Chapter 18 Vin
Vin
The clubhouse door slammed open, and Totgut's boots thumped across the floor with the urgency of a death knell.
We all turned, sensing something big on the wind, something that smelled like trouble and tasted like revenge.
"Got word on the Black Market Railroad," he panted, his eyes wild as a cornered animal.
"I think Raven might be there." The Black Market Railroad was built by a group of Russians, possibly mafia-related, trafficking young women. Raven had mentioned seeing the name in the papers on her father’s desk.
It made sense that Stansfield would use them to hide his daughter.
“You’re sure about the location?” I said and Totgut nodded.
"Okay, listen up," Canon said, his voice slicing through the thick air with military precision that could cut diamonds.
"We hit 'em fast, we hit 'em hard. Timing and coordination are key.
They won't even see us coming." He laid out the plan, his fingers tracing invisible lines on the tabletop, orchestrating our moves like we were pieces on his personal chessboard.
"Totgut, you're on lookout. Shivs, Moab—you're with me. We do this clean. In and out. No one gets left behind." I looked at each for assurance.
The clubhouse transformed into a hive of activity as we geared up.
I checked my Glock, the slide snapping back with a sound that promised hell to anyone on its receiving end.
The weight of it in my hand was a familiar comfort, a lover's touch in a world that offered little warmth.
Leather creaked, zippers snarled, and the air hummed with the electricity of impending battle.
This wasn't just another ride, another fight—it was personal.
The night was a deep shade of betrayal as we rolled up a block from the warehouse, engines growling low, like predators stalking through the darkness. We parked the bikes a safe distance away, the thrum of our arrival fading into the heavy stillness that clung to the place like a warning.
"Stay sharp," I murmured, already moving ahead, my every sense dialed up to eleven. The others followed, silent as shadows, our boots barely whispering against the gravel.
The door to the warehouse waited, a barrier to what lay beyond, its rusted hinges a testament to the decay within.
I slipped a knife from my boot, easing it into the gap, prying with controlled force until the lock gave way with a resentful groan.
We paused, a collective breath held, before I pushed the door open with the barrel of my Glock.
Inside, the air hit us, heavy with the scent of oil and sweat. Dim bulbs dangled from the ceiling, their feeble light casting shadows that stretched and twisted across the walls, long fingers reaching out like the damned.
"Smells like hell took a shit in here," Shivs muttered behind me, his voice a low rasp that cut through the silence.
"Keep your head in the game," I shot back, my eyes scanning the darkened expanse of the warehouse. It was quiet—too quiet—and every instinct screamed that this was just the calm before the storm.
I led them deeper into the belly of the beast, every shadow scrutinized, every sound a potential threat.
This was the dance with death we knew all too well—the razor’s edge walk between victory and oblivion.
"Positions," I whispered, hand signals cutting through the dimness as we fanned out, ready to unleash hell on those who dared to trade in human misery.
The stillness shattered, the first gunshot a thunderclap in the tomb-like silence of the warehouse.
I was out in front, where I always am, and the rounds came at me like hornets from hell.
Each bullet might as well have been a love tap for all the harm it did.
My brothers fanned out behind me, my body a shield made of something tougher than flesh and bone.
"Move!" I barked, the sound of my voice almost lost in the cacophony. We'd walked into an ambush, but if these Kasparov goons thought we were easy prey, they were about to get schooled in the art of war, Royal Bastards style.
Canon had found his perch, a shadow among shadows, the glint of his scope the last thing these bastards would ever see. I could hear the mechanical whispers of his rifle, each shot a promise delivered—a life for a life.
"Cover me," Moab growled, and Shivs was on him like a second skin, the two of them a storm of violence, moving through the enemy ranks with a kind of savage grace. Close-quarters combat—their bread and butter, their dance macabre.
"Vin! Left flank!" Canon’s voice cut through, and I pivoted, my own weapon roaring to life as I laid down cover fire.
A symphony of violence, orchestrated by necessity, conducted with brutal efficiency.
Vin Reed and the Royal Bastards, we were more than a club, more than a name—we were a force, relentless and undying.
We reached a van we thought would give us cover, its cold metal sides echoing the chill of the lives trapped inside.
“Fuck. People are inside.” I tore open the door and looked beyond the cage at each face inside, none of them Raven.
Wide and glassy with terror, the girls' eyes met mine through the slats in the side doors.
Hell, if that didn't stoke the fire burning in my chest hotter than the barrel of my gun.
"Moab, on me!" I commanded, and the big brute was there in an instant, his presence like a war machine made flesh.
Together, we attacked the locks, our hands working in tandem—a symphony of destruction aimed at liberation.
With one final, guttural yell, I ripped the cage doors open, the sound of metal tearing a sweet chorus to my ears.
"Come on, out!" Moab's voice was gentle as he spoke to the women. It was a stark contrast to the grizzly bear demeanor he wore like armor.
"Stick close," I instructed, shepherding them through the chaos, making sure each frightened soul passed from the shadows of captivity into the promise of dawn.
It was moments like these that reminded me why the fight was worth it.
Why the Royal Bastards rode, why we bled.
As we emerged from the belly of the beast, the night air kissed our faces, tasting of freedom and the faintest hint of redemption.
Maybe, just maybe, we were more than our pasts, more than the sum of our scars.
The last bullet flew, ricocheting off a steel beam with a high-pitched whine before silence reclaimed the warehouse.
I stood amidst the settling dust, the adrenaline still coursing through my veins.
We had won, but victory tasted like ash without a lead on Raven.
The crew circled up, our heavy breaths and the clinking of gear the only sound echoing in the hollow space.
"Good work," I managed, my eyes scanning the faces around me. Moab nodded, his expression hard as flint, while Shivs spat blood onto the concrete floor, a feral grin splitting his face.
"Anyone see anything?" I asked, hope as thin as a razor's edge.
"Nothing, Vin," Canon replied.
"Then we get it out of them," I said, nodding toward the corner where a Russian mobster sat cuffed and wide-eyed, realizing his life hung by a thread.
The others parted, a sea of leather and sin, as I stalked over to him.
"Hey, comrade," I started, squatting down to his level.
His eyes darted to mine—big mistake. In them, he'd find no mercy, just the cold promise of pain if he didn't start singing.
"You're gonna give me what I need, or this night's gonna get a whole lot longer for you. "
"Fuck you," he hissed, trying for bravado but his voice betrayed the quiver of fear.
"Creative," I mocked, drawing my knife and letting it catch the light ominously. "But here's the thing—I don't need your cooperation. I just prefer it. So, how about you tell me where they took Raven? Make it easy on yourself."
"Go to hell," he spat, defiance sparking briefly before I leaned in closer, the blade now dancing dangerously near his face.
"See, pal, you're already there," I said, my voice a low growl. "And I'm the devil deciding your fate. Talk, and maybe you walk out of this with all your parts attached."
"Vin," Canon cautioned, a silent reminder not to lose myself in the darkness.
"Fine," the mobster finally gasped, breaking under the pressure. "I'll talk."
"Smart move," I replied, pulling back slightly, giving him room to breathe and spill his guts.
As he babbled, every word he uttered was one step closer to her, every syllable a bead in the rosary of retribution I was stringing together.
Raven, wherever you are, hold on. We're coming.
"Time's up," I growled, my patience threadbare as the Russian mobster's eyes darted around the shadowy warehouse corner, searching for an out that didn't exist. "Start talking, or I start cutting. "
"Okay! Okay," he croaked, his voice now barely a tremble over the distant echo of shifting feet and murmured reassurances to the women we'd just liberated. "Stansfield, he... he operates from an old meatpacking plant. Out on Route 127. Hidden in plain sight."
"Details. I want every fucking detail you've got," I commanded, pressing the flat of my blade against his cheek, feeling his skin jump under the cold steel. "Security. Entrances. Shift changes. Spill it!"
Through chattering teeth, words tumbled out like coins from a slot machine jackpot—guarded entry points, coded locks, patrols. My brain mapped it all out, each piece locking into place with tactical precision.
"Good boy," I sneered, pocketing the knife as Canon gave me a curt nod. The plan for our next assault was already taking shape in my mind, a dangerous puzzle coming together with every whispered confession. I stepped away from the man, but he wasn’t done.
“Kasparov will slice you open,” he said in a heavy Russian accent. He spat blood in my direction.
Ice formed in my veins as I turned to the man, raising my Glock, one bullet to the forehead.
We left the warehouse behind, its dark maw swallowing the screams and sins of the night. The women, huddled in blankets, their faces ghostly pale but alive with newfound hope, boarded the vans we had ready, tearful thanks mingled with soft sobs.
"Let's ride," I barked, twisting the throttle. The road stretched before us, a coiled serpent waiting to strike. People were not done dying.