Ash: Devil's Crucifix MC Read Online Free

died.”
     
    I inhale the fresh air as I focus on the man with the dark eyes that managed to walk through fire for me.

Chapter 3
     
    “Ash! Dude! Where is your brain today?” Remmy’s voice brings me back to the present as I stare down mindlessly at the burnt support beam.
     
    I kneel down, pretending not to care that he caught me off guard. But we both know this has been a problem for me over the last few days. I place my hand on the beam, my leather-gloved fingers tracing the black singes up the maple until I get to the end. Despite my name, I know nothing about fires. I hadn’t even been in one until the other day, and that was all coincidence. But now my entire life was revolving around flame tracks, burn marks, lighter fluid remains.
     
    Remmy was my lead on this. He was an arsonist, twice convicted, before joining up with my motorcycle club, Devil’s Crucifix, a few months back. When fires like this started popping up around our old businesses, he was the first to jump in, offering to explain everything subtle detail that I would have never known – like a cut wire here or a burnt diesel can there.
     
    This place, the last on our tour of three, had all of the telltale signs, according to Remmy. He knelt back down next to me as he pointed towards the metal hinges on the beam’s end. “You see those marks there?” I nod at him as I follow his path from the metal back to the wood. “Those are carpenter marks. They use them to put up these supports and this end would have been facing up, holding on to the attic.” Remmy stands up and gestures towards a gaping hole in the burnt out ceiling above us. Small gusts of wind blow through it, sending little shards of paper and ash down through the opening, and occasionally, we would hear the moans of the building as it struggles to hold itself up any longer. “Whoever did this didn’t do it from down below. They did it from the roof.”
     
    “That’s just like the building from last week. Is it just me or does this all seem to have a pattern now?” 
     
    “No, you’re right. Most burners don’t go through the trouble of getting up on roofs or in attics. It’s a tough job. They’ve got to know how to run fast or find a way down before it collapses in on them. But when you start from the top, the fire spreads slower, but the damage is so much worse.”
     
    “Like a cancer. The head’s always the worst.”
     
    “Exactly. Take out the roof and the whole system goes. If you start in the basement, you can contain it easier. Start on a first floor and it alerts whoevers living there faster on what’s going on.” He pauses as he looks around the room. Something catches his eye, a burnt out photograph still pinned to an untouched bit of wall, as he turns to ask me, “Speaking of living here, who were the residents? Did you know them?”
     
    “No. Some family. Lost the husband, I hear.”
     
    “So why are we here? Why do you care about this? We’re not getting into the business of burning, are we?” His voice quickens as he asks like an addict hearing about a new drug at a pharmacy. Old habits die hard, especially when they are the ones that get your fire started.
     
    “That’s the thing,” I explain as I run my hand through my hair, “these buildings used to be owned by us. All of them were at one point. But we sold a ton of our old housing when we bought the warehouse on Oceanview.”
     
    “What were these houses used for?”
     
    “Club member dorms. We used to be old school -- everyone works together. Everyone lives together. But the club grew up and some of the ladies popped out babies. Nobody wanted to raise their kids in the same place you stored shipments of pure coke. And a kid or two got wind that the basements of some of these homes were where we took traitors in for their paybacks. We couldn’t exactly keep them out, especially at night when the parents were out.”
     
    I think back slightly to those times. The Devil’s