Chapter Eight.
Preach grunted as he pressed the loaded barbell toward the ceiling.
Thick veins snaked across his tattooed forearms as he locked his elbows, held the weight for a moment, then lowered it to his chest with effortless force.
Sweat dripped from his hairline, tracing down the sides of his face and dreadlocks, soaking the black bench beneath him.
After completing his final rep, the guard spotting him helped guide the bar onto the rack.
The steel clanged against the hooks, echoing throughout the private gym.
“Boss.” Dimitri called, stepping inside.
Preach reached for the towel beside him and wiped his face before sitting upright. “What?”
“I have news from Jean. Evans and Winston’s head was delivered to the club. The Knights opened fire right after.”
Preach’s anger erupted. The water bottle in his hand flew across the room, hitting the wall and splattering water everywhere.
He surged from the bench so quickly that it rocked back.
Dimitri instinctively stepped aside. He had worked for Preach long enough to recognize the dangerous silence that preceded his worst temper.
“How the fuck did that happen? How did they get close enough to pull this off?”
“Jean said Crown sent someone to deliver it…a woman. She blended in as a regular guest at the club. The heads were found in her large handbag during a routine search by security outside.”
“And this woman…where is she?”
“Before security could alert our men, the Knights drove by and opened fire, killing both. She was a distraction, sir. She escaped during the chaos. We have no idea who she was or what she looks like. Jean said he tried running the footage, but it’s too blurry.”
“Malpwòp sa yo…” Preach snapped, his voice reverberating off the walls. “What’s the damage?”
“They flooded the whole street. Our men held their own, but we lost seven. There’s significant damage to the club as well.”
Preach stared at Dimitri as the number settled into his mind.
He reached for one of the wraps around his wrist and slowly began peeling the damp material away.
Fourteen men had been assigned to protect that club, which meant the Knights had wiped out half of them in a single attack.
Seven trained soldiers, gone. Seven families that would need money for survival and a proper burial.
That didn’t even include Benjamin, Evan, and Winston.
Preach tossed the wrap onto the bench and turned toward the wall, thinking.
He had never wanted this war because he had known exactly what kind of conflict it would bring, among other reasons.
But here they were. At the end of the day, he still swore a man like Crown was beneath him.
After all, the Dessalinés Mob had been the Knight’s supplier, not the other way around.
The Dessalinés Mob wasn’t feared for nothing.
They were known for snatching a nigga’s bitch or children in broad daylight and making entire families disappear.
They had put holes in mothers and grandmothers when somebody needed to learn a lesson.
Hell, they would kill one of their own without hesitation if the survival of the organization demanded it.
“Get every fuckin’ spot locked down. Corners, clubs, trap houses. Double security everywhere until I figure out our next move.”
“Yes, sir. Of course. But…” Dimitri’s voice trailed off as his gaze fell to the water spreading across the floor, silently hoping it wouldn’t be his blood next for delivering another blow.
Preach slowly turned away from the wall, focusing on him. Dimitri had reported seven dead men without stumbling over a word. Whatever had made him hesitate now had to be significant.
“Pale, Dimitri. But what?”
“Fritz also called. The main stash house got hit, too.”
The room suddenly grew quiet. In one swift motion, Preach was across the room, snatching Dimitri by the collar and pressing him into the wall.
“What the fuck do you mean hit?”
“F…Fritz said it looks like they t…took the money…and burned the product.”
Preach’s mind initially rejected the words, searching for a flaw in what Dimitri had said.
How the fuck did Crown find out about that stash house?
Nobody outside his trusted circle knew its location.
The property had no ties to his name, clubs, or any businesses used to launder money.
Only the men assigned to protect it understood what lay behind those walls.
Then his thoughts settled on one person.
Se Benjamin. Malpwòp la te pale.
The realization moved through Preach with enough force to make the muscles near his temple jump. Benjamin had folded. The ungrateful muthafucka had sung the moment pressure had been applied, giving Crown access to a location that had taken time and money to secure from the Feds.
The stash house had held millions in cash, along with one of the largest portions of their latest shipment.
Crown hadn’t just robbed him; he had targeted the one place capable of crippling multiple parts of the organization at once.
Every package burned represented territory that could no longer be supplied, and profit that would never reach the streets.
Dealers would start seeking other sources within days, and once loyalty shifted in that business, it was almost impossible to regain.
The cash created an even bigger problem.
Part of it had been collected from their clubs, gambling spots, and other operations, while the rest came from product they had already moved.
That money was meant to fund the next shipment, pay his soldiers, support the families of fallen men, keep officials in his pocket, and cover the organization’s daily expenses.
Crown had taken all of it, leaving Preach exposed in ways bullets never could.
This was the second major loss Preach had suffered after authorities seized one of his shipments months earlier.
His connect had already started questioning whether the Dessalinés Mob still controlled its operation.
Returning with another explanation for why he couldn’t pay for the next shipment would make him look careless, unstable, and weak.
If nothing else could humble Preach’s ego, that did.
His connect could cut him off completely, stripping away the power and reputation Preach’s family had spent years building.
Worse, they could decide the mob had become a liability and send men to erase the problem before law enforcement reached them.
Preach would no longer be fighting only the Knights.
He would have enemies coming from both sides while his organization bled money in the middle.
“Madichon,” Preach mumbled, throwing Dimitri aside like a rag doll.
Preach wanted to put a bullet through Crown’s head, but he also had beef with his big brother and Gunner. Loki was the one who had pushed this war into motion with the Ravens when he had repeatedly warned him to stand down.
Loki’s need for revenge had now cost them men, product, millions of dollars, and possibly their connection to the organization that kept them supplied.
The situation had gotten deep too fast, and Preach knew there was no legal business, street operation, or hidden reserve that could replace all that money in time to reup.
“M ap touye malpwòp sa. Get ready. We takin’ a ride to the Ravens’ clubhouse.”
Dimitri nodded, then turned toward the door to prepare the car.
As he stepped out, Preach gripped the hem of his soaked wife-beater and pulled it over his head, tossing it onto the floor.
One of his guards stepped forward with a towel, and Preach wiped the sweat from his chest, neck, and face before throwing it back into the man’s hands.
The other guard then held open a bulletproof vest next, helping him secure it tightly around his torso before passing him a clean black shirt to cover it.
Preach slid his arms through the sleeves and tugged the fabric into place, changing from a man finishing a workout into one preparing to go handle business.
∞∞∞
As planned, Preach’s first destination had been the Ravens’ new clubhouse, but the building was empty when he arrived.
There were no members or bikes in sight, leaving the place looking less like a clubhouse and more like a building its occupants had abandoned in a hurry.
That had told Preach all he needed to know.
Gunner was running instead of facing him like a man, and the thought made his blood boil.
Preach couldn’t stand bitch-made niggas.
Play pussy, get fucked had always been his motto, and he was more than ready to fuck Gunner up.
In fact, he was the first nigga on his hit list. Preach’s instincts had warned him not to do business with him from the beginning.
He should have trusted that feeling instead of allowing Loki to convince him otherwise.
But that was fine. Preach knew he’d track Gunner down with the addresses he’d got from a PI on his payroll.
First stop was Gunner’s mother’s house. She swore she hadn’t seen her son, even after Preach gave her multiple chances to change her story. Her boyfriend fucked up by reaching for a gun, and by the time Preach and his men walked out, neither of them was still breathing.
Next up was Gunner’s grandmother. She spat near Preach’s shoes and called him every devil in the book, trying to defend the grandson who had brought violence to her doorstep. Preach didn’t give a fuck. He sent a bullet through her head, too.
Then there was Gunner’s sister, Abby. She tried to bolt out the back when Preach and his men showed up. They caught her and managed to squeeze out some info that nobody else had given him. But in the end, Preach didn’t let her walk away either.