Chapter 10 Stash House
STASH HOUSE
TYLER
The deadline was tomorrow. I'd burned Cross's envelope at dawn, watched the photograph curl and blacken in the fire pit while the sun rose over the compound walls.
Seven days since that envelope had arrived.
Seven days of fear and sleeplessness and the slow poison of anticipation.
Whatever Cross had planned for that date—whatever violence or revelation or twisted game—it was coming whether I was ready or not.
Which was why we were here, twelve hours later, crouched in the darkness outside the Wolves' Henderson operation.
The old Miller warehouse. The same location Hawk had told us about in that first emergency church meeting, when the Iron Wolves had rolled into town and claimed neutral territory as their own.
We'd known where they were operating from the beginning—what we hadn't known was what they were protecting inside.
The pharmaceutical evidence from the ambush had changed that.
Axel and I had spent most of the day tracing batch numbers, cross-referencing shipment codes, building a picture of the supply chain.
The drugs we'd intercepted weren't coming from the Wolves' Montana operation.
They were being stored locally, processed through Henderson, distributed across the western states.
This warehouse wasn't just a clubhouse for visiting bikers—it was a distribution hub.
A nerve center. And somewhere inside were the records that would tell us exactly how deep the corruption ran.
"We can't wait." That had been my argument in the emergency church Hawk had called after I'd presented my findings. "Cross's deadline is tomorrow. Whatever he's planning, this is our last chance to get ahead of it. We hit the warehouse tonight, we find out what we're really dealing with."
Hawk had agreed. And now here we were.
The warehouse sat at the edge of Henderson's industrial district like a sleeping predator—corrugated metal walls, loading docks facing the desert, a single security light casting a pale circle near the main entrance.
From our position in the shadow of an abandoned grain silo, I could see two guards at the front, one more doing lazy circuits around the perimeter.
Three visible. Axel's contacts had reported something strange earlier—a group of Wolves had mobilized tonight and ridden out, destination unknown. That left only a skeleton crew at the distribution hub. Bad news in terms of finding Cross, but good news for the raid. Fewer guns to worry about.
"Security rotation every twelve minutes." Axel's voice was barely audible through my earpiece, a whisper of sound that my mind translated without conscious effort. "Next pass in four."
Four minutes to cross sixty yards of open ground, breach the side entrance, and establish position before the patrol came back around. Tight, but doable.
Tank crouched beside me, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off his body even through our tactical gear.
We'd talked this morning—really talked, for the first time since the kiss, since the sparring session, since all of it.
Agreed to figure this out together. But there hadn't been time to explore what that meant, not with the deadline looming and a raid to plan.
The conversation hung between us, unfinished, a promise waiting to be kept.
If we survived the night.
I pushed the awareness aside and studied the warehouse through the night vision scope Blade had pressed into my hands before we'd left the compound.
The building was older than it looked, the metal siding patched in places where rust had eaten through.
No visible cameras on the exterior, which either meant the Wolves were overconfident or they had other security measures I couldn't see.
My money was on overconfident.
"Tyler." Hawk's voice in my ear, low and steady. "You're on point. This is your world."
He wasn't wrong. Warehouse raids, tactical entries, the precise choreography of clearing rooms and neutralizing threats—I'd done this dozens of times with the Bureau. The muscle memory lived in my bones, waiting to be called up like an old song I'd never quite forgotten.
"Copy. Positions confirmed?" I kept my voice flat, professional. "Tank and I breach through the side door, northeast corner. Blade and Irish take the loading dock. Everyone else holds perimeter."
"West is locked down." Declan's voice was steady through the earpiece. The ex-Navy in him showed in moments like this—calm, professional, no wasted words. "Cruz and Diesel are in position."
"East covered." Axel confirmed. "Marco and Santos have eyes on the back."
"North is secure." Hawk's voice. He'd insisted on being part of the perimeter despite my suggestion that he coordinate from the compound. My men, my risk, he'd said.
"South?" I asked.
"Reno's got it." That was a prospect I'd only met twice—young, eager, filling the gap that Ghost's injury had left. Three days wasn't enough time to heal a bullet wound, no matter how much the kid had argued. Rosa had put her foot down, and Hawk had backed her.
"Good. Tank and I clear the offices first—that's where they'll keep the records. Blade, Irish—you secure the main floor. Anyone inside who isn't us gets put down or restrained. Questions?"
Silence on the line. Everyone knew their jobs.
"And if they shoot first?" Reno's voice, nervous but trying not to show it.
"Then we shoot back." I adjusted my grip on the Glock, feeling the familiar weight settle into my palm. "But we take prisoners if we can. Dead men don't answer questions."
The night pressed in around us, thick with the smell of sage and dust and the faint chemical tang of whatever the Wolves were storing inside.
A coyote called somewhere in the distance—a lonely sound that made the darkness feel bigger, emptier.
The desert didn't care about our plans. It would be here long after we were gone, indifferent to the violence we were about to commit.
"Thirty seconds." Axel's countdown began.
I drew a breath. Let it out slowly. Felt my heartbeat steady into the rhythm I'd learned at Quantico, the controlled calm that came before action.
Tank's hand found my shoulder. One squeeze—brief, deliberate. Not romantic. Something else. I'm here. We do this together.
I didn't look at him. Didn't need to.
"Go."
The side door gave way with a single kick, the lock shearing off with a sound that seemed too loud in the stillness. I was through before the echo faded, sweeping left while Tank covered right, our movements synchronized without discussion.
The hallway beyond was dark, lit only by the red glow of exit signs and the ambient light bleeding through grimy windows.
Concrete floor, metal walls, the smell of machine oil and something else—something chemical that made my sinuses burn.
The acrid scent of pharmaceutical processing, maybe.
Whatever the Wolves were doing here, it wasn't just storage.
Two doors on the left. One on the right. Stairs at the far end leading up to what looked like a mezzanine office—the command center, if this operation followed standard cartel structure.
I signaled: left first, then right, then up.
Tank nodded and moved to the first door. I stacked behind him, hand on his shoulder, feeling the coiled tension in his muscles through the fabric of his shirt.
Three. Two. One.
He went low. I went high.
The room was empty—storage, mostly, shelves lined with cardboard boxes that bore shipping labels in Spanish. I scanned the corners, checked behind the door, gave the all-clear signal.
Next room.
This one had a desk, a filing cabinet, the detritus of administrative work scattered across every surface. No guards. The Wolves' overconfidence was going to cost them.
"Offices clear." I spoke into my earpiece. "Moving to the mezzanine."
"Copy. Loading dock is hot—two guards, both down and restrained. Blade's securing the main floor." Axel's voice was clipped, efficient. "Watch yourselves up there."
The stairs creaked under our weight despite our careful steps.
Tank took point this time, his bulk blocking my line of sight but also any potential threat from above.
I watched his back—the broad shoulders, the controlled way he moved despite his size—and felt something twist in my chest that had nothing to do with fear.
Focus.
The mezzanine opened onto a larger space than I'd expected—a proper office suite, glass walls looking down over the warehouse floor below.
I could see Blade and Irish moving between shipping containers, their flashlight beams cutting through the darkness like searching fingers.
Below them, crates stacked bore familiar markings—the same pharmaceutical codes we'd seen in the intercepted shipment. This was it. The distribution hub.
Three men sat at a table in the center of the office, playing cards. Maps on the walls showed delivery routes across three states. A whiteboard listed shipment dates and quantities. They'd gotten comfortable here, confident no one would touch them.
They looked up as we entered.
Time slowed.
The closest one went for his gun—a mistake. I closed the distance in two steps, grabbed his wrist, twisted until I heard the joint pop. His weapon clattered to the floor. I swept his legs and put him down hard, knee in his spine before he could recover.
Tank had the second man against the wall, forearm across his throat, lifting him onto his toes. The third scrambled backward, hands up, terror written across his face in capital letters.
"Please—" The word came out strangled, desperate. "Please, I'm just a driver, I don't know anything—"
"On your knees." I kept my voice flat, commanding. "Now."
The driver dropped immediately, hands still raised. Tank released his man, who crumpled to the floor gasping. I zip-tied the one I'd taken down first—wrists behind his back, cinched tight enough to bite—then moved to the driver while Tank secured the third.