Chapter 10
Trauma was still at the diner—had barely slept since Wednesday, hadn't wanted to leave Amy alone even with the cameras and the coverage—when his phone buzzed with Recon's number.
"We've got movement." Recon's voice was flat, professional. "South side warehouse on Bragg Boulevard. Clint Embry's coordinating something big."
"How big?"
"Six crew members. Weapons staging. Multiple vehicles being loaded." A pause. "Looks like they're planning to hit the compound."
Trauma's blood went cold.
Amy was asleep in the back office, curled up on the couch where they'd spent the last two nights. If Kyle's crew hit the compound while the brothers were scattered across protection details—
"When?"
"Staging suggests tonight. Maybe tomorrow. They're still loading."
"Then we hit them first."
Legion called the strike team together in fifteen minutes.
Five bikes, five brothers—Legion, Ghost, Forge, Cargo, and Trauma. They gathered in the compound parking lot, engines idling, breath fogging in the pre-dawn cold.
"Warehouse is a converted storage facility," Recon briefed through the radio. "Main entrance faces Bragg Boulevard. Secondary access through a loading dock on the east side. Six hostiles confirmed, possibly more inside."
"Weapons?" Legion asked.
"Handguns. At least two long rifles. They're not expecting trouble."
"They're about to get it." Legion turned to the team. "Ghost and Forge take the main entrance. Cargo and Trauma hit the loading dock. I'll coordinate from the east perimeter and handle anyone who runs."
"Rules of engagement?"
"Protect the compound. Protect our people." Legion's eyes were hard. "Anyone who's holding a weapon when we breach isn't walking out."
No one argued.
Trauma pulled out his phone and sent a single text to Static, who was posted at the diner: Stay with her. Don't leave until I call.
The response came back immediately: Copy.
He put away the phone and kicked his bike to life.
Time to go to work.
The warehouse loomed against the Carolina pines, a squat rectangle of corrugated metal and concrete that had probably held farm equipment in a previous life.
Now it held men who wanted to hurt his people.
Trauma and Cargo dismounted fifty yards from the loading dock, leaving their bikes in the tree line. The pre-dawn darkness provided cover as they moved through the underbrush, weapons drawn.
"Visual on the dock," Cargo murmured. "One hostile. Smoking."
Trauma saw him—a thick-necked crew member leaning against the warehouse wall, cigarette glowing orange in the shadows. Oblivious. Bored.
Not for long.
"Ghost, Forge—status?" Legion's voice came through the radio.
"In position. Main entrance clear."
"Breach in thirty seconds. On my mark."
Trauma counted down in his head. Twenty-five. Twenty. Fifteen.
The cigarette-smoking hostile yawned, scratched his chest, and turned to walk back inside.
Cargo moved.
He was across the distance in three seconds, silent as a shadow. The hostile didn't even have time to drop his cigarette before Cargo's arm wrapped around his throat and squeezed. A quiet struggle. A softer collapse.
One down.
"Mark."
The warehouse exploded into chaos.
The main entrance went first—Forge's breaching charge turning the door into shrapnel. Trauma heard the blast, heard the shouts of confusion, and moved.
The loading dock was secured with a padlock that took two seconds to defeat. Cargo yanked the door open and Trauma went through first, weapon up, scanning for targets.
The warehouse interior was a maze of shelving units and stacked crates. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting harsh shadows. Somewhere deeper in the building, gunfire erupted—Ghost and Forge engaging the main group.
"Contact left!" Cargo called.
Trauma pivoted. Two hostiles rounding a shelving unit, weapons drawn, eyes wide with surprise.
He dropped the first with a double-tap to center mass. Cargo took the second before the man could raise his gun.
Three down. At least four more.
They moved through the warehouse in practiced formation—Trauma leading, Cargo covering the rear. The sounds of the firefight echoed off metal walls, punctuated by shouts and screams.
A hostile appeared from behind a forklift, swinging a rifle toward Trauma's chest.
Too slow.
Trauma closed the distance before the man could fire, grabbed the rifle barrel, and wrenched it sideways. The weapon discharged into the ceiling. Trauma drove his elbow into the hostile's throat, felt cartilage collapse, and kept moving.
Four down.
"Main floor clear!" Ghost's voice crackled through the radio. "Two down here. We've got runners heading for the back office."
"I see them." Legion's response was calm. "Intercepting."
Trauma and Cargo pushed toward the back of the warehouse, where a makeshift office had been constructed from plywood and sheet metal. Through a gap in the wall, he could see movement—two figures, maybe three, scrambling for a rear exit.
"Cargo—flank right. I'll take the door."
"Copy."
Trauma hit the office door at full speed.
Clint Embry was inside.
Kyle's coordinator stood behind a folding table covered with maps, phones, and a laptop. His face was pale, his hands shaking as he reached for the pistol at his belt.
"Don't," Trauma said.
Clint drew anyway.
The shot went wide—panic stealing his aim. Trauma crossed the room in two strides and slammed the pistol from his hand, sending it spinning across the concrete floor.
"Where's Kyle?"
"I don't—I'm not—"
Trauma grabbed him by the collar and slammed him against the wall. "Where is he?"
"He's not here! He's never here!" Clint's voice cracked. "He stays mobile, rotates locations, never the same place twice—"
"The assault on the compound. Whose idea?"
"Kyle's! He wanted to send a message, show that woman she couldn't hide behind—"
Trauma hit him.
The punch split Clint's lip, snapped his head back, sent blood spraying across the plywood wall.
"What woman?"
"The diner bitch! Amy!" Clint was sobbing now, blood and tears mixing on his face. "Kyle's obsessed with her. Won't let it go. Says she owes him everything—"
"She owes him nothing."
"Tell that to Kyle! He's got Jarrett planning something, something worse than this—"
Gunfire erupted from somewhere to the right. Cargo's voice came through the radio: "Two runners down. Building's clear."
Trauma looked at Clint Embry—Kyle's coordinator, his logistics man, the brain that kept the crew running smooth. The man who'd planned an assault on the compound. Who'd spoken Amy's name like she was property.
"The compound's not your target anymore," Trauma said quietly.
"What?"
"It's mine."
He pulled his sidearm and put a round through Clint's chest.
The coordinator slid down the wall, leaving a smear of blood on the plywood. His mouth worked, trying to form words that never came.
Trauma watched him die.
Didn't feel a thing.
The warehouse went quiet.
Trauma walked out of the office to find his brothers gathered in the main bay, weapons holstered, assessing the damage. Four bodies on the floor. Two more near the loading dock.
"Casualties?" Legion asked.
"None of ours." Trauma holstered his weapon. "Clint's dead. The rest scattered into the pines when they saw which way it was going."
"They'll run back to Kyle."
"Let them. He'll know we're coming for him now."
Ghost emerged from the shadows, blood on his hands that wasn't his. "Found their staging area. Weapons, ammo, tactical gear. They were planning a full assault."
"On the compound?"
"On the compound, the diner, anywhere they thought we'd be soft." Ghost shook his head. "They had maps. Photos. Intel on our coverage rotations."
"Someone's been watching us."
"Not anymore." Forge kicked a dead hostile's boot. "Hard to watch when you're dead."
Legion surveyed the warehouse—the bodies, the blood, the evidence of an assault that would never happen now. His expression was unreadable.
"Strip the weapons. Burn the intel. Leave the bodies." He turned to Trauma. "Kyle's going to respond to this."
"I'm counting on it."
"When he does, we'll be ready." Legion clapped him on the shoulder. "Good work tonight. The compound's safe because of what happened here."
"The compound's safe for now." Trauma looked toward the warehouse exit, toward the diner three miles away where Amy was sleeping under Static's watch. "Kyle's still out there. This isn't over until he's in the ground."
"Agreed." Legion started toward his bike. "But tonight, we celebrate a victory. Tomorrow, we plan for the next fight."
The brothers mounted up, engines roaring to life. The warehouse sat silent behind them—six bodies cooling in the Carolina darkness, a message written in blood that Kyle Lawson couldn't ignore.
Your coordinator is dead. Your assault failed. We're coming for you next.
Trauma rode for the diner.
He had someone who needed to know he was still breathing.