Chapter Twenty-Six
Edge
The warehouse deep in one of the old industrial sections of Jacksonville is the perfect place for an ambush. The bastard who took our women obviously knows what our weakness is and wants to exploit it. We could be walking straight into a trap, but we have no other choice.
We park our bikes out front, because why not announce our arrival? They had to know we were coming. Steel nods to Wraith, who for once is silent. He casts a sidelong glance at me, and then at Tracker, who stands beside him.
“You bastards ready?”
“Fucking ready to fuck some shit up,” Wraith grinds out.
“You idiot,” I correct under my breath. “Not going to be fucking anything or anyone up while they have our women. Is that clear?”
Wraith finally nods. Steel runs a hand through his long, dark hair.
The few hours that it took us to get our shit together and ride out to Jacksonville haven’t improved his mood.
He’s a ball of fury clad in leather and denim, no different than the rest of us, but wilder, less contained, the rage emanating from him in hot, violent waves.
The warehouse is non-descript. Just another run-down, metal building that’s rusted from the elements and it’s hard as hell to see any details this late at night.
There could be a hundred men hiding along the rooflines, which stand more than fifteen feet in the air at the lowest point and range to probably thirty or forty at the tallest. The place, unlike most warehouses, doesn’t have much of a yard or compound.
It’s impossible to guess at what might be inside. Or rather, who. And how many.
We could be shot dead on the spot, but then again, if the club wanted us dead, why go to the trouble of taking our women and leaving a note?
They could have come at any time to Helena, in broad fucking daylight if they wanted to, and gunned us down.
Us, our women, our children. No. Obviously they want something.
“Move out, then.” Steel waves his hand in the air and we flank him, Tracker on one side, Wraith on the other. I trail behind them, because there isn’t any way that Steel wants me at his side, no matter our uneasy truce.
We walk right up the rusted out metal door.
It’s no surprise when it cracks open and a big, ugly, goon who probably tops seven feet, swaggers out.
He’s holding a semi-automatic across his leather clad chest. He looks just like us, minus the stench of being a huge fucking asshole that he wears around him like a mantle.
“We came to see your Prez,” Steel grinds out, and I can tell that it kills him to have to barter with this piece of shit. “You gonna let us in or not?”
“Remove your weapons,” the ugly motherfucker grinds out, “and you’ll be taken to his office.”
“His office?” Wraith chokes. “In this dump?”
The guy shoots him a look, but Wraith crosses his arms. “You expect us to remove our guns so that you can put a bullet in our heads as soon as we do?”
“If we wanted to put a bullet in your head, princess, we would’ve done it already,” the man sneers.
Pretty much what I figured.
I move first, my hand sliding to the small of my back as I pull my piece. Steel’s right behind me, clearing both guns from the inside holster under his jacket. To my surprise, Wraith drops three onto the table without a word. Tracker’s only got the one.
That earns us a few looks.
Another black-clad goon steps in, then another. They strip our weapons and disappear with them as two more take their place. Same look on all of them—ugly, thick-necked, muscle-packed, cropped hair, dressed in black like it’s a fuckin’ uniform.
We’re marched through the warehouse, past stacked crates and pallets, bagged product that sure as shit ain’t weed. There’s an old catwalk circling the place, guards lining it shoulder to shoulder, guns slung or in hand, watching us like they’re hoping we make a bad move.
They take us down a hall to an office shoved into the back.
Door’s open. Inside, behind a desk that’s way too clean for a dump like this, sits a man in his late fifties—maybe older.
Average height, barrel chest gone soft with age.
He’s got faded tattoos, long, stringy dark hair that’s streaked with gray.
However, his eyes are sharp and calculating.
We stop in front of the desk. Two guards press in behind us so close I can feel the ghost of a gun barrel at my ribs.
The bastard doesn’t stand.
“I’ll get right to it,” he says, folding his hands on the desk. “I brought you here because this conversation doesn’t happen without leverage. Otherwise, it would’ve ended in blood on both sides.”
Steel snorts. “You’re not wrong.”
“I’ve got your women,” the man says calmly. “They’re unharmed. What I want is a trade. Non-negotiable, if you want them back breathing.”
Steel stiffens. Wraith shifts. I fold my arms, the leather creaking—it’s my spare jacket, not my real cut. I never thought I’d need it again.
“I’ve got your woman and daughter,” he continues, his eyes never leaving Steel. “And one other woman tied to your club. You don’t have the advantage here.”
“What kind of fuckin’ trade?” Steel growls.
The man smiles, slow and oily. “I don’t think we’ve been formally introduced. The name’s Viking, I’m Prez of Devil’s Slaves. We’re a newer club—at least officially. We’ve been here a long time. But thanks to you gettin’ rid of the dead weight, we found our market.”
Wraith goes still. I clock it. Steel Riders removing Black County Sinners allowed Viking and his crew to move in.
“We’ve moved up fast,” Viking continues. “And now I’m looking at your patch, your territory, and wondering why you’re still operatin’ like you’re untouchable.”
Steel crosses his arms. “You’re not getting Helena.”
Viking chuckles. “Did I say anything about wanting that shithole? I don’t need Helena.
” He leans back. “I know that you have operations around Jacksonville. Warehouses. Grow ops. If you want to keep the current peace, you’ll strike up a deal here and now.
An alliance of sorts. We want in. We want to expand our operations.
I need what you’ve got—more warehouses, more men, more territory.
What I want is obedience. Cooperation. Maybe even a correction.
Your women are in my hands. Your men are standing unarmed in my warehouse.
Seems to me this would be a good time to talk about who rides under what colors. ”
The air shifts.
“You’re saying patch over,” Steel says flatly.
“I’m saying it’s an option,” Viking replies. “Steel Riders fold into my club. My flag flies higher. You answer to me.”
Steel takes one step forward. The guards tense.
“Ain’t happening.” His voice is steady and I’ve seen that look in his eyes before. I glance around. I honestly don’t know what other options are left.
And that’s when Wraith moves.
There’s a soft click. Suddenly Wraith’s got a gun pressed to Viking’s temple. I damn near smile. The fucker already gave up three guns. Where the hell did he keep this one?
“No,” Wraith says quietly. “That’s not how this goes.”
For once I’m glad the bastard marches to the beat of his own drummer.
He might not be Prez of his old club anymore, and he might have been prospecting with the Riders for the past two years, but I can see that we all underestimated the fucker.
Now he’s clean, he’s dangerous. Thank fuck he’s on our side.
The room freezes. Viking’s men move forward with their guns raised, but nobody fires.
Viking doesn’t move. Slowly, his eyes flick sideways.
“Well,” he says after a beat. “That’s unexpected.”
“Patch-over talk’s done,” Steel says calmly. “Now we negotiate.”
Viking exhales through his nose. “Fine. Then here’s the deal I was willing to make before you forced my hand.”
He straightens. “Like I said, you keep Helena. I get warehouse access. One permanent. Three shared. My men move product through your territory. You get paid. I’ll keep on doing what I’m doing, because it works well for us.
We have a few joints, casinos, strip clubs, whatever—that we funnel our money through.
You’ll be compensated for the use of your warehouse, and we’ll stay the fuck out of Helena. ”
Steel snorts. “That’s all you wanted? You could have just fucking called a meeting with me and asked the nice way. There’s this device, called a fucking phone. Could have got on that and fucking used it. Didn’t need to shoot our bar up or take our women.”
“And,” Viking adds, “there’s one more thing.”
My stomach tightens.
Wraith growls, the gun never leaving Viking’s head.
Steel’s jaw tightens. “You threaten my family again—”
“I took three of your women,” Viking says. “Just so happens I have three daughters. Sons are good. Son will go to war for you, follow you into business, but daughters—they’re a different breed. A liability. Being unattached, they weaken and threaten everything I’m doing here.”
I guess I can see the guy’s point, though I think he’s overdoing it.
He continues, “I want your agreement that three of your men will marry my three daughters.”
“What!” I exclaim. Because unless I’m misunderstanding, he’s suggesting marrying off his daughters like he’s some kind of medieval warlord. A warlord who’s currently got a gun pointed at his skull.
“My men are free to do what they want,” Steel mutters.
“Put it to a vote,” Viking suggests. “I’m not just offering my woman. I’m offering a business opportunity.
“I’m gonna need you to elaborate,” Steel says.
Viking rolls his shoulders. “Your reputation precedes you. It was part of the reason we targeted your club. You’re in a strategic location.
You’re not a part of Jacksonville, yet you are.
My daughters marry into your club, we’re family.
And family looks out for each other. Your men will be based here, in Jacksonville.
Do the shipments and help move product and oversee the harvesting of it.
It only makes sense that we could help with that. Share the burden.”