JJ
Hell’s Fire didn’t fall in one dramatic moment. There was no explosion, no line of motorcycles roaring away while police cars poured through the gates, and no single phone call telling me the thing that had shaped so much of my life was finally over.
It happened in pieces.
By nine that morning, the detective had called twice. By ten, Jarek had stopped pretending he wasn’t waiting for another update, and by eleven, Stitch had turned the television toward us because news crews were showing police vehicles outside properties connected to Hell’s Fire.
I stood behind the counter at my shop and watched officers carry boxes through the door of one building I recognized from years of being around Havoc and the club. Another location on the screen meant nothing to me, which somehow made the
