Under Fire (Winged Enemy MC Romance) (2 page)

To all of the special people in my life who encourage me to follow my dreams. Your support is humbling.

~Olivia

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A merry campfire burned away in the middle of a clearing. The thick New Mexico brush had been cut back in a wide circle. Crushed beer cans littered the clearing, old and new. Many of the cans were so old that they were no more than slabs of rust, the beer logo long gone. Newer cans lay here and there, the metal shiny in contrast. The flickering flames of the fire caught the bent and twisted aluminum and lit the edges with a hypnotic glimmer.

A small but growing number of the cans were still wet on the inside and smelled of fresh beer.

With the grating sound of crushed metal, another casualty hit the dusty ground beside an old and beat-up red camper chair. The occupant’s eyes glowed red as they stared into the fire’s depths. A stick prodded the fire, stirring a cloud of ash into the air. A collapsing log summoned a whirlwind of sparks that rose into sky and danced like miniature fairies before they flicked out one by one.

Beside the occupied chair, there was another of the exact same style. The empty chair was a sad blue, the fabric torn and faded. Stained rings on the seat showed where the sparsely fallen summer rain had pooled and sunk into the fabric.

The eyes lifted, and a snarl crossed the face hidden in shadow. The long-barreled rifle that had lain across the figure’s knees rose up in a smooth, easy motion and a shot rang out through the still night. The casing landed in the midst of the can graveyard, a secondary echo.

“Got you, you son of a bitch.” It was not a loud proclamation; the voice was full of quiet rage.

Across the campfire a big wooden board rested on sturdy supports. The surface was marred by old scars; bullet holes, stab wounds, scorch marks. If it had been alive the ground underneath would have been stained red.

Four posters hung on the board, pinned by metal tacks. The poster on the left was emblazoned with the frightening visage of an older man with creases on his face that told of an intimate knowledge of the many ways to hurt a man deeply. A beaten and faded leather jacket with as many patches as cow skin fit over his torso like a second skin. A smoking bullet hole through the paper took the place of one of the man’s eyes. Bold font ran across the bottom of the page;
Frank
.