it to a vote.