3. Damian
CHAPTER 3
DAMIAN
The scent of salt and diesel clings to the air as I step onto the dock, the metallic groan of cranes shifting overhead echoing through the quiet night. The Gulf breeze rolls in, thick and humid, but I barely notice it. My focus is on the shipping container in front of me, freshly offloaded from a Panamanian-flagged cargo ship just hours ago.
I should be thinking about the shipment. My mind needs to be on the crates of guns waiting to be inspected. About the money this haul is going to bring in.
But all I can think about is the shootout at The Velvet Hall two nights ago.
Outsiders.
In Kings’ world. There isn’t an inch of Freedom Falls not influenced by the Kings. Who dares bring this shit to our door literally?
The entire situation still doesn’t sit right with me.
No one makes a move on Kings’ turf. Not unless they’ve got a death wish.
The steel doors loom in front of me, the heavy-duty lock already cut by one of my guys hanging, waiting for it to be pulled and tossed aside. A couple of the brothers stand nearby, waiting, tension thrumming in the air like an electric current.
I grip the handle, yank one of the doors open, and step inside. The space is packed tight with wooden crates, stacked neatly like an illicit Christmas delivery. It is a damn holiday for us. Crate upon crate, they are perfectly wrapped gifts with a motherfucking bow. The scent of treated wood, gun oil, and metal fills the air.
Crouching down, I pry the lid off one of the crates with a crowbar. Inside, layers of protective foam cradle rows of black-market firearms—pistols, rifles, a couple of sawed-off shotguns. My fingers skim the cool steel of a Glock, the weight familiar and steady in my palm.
"Clean," I mutter, checking the serials. Wiped smooth. Just the way we like them.
“Looks like the shipment’s solid,” Grit, our treasurer, comments from the doorway. He steps inside, running a practiced eye over the weapons. His long blond hair is pulled into a low tie, his face unreadable as he lifts a rifle, inspects the barrel, then nods. Profit margin is solid. Got this sold to West Virginia Kings. Transport is getting scheduled as we speak, Chux.
I snap the crate shut and push to my feet. “Good. Get ‘em counted, sorted, and ready to move. I don’t want this shit sitting around longer than necessary.”
Grit signals to the others, and the men move quickly, hoisting the crates and carrying them off the container one by one. This is just another day for us, another deal prepped, product in, and a final offload before the transaction to send these babies to their new home. The Kings run the port, and anything coming in or out that’s worth a damn moves through us. The money is good, the power even better.
But guns? Guns are just part of it. There isn’t a line we won’t cross, a parcel we won’t ship, and a dollar we will refuse.
I clench my jaw, the irritation from the strip club shootout crawling under my skin again. I still don’t know who the hell those guys were, what they wanted, and more importantly why they are here. They weren’t local. They weren’t ours. Some idiots rolled in like they thought they had a chance at taking from the Kings.
They didn’t.
And now they’re dead for it.
But that doesn’t mean I’m letting this shit go. Someone sent them, and I’m going to find out who. Those dead bodies were nothing more than foot soldiers. Whoever is on top will come tumbling down. A threat will always remain until the blood line behind it is eradicated or the reason behind it changes.
I stalk away from the container, my boots echoing against the pavement as I head toward another steel box, set further back from the others. From the outside, it looks like just another shipping unit, but the small vents welded into the upper corners tell a different story.
I step up to the heavy-duty door and knock twice.
A moment later, the lock disengages, and Looney, our enforcer, swings the door open. He gives me a nod, the ink of his full neck tattoo stretching and twisting with his movement. The drama mask tattoo under his left eye a reminder of how animated the man can be from time to time. The dim light inside flickers for a second, casting long shadows over the women at their tables.
They don’t look up. They never do.
The heat in the converted container is stifling, even with the vents worked into the steel. The air is thick with the scent of sweat, periods, and the acetone edge to the cocaine, but the women wear gloves, handling the product carefully as they measure, divide, and package the powder into neat smaller bricks, bagging some, and creating paste that will later be further diluted down for injection stacking them into manageable crates for transport.
This is the real money-maker.
Not the guns. Not the muscle.
Drugs are what keep the Kings of Anarchy at the top.
I step inside, rolling my shoulders as I take in the scene. The women—strippers, low-level girls from the clubs we own, and a few hookers who know better than to ask questions—move like a well-oiled machine. Each one is in her bra and panties, no pockets, no way to stash product without us knowing. We don’t even let their wear tampons on their periods. No reason for anything to be in any bodily canals. And yes, we search them before and after every shift. Period or not, their body is not a packing mule, they will be checked.
Looney watches from the side, arms crossed over his chest, keeping an eye on them.
I glance at him. “Any issues?”
“None,” he says, his voice gruff. “Product came in pure. We’ll have everything packaged by morning.”
I nod, but my jaw is still tight, my blood still running hot.
Because while the money’s flowing and business is running smooth, something isn’t right. We came under fire in the least opportune location. There wasn’t nearly as much to gain in shooting any of us at the club. A few thousand in cash is all anyone would have gotten off of our dead bodies. And anyone with half a brain would know even if they did manage to kill us all, within days more Kings would be swarming the area stepping in to fill the gaps on our business.
Someone came looking for a war.
And they picked the wrong fucking town. It might take me some time to find out who, but I’m going to and then I’m going to end them all.
“Headed out, gonna sleep today, then I’m offline ‘til the run is complete overnight.” I tell Looney who nods already knowing what is on the schedule for today.
Taking off, I head home, crash for a few hours, then ready myself to ride.
The deep rumble of ten Harleys fills the humid night air as we roll out of town, two blacked-out cargo vans trailing behind us. The stretch of highway leading into Louisiana is dark, only the glow of our headlights and the occasional flicker of passing signs breaking through the night.
This is routine. This is business.
We move as a unit—tight formation, no bullshit. The Kings don’t do messy. We don’t do reckless. The last thing we need is some eager cop pulling us over because one of the boys got twitchy on the throttle.
I ride near the front, my bike making a steady growl beneath me. Mellow is just behind me, his gaze locked on the road. Riot brings up the rear, making sure the vans stay in line. Inside those vans, the crates of guns from a previous shipment are packed tight, locked up, waiting for delivery.
Louisiana is a beautiful state. The storage unit we’re headed to is just off the interstate, tucked in an industrial park where no one asks questions. It’s safer that way—quick drop, no unnecessary contact. We’re moving this shipment for the Central Texas chapter. They handle their own distribution. We just make sure they get what they need.
Two hours later, we pull into the lot, the bikes rolling to a stop. The vans park just behind us, engines idling for a moment before shutting off. I swing off my bike and roll my shoulders, stretching out the tension from the ride.
“Let’s move,” I say, jerking my chin toward the unit.
Riot and Mellow move to unlock the storage unit while the others grab the crates. The metal door screeches as it rolls up, revealing an empty space just big enough for the load. The men work fast, stacking the crates inside, lining them up against the back wall.
I check my phone once we’re done, pulling up my contacts before hitting Madman’s number.
The president of the Central Texas chapter picks up on the second ring.
“Chux,” he answers, his voice rough from years of whiskey and smoke.
“Drop’s made,” I say. “Storage unit off I-10, outside Baton Rouge. Unit one two one six, backside of Custard’s lot.”
We regularly use storage facilities for drops so we aren’t interacting with each other directly. This way my club makes the drop under the circumstances we feel good about, and our receiving club can manage their pickups. If either side gets caught it doesn’t take out two chapters at the same time. The way I see it, if any of us have to do time for the club, so be it, but the more I can minimize the risk to having all of us locked up at the same time, the better.
“Code?”
“King. Your boys can pick up whenever.” I tell him which means to enter the unit, the keypad code is 5-4-6-4 which spells king on a traditional phone keypad.
There’s a pause on the line before Madman lets out a low chuckle. “Smooth as always.”
“You know it.”
“Grit will have the cash within the hour. Stop at Mama RiRi’s for breakfast. My man will drop the cash in his saddlebags while you eat.”
“Pleasure doin’ business with ya, Madman.” I murmur giving a nod to Grit all is a go. This is our regular set up with this chapter. The more casual any tradeoff is the better. Movies make shit look wild. No smart outlaw wants to attract attention to a transaction. The less we can be seen together, followed and connected, the better.
“You need extra coverage ‘til you sort the other day?” He offers since this order was delayed a little bit. Our plan was the day after the shooting make this drive. I was still pissed about getting shot at and told Madman a little bit along with rescheduling the drop.
My grip tightens on the phone.
“Still looking into it,” I mutter. “But leads are goin’ nowhere. Wished one of the fuckers could have lived until I got done gettin’ some answers. All is quiet on the home front again, for now.”
“We sure it ain’t a jealous boyfriend?” Madman says, voice lowering.
“Not that we have sorted. Not taking anything off the table, but my gut says this was on us. Just not sure why yet.”
“You need backup, you let me know.”
I glance at the bikes, the boys waiting for the call to ride out.
“Got it under control,” I say after a moment. “This happened on my spot, it’s personal now regardless of the who, what, when, where, and why. We’ll handle it.”
Madman exhales through his nose. “Figured you’d say that. Stay sharp, brother.”
“You too.”
I hang up, slide my phone into my pocket, and take one last look at the loaded storage unit before yanking the metal door down.
“Let’s ride.”
The engines roar back to life, and just like that, we’re back on the road, heading home.
My mind isn’t on the run anymore.
It’s on the men who stepped foot in my town.
And how soon I’ll get the chance to put them in the ground.