2. Hawk
Hawk
Rain comes down like God’s pissed off at the world, turning the abandoned gas station parking lot into a minefield of puddles and broken asphalt.
I stand under what’s left of the overhang, water dripping through holes in the rusted metal above my head, and try to ignore the feeling in my gut that says this whole thing is about to go sideways.
Twenty years in Satan’s Reapers has taught me to trust that feeling.
“These buyers are late,” Razor says from my left, his voice barely audible over the rain hammering down around us. He’s got his arms crossed, shaved head already soaked, water running down the burn scars on his left arm in rivulets. His dark eyes scan the road, the trees, the shadows.
“They said ten fifteen.” Shadow leans against one of the support posts, shoulder-length silver-blonde hair plastered to his skull, looking more relaxed than any man about to make an illegal weapons deal should look.
But that’s Shadow. He’s cool under pressure, and his charm is dialed up even when there’s nobody to charm. “We’re early.”
I check my watch. 10:08.
We are early. Got here at nine forty-five, scouted the location, positioned the bikes for a quick exit if needed, but something about this whole setup feels wrong.
“You get a look at these guys before?” I ask Shadow. He’s the one who set up the meet through a contact in Knoxville. Supposed to be a clean deal. Cash for weapons, no complications, everybody walks away happy.
“Just talked to the contact on the phone. Said his buyers were serious, had the cash, wanted military-grade hardware.” Shadow shrugs, but I catch the tension in his shoulders. He feels it too. “Contact vouched for them. Said they’d done business before.”
“And you trust this contact?”
“Trusted him enough to set up the meet.”
That’s not the same thing as yes.
Behind us, four other Satan’s Reapers members are unloading the merchandise from the van.
Matteo—road name “Tiny” even though he’s six foot five and built like a brick shithouse—sets a crate down on the folding table we’ve set up under the overhang.
Brett and Knife flank him, both of them looking as uneasy as I feel.
“Boss,” Tiny says, nodding at the guns now laid out on the table. AR-15s, Glocks, a couple of shotguns, ammunition. Nothing too crazy, but enough to get us all thrown in federal prison if this goes wrong. “We’re set.”
I walk over to inspect the merchandise. Everything looks clean. The serial numbers are filed off, and there are no traceable markings.
Razor moves up beside me, keeping his voice low. “You want to call it off?”
I consider it. That gut feeling is getting louder and insistent. But we need this deal. The club’s been hemorrhaging money since the Feds started sniffing around our other operations. This weapons sale could keep us afloat for another six months.
“We’re here,” I say finally. “Let’s see what happens.”
Razor nods, but his jaw tightens. He doesn’t like it either.
Shadow’s phone buzzes. He pulls it out, checks the screen as water drips onto the glass. “Contact says they’re five minutes out.”
“Everyone, stay sharp,” I tell the group. “Something feels off. Razor, you hang back by the bikes. If this goes bad, we need someone mobile.”
Razor doesn’t argue, just peels off and positions himself near the motorcycles, one hand resting casually on his hip where I know he’s got a Glock tucked in his waistband.
Minutes tick by. Rain keeps falling. I light a cigarette, more for something to do with my hands than because I want it. Smoke mixes with the rain, dissipating into nothing.
Shadow’s watching the road. Tiny and the others are trying to look casual, like we’re not standing in an abandoned gas station at night with enough illegal weapons to start a small war.
Then I see headlights.
Two vehicles. A black SUV in front, a sedan behind it. Both of them are too clean. They pull into the lot slowly, as if assessing the situation before committing.
“Here we go,” Shadow mutters.
The SUV parks about thirty feet away. The sedan stops behind it. Engines cut. For a long moment, nobody gets out.
I take a drag of my cigarette and wait.
Finally, doors open. Four men emerge from the SUV, two from the sedan. Six total. They’re wearing dark jackets—regular jackets, and jeans. One of them has a briefcase. Another has a duffel bag.
Something still feels off. Can’t put my finger on it exactly. Just a feeling in my gut that says these guys aren’t what they claim to be.
“Shadow,” I say quietly.
“Yeah, I see it.”
The guy with the briefcase steps forward. He’s mid-thirties, with clean-cut, short dark hair, the type of face that wouldn’t stand out in a crowd. Which is probably the point.
“Evening,” he calls out over the rain. “Sorry we’re late. Weather’s a bitch.”
His accent is neutral. It could be from anywhere, which is another red flag.
“You got the cash?” I ask, not bothering with pleasantries.
He holds up the briefcase. “All here. You got the merchandise?”
I gesture to the table behind me. “Everything we discussed.”
He nods to one of his guys, who starts walking toward us. I tense, watching his hands. The guy moves like military. Straight posture, controlled steps, eyes taking in everything.
Definitely not a street buyer.
“Hold up,” I say, raising one hand. “Your boy can look, but nobody touches until we see the cash.”
The leader—or at least the guy doing the talking—smiles. “Fair enough.”
His man stops at the table, looks over the weapons, and picks up one of the Glocks to check the chamber.
“Looks good,” he says to his boss.
“Excellent.” The leader steps forward, setting the briefcase down on a dry section of concrete. He opens it and turns it so we can see.
Cash. Stacks of hundreds, neatly bundled.
Looks real enough, but standing here in the rain trying to verify serial numbers isn’t an option.
Shadow moves closer to inspect the money. I keep my eyes on the other buyers. They’re spread out now, flanking us in a loose semicircle. Casual, like they’re not doing it on purpose.
But they are.
This is a setup.
I catch Razor’s eye across the lot. He’s seen it too. His hand moves fractionally closer to his weapon.
“Looks good to me,” Shadow says, but his tone says otherwise.
I’m about to call the whole thing off, tell these bastards to take their money and get lost, when I see headlights.
A car limps into the parking lot from the other direction. Honda Civic, fifteen years old if it’s a day, smoke billowing from under the hood, dragging something metal underneath. It sounds like it’s about to explode. One headlight is out. The front right tire is shredded.
And it’s heading straight for us.
“The hell?” Tiny says.
The car’s barely moving now, coasting more than driving. It shudders to a stop, maybe twenty feet from our position, right between us and the buyers.
Worst possible place.
Through the rain-streaked windshield, I can see the driver.
She’s staring at us. At the guns on the table. At the money.
Fuck.
“Who the hell is that?” one of the buyers asks, his hand moving inside his jacket.
“Nobody,” Shadow says quickly. “Just someone with car trouble. We’ll handle it.”
But the woman’s not moving. She’s just sitting there in her dead car, phone to her ear, staring at us like she’s trying to figure out if she’s dreaming or if this is real.
The buyers are looking at each other now, having some kind of silent conversation. The leader’s face has gone hard.
“We need to move,” Razor’s voice cuts through on the radio clipped to my vest. “Now.”
He’s right. But a witness complicates everything. If she talks to the Feds and identifies us, the whole club goes down. We can’t leave her here to be interrogated.
I’m about to move toward her car when more headlights appear. Motorcycles. At least six of them, roaring into the lot from the main road, engines loud enough to cut through the storm.
I recognize the bikes immediately.
Ruthless Saints.
“Shit,” Shadow breathes.
This just went from bad to catastrophic.
The Ruthless Saints bikes form a line across the entrance to the lot, blocking the exit. Six riders, all wearing their cuts, all staring at us.
One of them cuts his engine and pulls off his helmet. “Well, well,” he calls out. “Satan’s Reapers doing business on our territory. That’s real disrespectful.”
“This isn’t your territory,” I call back. “This lot’s been neutral ground for ten years.”
“Not anymore.” He grins. “Everything north of the interstate belongs to us now. Didn’t you get the memo?”
This is about to get bloody.
The buyers are backing toward their vehicles. One of them is talking into a radio. The leader’s hand is definitely inside his jacket now, gripping something.
“Nobody moves!” a voice shouts from behind one of the SUVs.
Then everything goes to hell.
The buyer I thought was military pulls a badge. Actually pulls a fucking badge and holds it up. “ATF! Everyone on the ground! Now!”
Oh, you have got to be kidding me.
“Feds!” Tiny shouts, already moving.
The Ruthless Saints rev their engines, some of them pulling weapons. The ATF agents are shouting, more of them emerging from the vehicles than I thought possible. How many did they have stuffed in there?
Shadow’s running for the van. Razor’s already on his bike, engine roaring to life. Tiny and the others are scattering.
And the woman in the Honda is still sitting there, frozen, right in the middle of the clusterfuck.
A gunshot cracks through the rain and then another follows, and another after that, until the night is split open by sound. Muzzle flash flares from the ATF’s position, bright orange against the dark, and the Ruthless Saints answer back as engines rev and someone shouts over the chaos.
Our guys scatter while bullets tear through the air.
One punches through the metal overhang above my head with a sharp ping that sends a spike of noise straight into my ears.
I drop behind the support post as wood explodes next to my face, splinters biting my cheek, and the smell of gunpowder cuts through the rain, sharp and acrid.