34. Rick
34
RICK
“They’re still here.” Clay circles the map spread across The Den’s table. “Three prospects spotted near Mario’s shop. Two more watching Sarah’s Diner.”
After the meeting, we gathered at our bar to plan. Death’s Head’s twenty-four-hour deadline means shit when they’re already moving pieces into position.
“Mario called.” Teller takes his usual seat, beer untouched. “Said they tried coming in after hours. Claimed they wanted to discuss ‘protection fees.’”
Chase cleans his knife—an old habit when he’s thinking. “Mario’s been under Black Wolves’ protection for twenty years.”
“That’s the point.” I study patrol reports from our brothers. “They’re pushing established businesses and testing their loyalty to us.”
The Den stays closed to the public tonight, giving us privacy to handle club business. Sarah keeps the front lit to maintain appearance while we work in the back.
“Four bikes just pulled in.” Kip’s voice crackles through our radios. “Looks like Marcus himself.”
That gets everyone’s attention. Death’s Head’s president showing up personally means something’s about to pop.
“Location?” Teller asks.
“Old paper mill. The one they’ve been using for meets.”
I exchange looks with my brothers. The mill sits just inside our territory.
“Take a ride?” Chase suggests, already standing.
“Carefully.” Teller nods. “Four men max. No colors. Just eyes on what they’re doing.”
Ten minutes later, we park behind abandoned buildings near the mill. The night provides good cover as we walk closer.
Death’s Head bikes line the loading dock. Marcus paces while his men unload crates from a van we don’t recognize.
“That’s military gear,” Zane whispers, spotting distinctive markings. “High-end shit.”
He’s right. The crates match what we’ve seen in gun shows—not the cheap hardware Death’s Head usually uses.
“Someone’s definitely backing them.” I count six prospects handling cargo while Marcus supervises.
Movement catches my eye. A car approaching—expensive, black, definitely not MC style. When it stops, the driver stays inside while two men in suits step out.
“Well, fuck me.” Chase’s voice holds dark humor. “Guess we know where the new money’s coming from.”
The suits talk with Marcus, gesturing at crates. One opens his jacket, revealing a shoulder holster.
“These aren’t local muscle,” Zane agrees, shifting for a better view. “Too polished.”
Before we can see more, a prospect spots movement where we’re hidden. “Hey! We got company!”
Everything happens fast. The suits dive for cover while Death’s Head members scramble for weapons. Marcus barks orders, trying to maintain control.
“So much for eyes only.” Chase grins, already moving. He’s always loved a good fight.
“Keep it contained.” I signal our positions to Clay’s backup team. “No guns unless they start it.”
The first prospect reaches us, swinging wild. I step inside his guard and drop him with two precise hits. Behind me, Chase takes another one down while Zane handles a third.
A suit tries flanking our position. His technique shows training—military or maybe private sector. But he’s not ready for how fast Zane moves.
My youngest brother flows like water, redirecting the suit’s momentum. The man hits the concrete hard, designer shoes scuffing as Zane locks his arm.
“Stay down,” Zane suggests pleasantly. “Those clothes look expensive.”
More of them rush us. I meet them halfway, trading punches that echo off mill walls. One catches my ribs but drops when I counter with an elbow strike.
Chase’s laugh carries over the chaos—he’s always enjoyed this part of our life. The pure physical release of combat.
“Enough!” Marcus’s voice booms. He stands by the van, pistol raised. “This isn’t how we do business!”
“Business?” I kick a fallen prospect clear of his dropped knife. “Is that what you call moving weight through our territory?”
“Temporary arrangement.” He tries for diplomacy, but his gun hand shakes slightly. “Mutual benefits for all parties.”
“Bullshit.” Chase wipes blood from his split lip. “You’re just the muscle. Who are your new friends, really?”
The remaining suit straightens his jacket, trying to look dignified despite a forming black eye. “This is a private matter.”
“Nothing in Wolf Pike is private.” I move forward, letting him see exactly who he’s dealing with. “Not without Black Wolves’ approval.”
“You don’t want this fight.” The suit’s voice holds a warning. “Walk away. Forget what you saw.”
“Or what?” Zane still has his man pinned. “You’ll send more suits to do your dirty work?”
Marcus lowers his gun slowly. “Twenty-four hours still stands. But after that…” He shrugs. “Accidents happen.”
The weight of his words hits hard. Before I can respond, sirens wail in the distance. Someone called the cops—probably his people creating a distraction.
“Time to go.” I signal our retreat. There’s no point involving local law.
We fade into darkness as police lights approach. Death’s Head’s vehicles peel out in the other direction, leaving their cargo half-unloaded.
“Well, that was fun.” Chase examines his bruised knuckles as we walk to our bikes. “Think they got the message?”
“They got something.” I study the mill’s dark shape. “But those suits weren’t here just to watch a territory dispute.”
“No.” Zane agrees. “Did you see how that one reacted when you mentioned Wolf Pike? Like he knew something.”
The ride back to The Den is tense, each of us caught in our own thoughts.
Inside The Den, Teller is waiting with Clay and the rest of the crew. We relay what we saw—the crates of military-grade gear, the suits, the coordinated movements. Everyone listens in heavy silence, but it’s Teller who breaks it.
“This ain’t just about territory anymore. They’ve got a real operation going. If we don’t shut this down now, they’ll bleed Wolf Pike dry and leave us picking up the pieces.”
“What’s the play?” Zane asks, his voice calm but cold.
Teller looks around the room, his gaze sharp. “We hit them before they can get fully set up. Find out who’s bankrolling them, shut down the supply chain, and remind them whose town this is.”
There’s a moment of silence, then a ripple of agreement. This is what we do—protect what’s ours, no matter the cost.
Later that night, I catch Chase staring out the window of the office, his beer untouched. “You good?” I ask, though I already know the answer.
He doesn’t turn, his voice low. “They’re pushing us into a corner, Rick. And corners make men desperate.”
“We’ve been here before,” I remind him. “And we’ve come out stronger every time.”
Chase finally looks at me, a small smirk tugging at his lip. “Yeah, but last time, we weren’t also babysitting suits with mystery connections.”
He’s not wrong. Whatever Death’s Head has gotten itself into, it’s more than we’ve faced before. And with Evie and the girls in the picture now, the stakes feel impossibly high.
Before bed, I check the street one last time, looking for anything out of place. The weight of Marcus’s words hangs heavy in my mind. Everyone has a price. Territory. Protection. Even people sometimes.
But Marcus doesn’t know us. He doesn’t understand what it means to have something worth fighting for. Evie, her girls, my brothers—this isn’t about a paycheck or a patch on my cut. It’s about family. About Wolf Pike. About the life we’ve built and the promise we’ve made to protect it.
The Black Wolves don’t break.
We bite.