Chapter Eleven
Justice
The air outside is thick with tension. Creed stands near the gate, talking low to Reaper and Winchester. The look on his face says it all, this isn’t some run-of-the-mill problem. It’s bad.
I move closer, boots crunching through dirt. The morning sun’s already hot, glare bouncing off rows of bikes lined like an army waiting for orders.
Reaper glances up when I approach, his face grim. “One of Ivanov’s men got spotted on the docks.”
“Jacksonville docks?”
“Yeah,” Winchester confirms, spitting into the dirt. “Word is, he’s meeting with a contact from the Bureau.”
A cold weight drops into my gut. “A fed?”
Creed’s eyes are hard steel. “That’s what it looks like.”
The silence that follows is loud. The kind that means everyone’s thinking the same damn thing. If one of Ivanov’s men is cozying up to the feds, we’re standing in the line of fire.
“Why?” I ask.
“We’re waiting to find out,” Creed replies.
“He’s probably been arrested for something and is covering his ass by handing us over,” Winchester says.
Reaper nods. “Our cop’s finding out what the story is. For now, we wait.”
Creed turns toward the clubhouse, jaw tight. “I want eyes on every corner of this city. Winchester, reach out to the Khans and see if they’ve heard anything about the Bureau sniffing around. Reaper, get word to Lucy, tell her to keep the ol’ ladies inside the compound until we clear this shit up.”
Reaper’s already moving, muttering a curse under his breath.
Creed looks at me next. “You’ve got connections near the port. I want you down there, quiet. Find out what the Russians are moving or who they’re meeting.”
“On it,” I say, already turning toward my bike.
But the moment I hit the lot, I see her.
Jet stands near the clubhouse porch, hair loose, eyes wary. Devil’s beside her, talking fast, probably trying to keep her distracted.
She shouldn’t even be out here.
When her gaze catches mine, it’s like the universe narrows to the space between us. There’s no anger there, no accusation, just something I can’t name.
“Justice!” Creed’s bark snaps me back.
I drag my focus away, straddle the bike, and fire it up. The roar of my bike drowns out the noise in my head. Gravel spits behind me as I gun it out of the compound, leaving Jet, and everything dangerous about her in the rearview.
Cargo crates stack up like coffins waiting to be filled. Seagulls circle overhead, squawking over the sound of waves slapping metal hulls.
I park a block away from the docks, kill the engine, and move in on foot. My guy let’s me in through a side gate and goes back to his job.
The air’s heavy with humidity. A few longshoremen move between warehouses, hauling ropes and shouting orders. Normal enough except for the black SUV parked too close to the edge of the loading area.
I slide behind a stack of containers and watch.
Two men stand by the SUV, both in suits that don’t belong anywhere near saltwater.
The taller one’s got that Russian stiffness about him, broad shoulders, perfect posture, eyes like cut glass.
The other looks like a fed through and through with a buzz-cut and cheap tie, he’s too clean for this place.
When the Russian lights a cigarette, the wind carries the faint sound of his voice. I catch one word, “Ivanov.”
My blood runs cold.
The fed nods once, takes a folder from the Russian’s hand, and gets back into the SUV.
A bribe? A deal?
The Russian stands next to the open window of the SUV and they exchange some words I can’t hear.
I pull my phone from my cut and snap a photo of both men.
Whatever it was, it means Ivanov’s man is already making moves, maybe without Ivanov knowing a damn thing about it.
Slipping between containers, I go back the way I came.
The second I’m on my bike, I call Creed.
“Talk,” he says when he answers.
“Whoever this guy is, he just met a fed on the docks. Handed him a folder. It looked like documents.”
Creed curses under his breath. “You get a photo?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. Send it. Get back here. We’ll plan the next steps. We can’t afford to be sloppy with this.”
The line goes dead.
I text the photo, pocket the phone, then glance back toward the docks. The Russian’s probably still there, standing in the sun. Part of me wants to go down there, press him for answers, but Creed gave me an order.
I kick the bike into gear and tear away, heart hammering harder than it should.
Back at the compound, the brothers are gathered in and around the meeting room. Phone’s buzz. A low murmur runs between them. The air feels thick enough to slice it with a knife.
Devil and Lucy stand near the kitchen door, tension written all over their faces.
Jet’s nowhere in sight.
Probably for the best. Because what’s coming?
It’s going to get bloody.