Chapter 39
Logan calls when Olivia is laughing.
That’s the first thing I notice. Not the phone vibrating in my pocket. Not the way Shadow’s head lifts across the room like he knows before anyone else does. Not the shift in the clubhouse air when a president’s number lights up a brother’s screen.
Her laugh.
Olivia sits on the couch with Mac, Kya, Brooke, and Emma, one leg tucked under her, one of the toddler gang’s toy cars in her hand because Mason shoved it at her like she’d been appointed keeper of all important things.
Her hair is loose over one shoulder, her face turned toward Kya, mouth curved in a smile that looks more natural every day.
She fits here now. She knows it too, even if she doesn’t say it much.
That makes the phone in my pocket feel heavier.
I answer before the second buzz finishes. “Yeah.”
Logan doesn’t waste time. “Supply warehouse got hit.”
I straighten from the wall. “What kind of hit?”
Olivia’s gaze flicks to me immediately.
“Not theft for quick cash. Selective. They knew what to take and what to burn.”
My eyes cut to Shadow. He’s already moving. “Connection?” I ask.
“Possible. Dom pulled overlap from one of the shell companies tied to the pipeline. Warehouse sits on a route cluster.”
That sharpens everything. Not a random hit. Not some asshole crew looking for parts. A move. Maybe against us. Maybe against the investigation. Maybe both.
Logan says, “Need eyes on it before cops or locals start sniffing.”
“Who’s coming?” No pause. No questions about why me. No question about whether I’m needed. I already know.
“Shadow, Joker, Hammer. Blaze is on standby here. I want you there because if there’s overlap, you’ll see it.” Logan’s voice lowers. “Cobra.”
“What?”
“You go surgical. Not feral.”
My jaw tightens. Across the room, Olivia stands. She heard enough. Maybe not words, but the shape of them. I look at her.
She doesn’t move toward me. Doesn’t ask me not to go. Doesn’t pretend she doesn’t understand what this life is anymore. She just watches. Steady. That makes leaving harder. It also makes it necessary.
“Yeah,” I say into the phone.
Logan exhales once. “Meet out front.”
The line goes dead.
I slip the phone away.
Olivia reaches me before I take a full step. Not rushing. Not panicked. Just there. “Something happened?” she asks.
“Yeah.”
Her eyes search mine. “Bad?”
“Yeah.”
She searches my face for half a second. Then nods. “Come back.” Not be careful. Not don’t go.
Come back.
A better order. One I can follow. My hand comes up to her jaw, thumb brushing once along her skin. Quick. Not enough. Never enough. “I will.”
She believes me.
That matters more than it should.
Then I move.
The ride out is quiet. No banter. No bullshit. Just engines, cold air, and the kind of tension that sits low in the bones because every man knows what we might find.
Shadow rides to my left. Hammer behind him. Joker behind me, his headlight cutting clean through the dark every time I check the mirror. He isn’t smiling. This isn’t a night for smiling.
The warehouse is on the edge of town, tucked behind two vacant lots and a rusting chain-link fence with more holes than security.
It belongs to one of the club’s supply lines, legitimate enough on paper, useful enough in practice.
Parts. Tools. Storage overflow. Things that don’t look important unless someone knows what they’re looking at. Someone did.
The gate is open when we arrive. Not broken off. Opened. That tells me more than shattered metal would.
Shadow kills his engine first. I roll in beside him and cut mine, boots hitting gravel a second later. Hammer parks angled toward the road, watching the approach. Joker swings off his bike without a word, one hand already near the blade at his belt.
The front door is damaged. Forced, but clean. Not a drunk kick-in. Not panic. Controlled entry.
I step over a bent strip of metal near the threshold and stop inside. The air smells like smoke, oil, burned paper, and something chemical underneath. Not enough fire to destroy the building. Enough to erase. Selective.
Shadow moves left.
Hammer clears right.
Joker drifts toward the rear office with that quiet, unnatural grace that always makes people realize too late he was closer than they thought.
I take the center aisle.
Shelving units line both sides. Some untouched. Others stripped. Boxes opened and emptied. Packing slips scattered. A few crates burned from the inside out, flames smothered before spreading too far. Not vandalism. Inventory selection. They knew where to go.
I crouch near one of the burned piles, lifting the edge of a half-charred sheet with two fingers. Numbers. Partial route. Delivery codes. My phone comes out. I take a picture and send it to Dom. Then another. Then the scorched label on a crate that shouldn’t have been touched if this was random.
Dom calls in less than thirty seconds. “This overlaps.” His voice is tight.
“Say it clean,” I tell him.
“The manifest code from that crate matches one from the route cluster tied to the shell payouts. Not direct, but enough. Whoever hit the warehouse was either cleaning up a trail or trying to pull something before we found it.”
“Both?”
“Likely.”
Shadow appears at the end of the aisle. “Office is burned.”
I tell Dom, “Records?”
“Get me what’s left.”
“Working on it.” I hang up.
Hammer’s voice comes from the far side. “They took medical supplies.”
I turn.
He stands near a set of empty shelves. The labels are still taped beneath them. Sedatives. Emergency kits. Portable restraints from an old transport contract.
My vision narrows. Not because I’m surprised. Because I’m not.
“They’re restocking,” Shadow says.
“Or covering what they already used,” Hammer adds.
Joker calls from the back, voice calm in a way that makes the room colder. “Got blood.”
We move.
The rear office is half burned, one wall blackened, filing cabinet warped from heat. Papers litter the floor where someone tried to torch them fast and sloppy. Not amateur sloppy. Interrupted sloppy. Blood marks the floor near the desk. A smear. Then drops. Fresh enough.
I crouch, touch nothing, track the direction. Back hallway. Service exit.
“They didn’t all get out clean,” Shadow says.
“No,” I answer.
Joker’s head tilts toward the hallway. “Shame.”
Hammer checks the exit. “Door’s shut but not latched.”
Someone is still here. The warehouse changes shape around that fact.
I move first. No talking. No warning.
The service hallway runs narrow, concrete walls, one flickering light overhead. Blood dots the floor in a broken line. Not a lot. Enough. At the end, a storage room door sits cracked. Breathing comes from inside. Fast. Trying to be quiet. Failing.
I push the door open with my boot.
A man sits on the floor behind overturned boxes, one hand pressed to his side, the other holding a gun that shakes too much to be useful. He lifts it anyway.
I cross the space before he fires. My boot hits his wrist. The gun clatters across the floor. He screams, more from fear than pain, and I grab the front of his jacket, hauling him up enough to slam him back against the wall. His head cracks concrete. Not enough to end him.
Shadow steps in behind me.
Hammer picks up the gun.
Joker closes the door.
The sound of it shutting is soft.
Final.
The man’s eyes dart between us, wide and frantic. “I don’t know shit.”
Wrong first sentence.
I drive my fist into his stomach.
He folds as much as my grip lets him. Air leaves him in a wet rush.
I hold him up. “Try again.”
“I don’t—”
I hit him again. Same spot. Harder. No escalation. No speech. No theater.
He chokes, knees trying to buckle.
I don’t let them.
Shadow watches the hallway.
Hammer checks the gun.
Joker leans against the door, enjoying himself quietly.
“Who sent you?” I ask.
The man coughs. “Fuck you.”
Joker makes a soft sound. “Bad answer.”
I turn the man and slam his injured side into the edge of a metal shelf.
He screams. That one is real. Pain clears lies faster than fear.
“Who sent you?”
He breathes hard, sweat breaking across his face. “I don’t know his name.”
I grip his jaw and force his eyes to mine. “Then give me what you do know.”
“Handler,” he gasps. “He said burn the records. Pull the marked crates. Leave nothing tied to the route.”
“What route?”
He hesitates.
I press my thumb into the wound at his side.
His scream tears through the small room and dies against the concrete walls.
“What route?”
“Girls,” he spits. “Transport route. South line. That’s all I know.”
South line.
Joker’s smile flickers back.
Hammer mutters, “There it is.”
I don’t look away from the man. “Where?”
“I don’t know.” I press harder. “Swear to God,” he chokes. “I only got the pickup point.”
“Where?”
“Old feed mill outside Lowndes. Tomorrow night.”
Shadow’s phone is already out. He sends it.
Dom will have it in seconds.
I ask, “How many?”
“Three.”
“Girls?”
He squeezes his eyes shut.
Wrong.
I slam him into the wall again. “How many?”
“Four,” he rushes out. “Four girls. Maybe five. I don’t know. Depends who makes delivery.”
My grip tightens. “Names.”
“I don’t get names.”
I believe that. Doesn’t help him. “Who has them?”
“Transport crew.”
“Who leads?”
He shakes his head too fast. “I don’t—”
Joker moves then. No rush. He steps close, pulls a knife, and lets the blade catch the light. The man stops breathing. Joker smiles. “Try remembering.”
The man breaks. Not fully. Enough. “Denton,” he says. “I heard Denton. Same guy. He coordinates some drops.”
Denton. Name came up before. Now again. A thread.
I release the man’s jaw and step back half a pace. He sags against the wall, panting, thinking maybe giving us a name bought him something. It did. A few seconds.
I call Dom.
He answers immediately. “Talk.”
“Old feed mill outside Lowndes. Tomorrow night. South transport line. Four or five girls. Denton connected.”
Typing explodes on his end. “Got it. I’m pulling maps now.”
“Send it to Logan.”
“Already doing it.”
I end the call.
The man looks at me, blood on his teeth. “I told you.”
“Yeah.”
“So what? You letting me walk?” No one in the room speaks. His face changes as understanding arrives. Slow. Then fast. “No. No, wait. I gave you what you wanted.”
I look at him. Calm. Clear. “You touched the route.”
“I didn’t touch any girl.”
“You carried the system.”
“That’s not—”
I hit him once. Hard enough to stop the sentence.
He drops this time because I let him. He hits the floor and curls around his side, groaning.
Hammer looks at me. “Alive?”
I look down. The man is breathing.
For now.
“We need him?” Joker asks, almost hopeful we don’t.
Shadow checks his phone. “Dom says face match pending. Logan wants him breathing until Cain gets here.”
Logan’s call.
Fine.
I crouch in front of the man. He flinches. “You breathe until my president decides you stop,” I tell him. His eyes fill with panic again. I lean closer. “But if you lied, if that feed mill is empty, if one girl moves because you gave us shit information, I come back.”
He shakes his head. “I didn’t lie.”
“Hope not.” I stand.
Hammer zip-ties him tighter than necessary.
Joker looks disappointed but not surprised.
We clear the rest of the building fast. No more men.
No hidden crew. No second vehicle left behind.
Just burn marks, missing supplies, and enough pieces to confirm what we already knew.
They’re not stopping. They’re moving. We leave the man in the rear office for Cain and step back into the main warehouse.
My hands are bloody. Not much. Enough. I look at them without feeling anything that resembles regret. There was a time violence was noise in me. A thing that came from old dark places and needed somewhere to land. Tonight isn’t that. Tonight is clean. Surgical.
A man with a wound gives a route. A route gives a target. A target gives us girls before they disappear. That’s useful. That’s purpose. That’s what matters.
Shadow steps up beside me. “You good?”
“No.”
He nods once. “Good.”
Same answer Cain gave me before. Maybe they know better than to want me good. Good men hesitate. I don’t.
My phone buzzes.
Olivia: Are you okay?
My hand stills around the phone. For one second, the warehouse disappears. Her face replaces it. Her laugh in the clubhouse. Her hand on my chest. Her voice saying she loves all of me, even the parts that scare everyone else. I type back with one thumb.
Yeah.
Three dots appear.
Olivia: Come back to me.
My chest tightens. Not weakness. Fuel. I answer.
Always.
Then I slide the phone away and look at the burned records, the blood, the empty shelves where drugs and restraints used to be.
They touch what’s mine, they die.
But it’s bigger than that now.
They touch women like they’re inventory, they die. They build routes, we burn them. They move product, we take the road apart beneath them. No hesitation. No mercy. No loose ends.
I turn toward the door. “Let’s move,” I say.
Shadow falls in beside me.
Hammer follows.
Joker trails last, humming under his breath like the night has finally started to interest him.
Outside, the cold air hits my face. I breathe it in once. Then head for my bike.
This doesn’t end with one warehouse.
It ends when there’s nothing left of the system but ash.