Chapter 16
SIXTEEN
Wolf
I’m not where I’m supposed to be. And the wrongness of it crawls under my skin, settling into every nerve ending.
Ryder and I sweep the clearing near the south edge of the abandoned dry port. We’re both armed. No cuts covering steel today. Guns out. Visible.
Nomads’ Prez, Blaze, and his VP, Shotgun, should be pulling in any second. The Reapers are posted at the west gate. Rebel—their Prez—brought two of his best prospects.
This isn’t a routine weapons transport. Bug, our outsourced tech savant, flagged the delay in the shipment two days ago. He said it smelled wrong. Said Hell’s Army could be setting up a trap.
I didn’t tell anyone except Ryder—not even Ruin. I couldn’t have him distracted while he’s watching over Charlotte. Plus, we still don’t know if there’s another traitor.
I recall the message from Bug again.
Bug: Shipment delayed from 11 p.m. to the next morning at 10. Take backup. Potential HA trap.
He is the one we call when Ryder hits a wall, which isn’t often. This time, we didn’t gamble. We needed another Ryder.
Still, my gut won’t settle, because I should be somewhere else. I should be standing inside that cottage, watching Charlotte see it for the first time. Telling her why I built it the way I did. Why every detail mattered.
Instead, I sent Ruin. And I’m almost certain he’s already butchered the explanation.
It’s pushing ten in the morning. The sun beats down hard enough the bandana around my head isn’t stopping the pressure building behind my eyes.
Fuck. I need this done.
My phone vibrates against my chest. I answer through my earpiece without taking my eyes off the treeline. “Wolf.”
“It’s Blaze,” he says. “Shotgun and I just came in through the north gate. No movement. No activity. You sure your intel’s solid?”
A breath leaves me slow and controlled, though irritation coils tight in my chest. Ryder glances my way, reads it instantly.
I shake my head once. “Bug is never wrong,” I tell Blaze. “You’ve used the bastard before. Has he ever steered us off course?”
A grunt on the other end. Reluctant agreement. “Fine. Ten more minutes. Then we move the shipment like usual. I’m not screwing up our three-way distribution because your sister pissed off Hell’s Army.”
My jaw locks. “Ten minutes,” I say flatly, and end the call.
Ryder’s already checking in with Rebel, who’s posted farthest west. He watches. Listens. Then gives me a subtle shake of his head.
Nothing. No movement. No dust clouds in the distance.
Fucking hell. If this isn’t a trap, then I don’t know what Hell’s Army is playing at.
This shipment was perfect bait. Biggest haul of the month, enough firepower to make noise across three counties. If I were planning a double-cross, this is exactly where I’d strike.
As the seconds drag by, my certainty starts to erode. Ten minutes feels like ten hours, and with every tick, my patience thins. My confidence fractures. The feeling that I’m in the wrong place at the wrong time grows stronger. And that’s when it happens.
Ryder’s phone blares, a near-violent alert muffled by the morning breeze. His head snaps toward mine, eyes wide in fear. Within seconds, we gather what has happened in quiet hushed tones.
Breach of our main club gates.
Fucking fuck.
Ryder doesn’t hesitate. He pulls up the live feeds from the clubhouse cams while I yank up Ruin’s contact. My hands are shaking.
Rage. Fear. Pure, unfiltered fear. It takes me a second to lock myself down—to strip everything back to one singular focus.
Please don’t let her be in the clubhouse.
Let her be safe at the cottage with Ruin.
Ryder swallows hard before looking at me, jaw clenched tight. “Two bikes. Armed. Tore down the main driveway. No casualties. Heath’s injured. Scar and Hound neutralized them. Spike’s moving the women and kids into the bunker.” His tone is clipped, controlled. But I can hear it. He’s rattled too.
I hit call and Ruin answers on the first ring.
“Tell me,” he demands.
“Front gate breach. They shot up the driveway.” The words come out fast, jagged. I glance at Ryder as I continue, speaking to both of them. “Full lockdown. You at the cottage?”
A grunt.
Relief hits so hard it almost buckles my knees. “Stay there. Don’t go back. Scar, Hound, Bulldog—they’ve got it handled.”
A beat. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.” I drag a hand down my face. “Just—fuck. Keep her safe, Ruin. Please.”
The silence on the other end is heavy.
“Fuck,” he exhales.
“We’ll finish this shipment and head back. Ryder and I.”
“When?”
I scan the empty lot like I’m expecting hell to rise from the concrete. “An hour. Two tops. You and Charlotte stay put. Panic room. Do not leave that house. You understand?”
“Got it.”
We hang up.
Ryder’s already sweeping the perimeter again, rifle braced and ready.
My phone buzzes immediately and I answer.
“My fucking compound was hit,” Blaze roars in my ear. “What the hell is going on, Wolf?!”
My heart drops. This really was a trap. Just not the one we expected. “So was mine,” I growl. “Reapers too, I’m guessing.”
A beat of silence tells me enough.
“Let’s move the shipment and get the hell back.”
“I want a word with your Bug after this,” Blaze snaps, then disconnects.
So do I. This feels wrong, too clean. Hit our compounds. Drag us out here. Make us scramble. But that’s too obvious. And the fact that my instincts are still screaming tells me we’re not done. Not even close.
Ryder and I move toward the three transport trucks. Seven hundred thousand dollars’ worth of weapons, enough firepower to bury Hell’s Army.
Blaze and Shotgun stroll across the lot toward us. Irritated, not cautious. Rebel and his two prospects approach from the west side, Rebel tossing Blaze a casual salute—expression blank.
It almost looks normal. The silence presses down heavily. Honest. Even Ryder lowers his weapon slightly. We close in on the trucks. Then—
Crack.
One of Rebel’s prospects drops. His dead weight slams into concrete with a dull thud.
Crack. Crack.
Chaos detonates. I dive for cover as bullets tear through the air. From the corner of my eye, I see Shotgun clutch his chest. Blaze grabs him, trying to drag him somewhere safe, but there is no safe.
We’re exposed. Open ground. No clear source. Cover is minimal, but Ryder and I sprint for a shipping container flanked by two smaller ones and drop behind it.
Rebel and his remaining prospect fire back blindly. No target. Just noise. Retaliation.
I force myself to breathe, carefully scanning the area I’d already swept up mere twenty minutes ago. Treeline. Warehouse roofs. Shadow pockets between stacked containers. We cleared this. Where the fuck did they come from?
“There,” Ryder mutters beside me, pointing toward a thin break in the trees. Closer than it should be.
Fuck. They were right there. Watching. Waiting. Exactly where Ryder and I had been standing earlier.
I take aim and fire. Ryder fires a split second later, and that’s when hell answers.
A hail of bullets slams into the container, metal screaming under impact. We’re pinned instantly. A bullet blockade trapping us in.
Christ. They didn’t just want us worried about our compounds. They wanted us distracted. Off balance. Sloppy. And it worked. This wasn’t a double trap. It was a triple one.
Metal shrieks above our heads as another round of bullets slams into the container. Ryder leans out, fires twice—clean, controlled shots—then drops back as return fire sparks against steel inches from his face. “They’ve got elevation,” he mutters. “At least four shooters.”
“Six,” I correct, catching movement near the treeline.
I fire. A body jerks back into the brush. Doesn’t matter. They’re not here to pick us off one by one. They’re herding us.
Another burst explodes against the trucks Two Hell’s Army men, their cut visible, break from cover—fast, coordinated—rushing the lead transport. One slides behind the cab. The other vaults into the driver’s seat like he’s done it a hundred times.
Ryder swears under his breath. “This isn’t a hit,” he says. “It’s a fuckin’ takeover.”
The engine of the first truck roars to life. Loud. Victorious.
They never wanted a firefight. They wanted the shipment. Seven hundred thousand dollars in weapons. Our leverage. Our protection. And they’re taking it.
I yank my phone out and start a three-way call. Blaze answers first, breathing hard. “They got Shotgun.” His voice cracks into something feral. “He’s gone, Wolf.”
“Fuck,” I whisper shakily, firing toward the truck tires. A bullet ricochets uselessly. “They’re taking our shipment, Blaze.”
Rebel joins the line. Silence on his end. Calm. Too calm.
“You seeing this?” I demand.
“I am,” he says evenly.
The second truck engine turns over.
Blaze lets out a strangled noise. “This was supposed to be routine.”
I contain my retort. Mere minutes ago, Blaze didn’t trust Bug’s intel, that this was a trap.
“It was never routine,” I grind out.
“This is on you!” Blaze roars. “Your intel. Your fucking sister stirring up Hell’s Army—”
A bullet slams into the container near my head, showering us in rust and debris. Ryder leans out again, firing toward the drivers. One of the Hell’s Army men drops, but another slides into place instantly. Disciplined. Prepared.
Rebel finally speaks again. “We’re out.”
Blaze goes quiet for half a second. “What?”
“You heard me,” Rebel says, tone glacial. “This was your arrangement. Your intel. Your mess. Handle your Hell’s Army, Wolf.”
My jaw tightens. “You walk now, you lose your cut. You lose the alliance.”
“Fine by me,” he replies smoothly. “Oh, and I’ll wait. For my share of weapons. Or cash for the advance I gave.”
Motherfucker.
Another engine roars to life. Third truck.
Rebel continues, almost bored. “Settle your war, Wolf. Then we’ll discuss repayment.” The line clicks dead.
Blaze snarls something unintelligible.
Through the narrow gap between containers, I see Reapers pulling back. Retreating toward the west gate. Cowards. Or survivors.