Chapter 32
Raffe watched from a distance as the truck rumbled into the clearing and parked, its headlights cutting through the damp, cold night before snapping off. Then—stillness. No movement. No sound but the cooling tick of the engine.
The driver wasn’t stupid. He stayed inside, scanning the tree line, surveying shadows like a man who knew predators were out there. Raffe admired that caution. But after years of running undercover operations, he could smell nerves even from fifty yards away. The man was stalling.
“Stay on hold,” the driver muttered into his burner phone, his voice carrying just enough for the surveillance mic to pick it up. “We need to make sure he’s alone.”
Raffe’s mouth curled. Alone? Not tonight.
It was possible the driver had been told to just park, kill the engine, and walk away. That was one of the criminal world’s favorite tricks: no faces, no names, no witnesses, no testimony. Clean handoffs.
But the Montana crew—the Bear Creek Gang—weren’t exactly subtle. They liked to test merchandise. And testing usually came with backup. Guns. Muscle. Rage.
That’s why Raffe had eyes everywhere. One team watching the roads, another running the drones overhead with heat-seeking tech sweeping the perimeter. His takedown crew lay in the shadows, silent and armed, while the drive-away team sat primed with keys ready.
He hated holding back. Every muscle in his body wanted to be in the front, slamming the driver against the truck hood, feeling the cuffs snap shut.
But as team leader, he needed to stay back, monitoring every moving piece.
He’d promised himself when he went undercover that the only thing more important than his cover was the mission.
Twenty minutes passed. Finally, the driver slumped back in his seat. Waiting. Probably figuring his buyers were late.
“Move,” Raffe ordered into the mic. His voice was a low growl, clipped with authority.
The forest came alive with ghosts. His ghosts.
Ten minutes later, the driver was down, wrists locked tight in steel. No shots fired. No alarms raised. Smooth and quiet. Just the way Raffe demanded. The drive-away team slid into the cab, fired up the truck, and rolled out.
“Status,” Raffe demanded, though he already knew.
A voice crackled back. “Package secure. Over a thousand weapons, plenty of ammo.”
Bianchi’s payday—gone in one sweep.
Raffe allowed himself the barest hint of a smile. Half a million in firepower, lifted right out from under one of the most dangerous crime families in the Midwest. That would hurt.
And then it got better.
Headlights appeared. Two motorcycles tearing down the road, followed by a dented pickup truck. The Montana boys. Bear Creek muscle. They parked haphazardly, boots hitting gravel as they fanned out, peering into the shadows.
“Where the hell is this ass?” one of them shouted, voice echoing off the trees.
Raffe crouched deeper into the brush, watching, waiting.
More curses. Then a man yanked out his phone and jabbed a finger at the screen. “Bianchi,” he barked. “Where the hell is our merchandise?”
Silence. The kind of silence that confirmed more than words ever could.
Raffe’s pulse thrummed. Perfect.
The bikers paced, gesturing wildly, tempers flaring. A few more snarls, then engines roared back to life, the men retreating down the dirt road, their fury palpable even as the night swallowed their tail lights.
“Confirmation,” one of Raffe’s drone operators whispered. “They’re heading straight north. My guess? To find Bianchi.”
Raffe leaned against a tree, arms folded across his broad chest, the predator in him savoring the victory. Bianchi had promised a delivery. The Montana gang had shown up. And now they were leaving empty-handed and pissed. Which meant Enrico Bianchi would have to answer for the loss.
“Wrap it up,” Raffe said into his mic, voice low but sure. “We’ve stirred the hornet’s nest enough tonight.”
Laughter crackled back through the comms, but it wasn’t careless laughter. It was relief. Triumph. His people had done the impossible. Again.
The forest shifted as men emerged from their hiding spots, shadows reforming into soldiers. The takedown had been clean, efficient. Exactly how Raffe liked it.
A half hour later, he pushed through the doors of the safehouse headquarters. His stride was steady, but inside, adrenaline still buzzed through his veins.
One more strike against Bianchi. One more nail in the coffin of the family empire.
And Raffe wasn’t going to stop until the whole rotten dynasty was buried.