Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
Aero
The clubhouse grows quiet, but there’s no peace here.
Just the kind of silence that leaves too much room for thoughts I’ve got no business having.
Unable to settle my restlessness, I stalk toward Hashtag’s tech den.
The glow from a half-dozen screens hits me before I even cross the threshold.
It feels like walking into a radioactive cave.
Wires snake along the floor, monitors stacked like some kind of digital altar, and in the middle of it all, I find Hashtag hunched forward in his chair like a vulture over a fresh kill, headphones crooked around his neck, fingers flying over the keyboards.
There’s a six pack of energy drinks by his side and already a few empty ones in the trash can on the other side.
I step in, closing the door behind me.
“Talk to me,” I growl, unable to take the silence for a minute longer.
He spins the chair halfway toward me, but he’s still typing. He nods at the biggest screen showing a satellite view. A red dot blinks against a blacked-out background. “Meatpacking plant’s here.” He points to the dot.
I walk up behind him, arms crossed, leaning in. “How’d you find it?”
Hashtag smirks like a kid about to brag on a science fair ribbon. “Triangulated last known pings from the Bloody Scorpions phones. Then I decrypted signal chips in the IDs we lifted. They think they’re slick, but they’re just dumb enough to make this easy.”
He taps another key, and a new screen loads with a list of numbers and digital strings I can’t begin to understand.
“And?” I ask, my pulse ticking.
“And…” he draws it out like a game show host, “I got taps on the phones still in use and I’ve flagged keywords. If they so much as whisper about moving I’ll know before they finish the sentence.”
“What about traffic?”
“Cold.” He shrugs, reaching for another energy drink and cracks it open. “Meatpacking plant’s dark but that doesn't mean it’s empty. I’m keeping my eye on it. No satellite heat signatures, yet, but I’ve seen dust tracks on the roads from a few days back. Could be there’s no one there or…”
“Or they’re blocking the signal,” I finish.
“They're too dumb for that but can’t be sure about the buyer.” He finally looks up at me for a split second before returning to the screens.
I run a hand down my face, my jaw clenched. “Fuck.”
“You look like shit, by the way,” he adds, way too casually.
“Thanks for the update, Dr. Phil.”
He snorts. “Nah, I mean it. You haven’t slept in twenty-four hours. Go grab a few hours. If anything shifts, I’ll sound the damn alarm.”
“I don’t sleep well when I’m on edge.”
“Then take a rage nap. Slam that whiskey, punch a wall, whatever you gotta do. You’re no good to anyone dead on your feet.”
“Already am.” I respond, raising the half empty bottle to my lips.
I stare at the blinking dot, red and taunting for a long minute. Hashtag’s right though. I feel like I’m dragging a mountain on my back. And if I go down, they all go down with me. I’m not giving the Scorpions or anyone else that satisfaction. Not ever.
Hashtag tips his head toward a recliner in the back, “You can crash here if you want real time alerts as soon as they sound.”
I take him up on the offer and settle into the thick leather chair.
It feels good to be off my feet but my mind won’t still.
I keep hearing Lacey’s voice in my head, even through the haze of whiskey, begging me not to shut her out again.
But that’s all I’ve been doing since I shoved her into the van, boarding up the parts of me that want her here, that miss her laugh, her fire, her damn stubbornness.
I sit with the bottle of Jack in one hand and a cigarette burning between my fingers in the other. Smoke curls toward the ceiling in lazy ribbons, thick and stale like how I feel, before I snuff it out. Every swallow burns. Every drag feels suffocating.
The glow from Hashtag’s setup cuts through the dark like a lifeline and I almost drift under its ghostly rhythm.
I nod off in the chair, half-listening to the clicks and hum of coded intel filtering in.
Hashtag’s world is all static and signals, his den lit like the inside of a motherboard, his keyboard never stopping.
My head lolls against the backrest. The warm whiskey bottle in my hand thumps against the seat whenever I shift.
Sleep doesn’t come easy, but exhaustion pulls hard.
A sudden chime drags me back. I open my eyes to Hashtag on full alert. Words flashing across his lower screen.
“Prez,” he whispers, “we’ve got something. Just came through Cholla’s phone.”
My eyes snap open. My body reacting before my brain catches up and I’m out of the chair standing behind him in an instant. A wave form rolls across the screen, and a deep voice becomes audible.
“Pickup’s at midnight. No more excuses. You don’t have all my product this time, I swear to God…”
Hashtag lowers the volume, eyes darting to another screen. “I’m running the voice through every recognition database I’ve got. No ping yet.” He lets out a sharp breath, “Prez, the voice is too polished for a street crew. I’m leaning toward cartel-adjacent if I had to guess.”
I drag a hand through my hair, thinking. “Cholla should be sweating. He’s got nothing to deliver. We’ve got the guns, and the girls are safe with the Harlots. All he’s got is a half dead crew.”
“Which makes him unstable,” Hashtag mutters.
I square my shoulders, my gravelly voice turning to steel. “This drop’s going down, one way or another and we’ll be ready.”
My jaw flexes as I exit the room. All the haze in my skull is gone, burned off by a new wave of fury. I slam the door open, adrenaline carrying me like I’m not running on empty. Midnight’s coming and we’re gonna be ready.
I fire off a text to the rest of the crew and head straight to church taking a few minutes to pull myself together before they join me.
I drop into the head seat, bracing my palms on the edge of the wood.
My head dips and I take a breath. Then another.
There’s a weight on my chest I can’t shake, like someone parked a Harley on my ribs and left it idling.
My skull pounds from the whiskey, lack of sleep, and the hundred different scenarios racing through my head.
I squeeze my eyes shut. Just for a second.
Long enough to picture her face. The fire in her eyes, her perfect stubborn mouth that wrecks me worse than any blade ever could.
The sound of boots outside the door, pushes the thought down deep where it belongs. I square my shoulders, shake off the weight, and sit back in the chair like I’m not coming apart at the seams.
I stand as the door opens. Grizzly walks in first, followed by Rancor and Crank.
Padre and Tango trail close behind. I spot the thick soot still staining the creases of Backdraft’s knuckles from the last run as he folds his hands in front of him on the table.
Pike’s got a toothpick in his mouth, chewing like he’s dying to stab someone with it.
“You look like shit,” Surge says, slapping me on the back as he strolls by, but he’s already taking his seat before I can fire back.
Hashtag’s the last one in, his arms full of tablets that he places onto the table.
They’re already loaded with maps and blinking overlays.
I give the guys a brief rundown of the meeting between Cholla and the unknown buyer before handing things off to Hashtag.
He looks to me for approval before he starts to speak, which I give to him with a nod.
“Meatpacking plant’s here,” he says, jabbing a finger at the map on his own screen.
“Looks dead. But someone’s been on the property in the last twenty-four hours.
There’s one road in, one road out. This line over here,” he draws on his screen with a digital pen.
“Gives us the best tactical view point.”
I study the map, my fingers tapping the table. “We hit the plant tonight. We lay low and wait for the buyer to show. We don’t move until all players are accounted for. With a little luck they’ll do the dirty work for us when they figure out Cholla has nothing.”
Surge grunts. “And if Cholla doesn’t show up?”
“Let’s hope he does. No one walks away tonight.”
The air shifts with rising anticipation. They’re sharper now, wired, ready to return to the fight. “That’s it. Load up and move out.”
Chairs push back. Boots hit the floor. Surge pops the locks on two crates in the corner, the lid slamming open to reveal rows of weapons.
Handguns, rifles, full mags. Grizzly grabs a shotgun and checks the barrel with practiced ease.
Padre flips a butterfly knife open then closed, with muscle memory.
Everyone else follows suit strapping extra weapons on top of what they already carry.
You can never be too prepared when you don’t know who you’re up against. They sure as hell won’t see us coming.