Total pages in book: 38
Estimated words: 36019 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 180(@200wpm)___ 144(@250wpm)___ 120(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 36019 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 180(@200wpm)___ 144(@250wpm)___ 120(@300wpm)
Reid “Wrecker” Owens was used to pulling people from the rubble, but saving Peyton once wasn’t enough. Not when she was still in danger. Wrecker’s instincts were on high alert, and anyone who came for Peyton would have to go through him first
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
1
WRECKER
The mansion where we’d just broken up a voyeurism and human trafficking ring smelled like sweat and blood. I needed some fucking air, so I stepped outside with Maverick, the vice president of the Iron Rogues, the motorcycle club I was patched into.
Some of my club brothers had already cleared out and were riding back to Old Bridge, where our compound was located. Others had stayed behind to transport the women we’d pulled from the basement or handle the bastards who’d paid to watch or buy them. They’d been locked in a reinforced viewing room while two of our guys, Storm and Racer, were taking their sweet time making sure they got a proper welcome to hell.
I stood outside on the gravel, my boots planted wide and my jaw tight. A thin breeze rustled through the trees behind the house, tugging mist around the edges of the property. The night air was cool, but my leather cut still stuck to my back, soaked with sweat and fury that hadn’t burned off.
Maverick stood nearby, his eyes scanning the road as headlights bounced along the driveway—associates from allied clubs finally rolling in to help clean up what we’d unearthed. We didn’t need them for the violence. But we’d need them to finish burying this nightmare in a way that stuck.
He lifted a hand to wave one crew in, then turned slightly toward me. “You staying or heading back with the others?”
Before I could answer, my burner buzzed in my cut. Not my club phone but the one I kept for work. The one no one called unless shit had hit the fan somewhere it shouldn’t have.
I dug it out and squinted at the screen. Chris Kelley. A name I hadn’t seen in over a year. We met when I worked as a Combat Engineer and EOD (Explosive Ordnance Disposal) tech for Army Special Operations.
“Gimme a sec,” I muttered, already walking toward the edge of the driveway.
I answered with a simple, “Yeah?”
A gruff chuckle rolled through the line, scratchy and weathered. “Still answering the same way, I see.”
“And you still only call when something’s on fire,” I shot back.
“I didn’t want to bother the firefighters. Figured I’d call the wrecking ball instead.”
I grunted, leaning back against the cold brick behind me. “You ever think about calling just to grab a drink? Or is kicking down walls still our love language? I swear, one day, you’re gonna call me just to talk and give me a fucking heart attack.”
“You’d hate me if I called just to catch up.”
“I already hate you,” I said dryly.
“Don’t get all sentimental on me now.” He chuckled again, but the humor faded fast. “I need your help. I need eyes that don’t belong to a city payroll. Someone who can read a footprint in a pile of rubble. Who’s blown up more buildings than he’s walked through.”
That snapped my spine a little straighter. “This about those buildings in Nashville?”
“Not just Nashville,” Kelley said. “We’ve had seven collapses in three months, stretching from there down to Chattanooga. No common thread. No identical blueprints. No pattern we can pin. Different builders. Different ages. The timing’s off. The materials shouldn’t be failing at the rate they are.”
My hand gripped the phone a little tighter. “Shit. Anyone dead?”
“Not yet. But it’s only luck keeping the body count low.”
“And you think it’s sabotage,” I said flatly.
“I’m pretty damn sure at least one of them was a blast job. Tight. Clean. Directional as hell. You ever see a load-bearing wall sheer off like a fuckin’ jigsaw? ’Cause I hadn’t. Not before last week.”
The air felt heavier suddenly, thick with pressure. I didn’t often get a call before a structure was destroyed. Usually, I was brought in to safely dismantle or clear debris from collapsed buildings to execute rescue efforts. Especially if they needed someone to blow through to get to survivors.
“I’ll bite,” I muttered. “Why me?”
Kelley sighed. “Because I can’t trust the city engineers, and you don’t answer to anyone. I need this quiet, off the record. Just eyes and instincts.”
I ran a hand down my face. “You got any ideas on where the next site is?”
“Wouldn’t be calling you if I didn’t.” I heard paper rustling, then he continued. “There’s a garage in downtown Chattanooga. Six stories. Load zones have shifted without explanation. Reinforced beams showing signs of early fatigue. Unstable core.”
“Good target, but tell me why you think it might be next.”
“There’s something else,” Kelley admitted.
“I fucking hope so. Or you’ll be sending me on a wild goose chase, and I might not answer the next time you call.”
“Bullshit. You answer every damn time. That’s how I know I’m special.”
“Nah. That’s just how you know I’m not smart enough to block your number.”
Kelley barked a laugh. “Missed you too, man. Anyway, a woman’s been poking around each of the demo sites. Requests inspection records. Blueprints. Sometimes she flashes a student ID and sometimes a city permit. We thought she was local news at first, but she doesn’t ask the right questions for a journalist. We got eyes on her anyway. Turns out, she visited the last site a week before the building collapsed.”