Chapter 15
FIFTEEN
BLADE
I sit low behind the wheel, fingers drumming against the leather like I’m trying to burn a hole through it.
I don’t want to be out here. I want to be home with my woman in my arms and her soft body under mine, not freezing my ass off doing a damn babysitting job.
But I drew the short stick, so here I am.
On stakeout duty with Riot and Lucky riding shotgun in my truck instead of on our bikes.
Bikes would draw too much heat. Too loud.
Too obvious. We ain’t here to announce ourselves.
“That’s them,” I say, eyes narrowing as the black Range Rover rolls to a stop. “College pricks from Perdition. Caused shit there a few nights back.”
They spill out of the SUV dressed like trust-fund trash trying to play gangster. They’ve been making the rounds at every bar in town… picking fights, getting handsy with women, running their mouths about the club like they don’t know whose town they’re in.
Riot leans forward, cracking his neck slow and loud. “We sure we can’t drag ‘em into an alley and beat the truth out of ‘em?”
“As much as I’d love to break bones tonight,” I grit out, “Pres wants a trail. We let them lead us to the bastard pulling the strings. Then we handle business.”
I toss Lucky the tracker. “Go make yourself useful.”
Lucky slips out of the truck, hood pulled low, all cocky swagger. He moves quick, sticking to shadows. Riot and I keep watch.
Riot mutters, “I swear to God, if that idiot gets us burned…”
“He gets caught,” I say, jaw tight, “he’s on his own. We don’t play hero for stupid.”
My eyes stay locked on the Range Rover. My blood’s running hot. I hate sitting and waiting when there’s a problem in my backyard.
Lucky signals from across the lot. Job done.
“Good,” I grunt. “Now we see where these punks scurry off to.”
Riot drags a toothpick from his pocket and grins. “After that, we crush ‘em?”
I smirk. “After that… we do what the Reapers do.”
We wait. And wait. The truck feels too damn small for three restless bikers with violence on their minds.
Riot stretches his tattooed arm across the back of the seat, the glow of his phone lighting up his sharp grin.
He messes with the app Dagger loaded onto his device, fingers flying like he’s hacking the Pentagon.
The guy’s been patched in a few years, earned his place through blood and brains, and yeah… he gets a little smug about it.
Lucky’s the opposite. New patch. Too eager. Too loud. One wrong move from acting like he’s still prospecting. He taps his boot nonstop against the floorboard until I grab his knee and squeeze.
“Knock it off,” I mutter. “You gonna vibrate us into another dimension.”
He gulps and nods, staring straight ahead.
The bar’s door finally swings open. The college pricks stumble out, jackets half-zipped, talking with their hands like they think they’re real dangerous. One nearly face-plants into the Rover’s side mirror. Riot snorts under his breath.
I turn the key. The engine hums low, ready to hunt.
Riot flicks through screens, thumb steady and sure. “Tracker’s live. They pull out, we got their every move.” He gives me a sideways look. “Don’t tail too close, Grandpa.”
I shoot him a deadpan stare. “Keep talkin’ and I’ll throw your nerdy ass out and take the phone.” He smirks and goes back to it.
The Range Rover squeals out of the lot like they’re proud of being idiots. I let them get ahead, then roll out slow, lights off, riding the shadows.
We fall into formation behind them. Riot keeps his phone angled just right so he can watch the little blinking dot crawl across the map.
“They hit Perimeter Street,” he mutters. “Bet you a case of whiskey they’re making stops.”
He’s right.
The Rover slows near a shitty, flickering-lit corner store. One of the pricks leans out the window, palms something to a jittery dude on a BMX bike. Cash gets slapped back in return. Quick. Sloppy. Amateur-hour drug dealing.
“That’s one,” Riot says with a dark little hum of satisfaction.
Lucky presses his forehead to the glass trying to see. “Can’t believe they’re bold enough to do that right in the open.”
Riot snorts. “Bold? Nah. Stupid. Big difference.”
The Rover continues, weaving deeper into town where the streetlights are dying and buildings look like they’re halfway to condemned.
Next stop, some college off-campus housing. Another hand-off. This time to a girl with mascara smudged halfway to her ears and heels too high for the cracked sidewalk she's on.
Lucky shifts, shoulders bunching like he’s ready to jump out. “We’re not stepping in?”
I shake my head, jaw tight. “Pres wants the guy running them. We scare these fuckwits now, the trail goes cold.”
Even saying it feels wrong. I don’t like standing by while poison gets passed to people who don’t know it’s gonna bury them alive. But club orders are club orders.
The Rover hits two more spots. Kids with shaky hands. Rich frat boys disguised as street rats. One guy sniffing like his skull itches from the inside. Every exchange twists something dark in my gut.
Lucky’s voice drops low. “We could put a stop to all this. Easy.”
Riot shoots him a sharp look. “You’re new. You do what you’re told and learn when to hit and when to wait.”
Lucky swallows hard. “Yeah. Got it.”
The Range Rover finally leaves the neighborhoods behind and takes a hard turn past the tracks. The city lights vanish. Asphalt turns to gravel. Street signs to rusted metal riddled with bullet scars.
Lucky cranes his neck, trying to see. “Where you think they’re headed?”
Riot taps the map with a calloused knuckle. “Industrial side. Old warehouses.” His voice goes lower. Serious. “Not a place you go unless you’re up to something.”
Wind cuts through the cracked window. Cigarette smoke spirals out. My fingers tighten on the wheel.
The Rover turns down a deserted road, tires crunching gravel. I kill more speed, staying far enough back to be a ghost.
Riot leans forward, phone inches from the windshield. “Right there.” He points to a wide, dark lot surrounded by rust and busted security lights. “They stopped.”
Lucky’s breath fogs the glass. “We go in now?”
I flick a toothpick between my teeth, watching those silhouettes swagger around like kings of piss-soaked concrete. They don’t know monsters are already here.
I put the truck in park and feel the switch inside me flip. Cold. Sharp. Ready. “Not yet,” I say, voice low as a threat. “We see what business they’re mixed up in.”
The truck goes silent. The kind of quiet where every breath feels like a trigger pull. I nudge the truck into the darkest patch of shadow and kill the engine. My pulse is steady, calm like a storm right before it hits land.
Riot pockets his phone slow and sure. “This is where it gets interesting.”
Lucky cracks his knuckles but tries to hide his shaking hand.
I slide a knife from the console and tuck it inside my jacket. Metal cold against my ribs, familiar as breath.
“No sudden moves,” I murmur, eyes locked on the silhouettes ahead. “We watch first.”
Riot nods, a predator grin cutting across his face. “Then we hunt.”
We move out. Doors barely click shut behind us before we melt into the dark. Boots silent on broken gravel. The air smells like piss, oil, and trouble stacked to the rafters.
Lucky sticks close behind me. Smart. Riot’s already ghosting ahead, phone tucked away, focus sharp as a blade.
The warehouse looms up like a metal beast, all busted windows and rusted siding. Light leaks through gaps in the loading dock doors. Voices too. Low. Rowdy. Confident.
We creep up along the side and stop behind a stack of rotting pallets. I peek around first.
Yeah. Jackpot.
Lots of guys. Not college boys. Not amateurs. Muscle. Tattoos. Faces carved hard by fights they probably won. Some unload heavy wooden crates like they weigh nothing. Others stand with rifles slung casual but ready. Security. Real organized.
Riot whistles under his breath. “This ain’t frat boy shit.”
“Nope,” I murmur. “These boys are connected.”
Lucky inches forward and I yank him back by his hood before he gets his head blown off.
“Use your eyes, not your ego,” I growl.
He nods quick.
The Range Rover pulls in tight to the dock. The three college idiots hop out with nervous swagger, trying to look like they belong. One wipes sweaty palms on his jeans before stepping forward.
A guy breaks from the pack to greet them. Bigger than the rest. Clean-cut but radiating menace. Not a face I know. He shakes their hands like he owns them. Like they’re nothing more than delivery boys.
Riot leans close, whispering against my ear. “You know him?”
“No,” I say quietly. “But he’s the one pushing the buttons.”
Lucky’s eyes widen. “This is way bigger than we thought.”
No shit. I watch crates get pried open. Bricks of white powder glint under industrial lights. Drugs. Lots of them. Enough to bury this whole damn town alive.
My teeth press together until my jaw ticks. Rage simmers low and hot in my ribs.
The clean-cut guy laughs, claps one of the college boys on the back, and looks around like a king surveying his kingdom.
We’re crouched low behind the pallets, every muscle locked tight. Riot nudges me with his elbow and lifts his phone just enough to peek over the edge. No flash. Screen dimmed. He moves like he’s done this a hundred times… because he has.
He snaps a few shots quick. The crates. The armed guards. The handshake between the college losers and the clean-cut boss. He keeps his breathing even, thumb steady while he zooms in on faces. On product. On license plates.
Evidence.
The kind that gives the club leverage.
Lucky watches with wide eyes, like he didn’t know Riot had more skills than swinging fists and mouthing off.
Riot lowers the phone and smirks. “Got ‘em.”
I nod. “Good. That’ll help when we bring the hammer down.”
We start to pull back, slow and quiet. My feet know this dance well. Shadow work. Ghost-shit. No sound. No mistakes.
But Lucky’s still learning. His heel hits a loose board, snapping it in half. The crack echoes like a gunshot across the dead lot.
My blood goes ice.
Riot’s expression shifts from cocky to murderous in a heartbeat.
Flashlights whip our way. Muffled shouts explode into chaos. Weapons raise. Safety clicks off.
Lucky’s breath stutters, panic slamming into him.
I clamp a hand around the collar of his cut and drag him close until my mouth is at his ear.
“You move when I move,” I hiss. “Not a second sooner.”
Boots hit the ground. Heavy. Fast. Angry.
Riot’s already palming a knife, jaw tight enough to crack teeth.
We’ve got one chance. One.
“Truck,” I growl, teeth bared. “Now.”
Riot peels off first, cutting between shadows like he was born in them. Lucky sticks so close behind me I can feel his heartbeat through my vest.
We break away from the warehouse wall. Flashlights slice through the dark, heat on our backs.
We sprint.
Shouts get louder. Someone racks a round. Another yells to spread out. They’re organized. Trained. Not scared of starting a war.
My pulse pounds. Gravel skids under my boots. The truck is a black silhouette just ahead.
If we make it inside, we’re gone.
If they reach us before we get there…
We’re corpses with cuts on.
We hit the truck like hell’s nipping at our heels.
I yank the door open and shove Lucky inside first before he trips over his own damn feet. Riot dives in on the passenger side, slamming his door while I fire up the engine. Headlights stay off. No sense making ourselves a glowing target.
Gravel spits out behind us as I whip the truck around, engine growling low like it wants blood too. Riot twists in his seat, watching the warehouse shrink into the dark. Flashlights chase us for a second, then vanish. Outrun. For now.
Lucky gasps for air, clutching the oh-shit handle like it’s his rosary. Riot smacks him in the chest.
“Next time you step on a board, I’m choking you with it,” he snaps.
Lucky opens his mouth to defend himself but wisely shuts it again.
My hands are steel around the wheel, jaw locked so tight it might snap. That warehouse. Those crates. The boss-man we don’t know. It’s a storm the club sure as fuck didn’t see coming.
I slide a one-handed grab at my burner phone and toss it to Riot.
“Call Pres,” I grunt, eyes glued to the rearview.
Riot hits the speed dial. It rings once.
“Talk.” Mason’s voice is sharp gravel through the speaker, already on edge like he knew we’d be bringing trouble.
Riot doesn’t waste a second. “We got eyes on something big. College dealers linked to a warehouse crew. Heavy product. Heavy security. Military-style organization.”
I punch the gas a little harder, heart still hammering. “This ain’t small-time bullshit,” I add loud enough for Pres to hear. “Whoever’s running them thinks they own this town.”
There’s silence on the line. The kind where leaders think about war.
Finally, Mason speaks. “Get your asses back to the clubhouse. Safe and fast. Nobody makes another move until we meet.”
“Yes, Pres,” Riot replies.
The call ends with a click. No goodbye. Club business doesn’t do goodbyes.
Lucky wipes sweat off his forehead. “You think they saw us?”
“No,” I say, even though I’m not sure. “If they had… we’d already be dead.”
Riot leans back, adrenaline fading into something meaner. “Pres is gonna want names. Pictures. Everything.”
“And he’ll get it,” I growl, my pulse slowing into something cold and focused. “Tomorrow, we start hunting.”
Lucky stares out the back window as the warehouse disappears into the night. “This is gonna get ugly, isn’t it?”
Riot laughs under his breath. “Kid… it already is.”
Yeah. War’s coming. And the Reapers don’t lose.