Perfect for what we’re about to do.
I shift my weight against the brick wall, my poker chip moving between my fingers in that familiar rhythm. Flip, catch, flip. The cold metal grounds me, keeps my thoughts sharp. Around me, my brothers are positioned like chess pieces. Bear on the roof with a clear sightline, Nitro covering the south exit, Deek and Koa blocking the north. Ghost is tucked inside a surveillance van half a block away, surrounded by monitors and recording equipment that would make the NSA jealous.
“Visual on the target?” I murmur into the comm, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Clear,” Bear’s rumble comes through. “No movement yet.”
Maria’s voice cuts in, professional and controlled. “My team is in position. Three unmarked vehicles, east perimeter. We wait for the signal.”
I glance toward the news van parked at a safe distance, camera crew inside. The legitimate journalist, Jake Morrison, some hotshot investigative reporter Victoria vouched for, is already setting up. His crew checks equipment, adjusts angles, and prepares to broadcast whatever goes down.
This has to be clean. Public. Undeniable. No room for Rourke to weasel out of this one.
“Brothers ready?” I ask quietly.
“Ready, Pres,” Nitro confirms, tension threading through his tone.
“Ghost?”
“Recording equipment is live. Multiple angles. Audio is crystal clear. We’re golden.” There’s a pause. “Pres, this is it. Everything we’ve worked for.”
I pocket the chip, my jaw tightening. “Marcus deserves this. They all do.”
Victoria’s voice filters through, steady despite the danger. “Sin, I’m with Maria. We’re set.”
Something in my chest clenches at the sound of her voice. My wildcat, right in the thick of it. She shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be risking herself like this. But I know better than to tell her that. She’s asrelentlessas I am.
“Stay safe, wildcat,” I mutter.
Her response is immediate. “You too.”
Minutes stretch like hours. The waiting is always the worst part. The moment before everything goes to hell, when every sound seems amplified, every shadow a potential threat.
I check my watch… 5:47 a.m.
Then, headlights cut through the faint glow of the rising dawn.
“Heads up,” Ghost’s voice crackles. “Black Mercedes, three of them. It’s the Alliance.”
I watch as the vehicles pull into the warehouse lot, smooth and coordinated. Car doors open, and Hidden Hand Alliance members pour out like roaches. Lorenzo steps out, his tailored suit looking ridiculous in this industrial wasteland. Dante follows, flanked by armed men I recognize from previous confrontations.
They’re professional. Confident. Arrogant.
They think they own this city.
And I know they sure as fuckdon’t!
A semi-truck backs up to the warehouse bay, air brakes hissing. More Alliance members move to the rear, opening the cargo doors. Crates start getting unloaded, heavy, military-grade containers that can only mean one thing.
“Weapons confirmed,” Ghost reports. “AR-15s, handguns, what looks like military-grade explosives. This is the real deal, Pres.”
“Get it all on camera,” I order. “Every damn angle.”
The Alliance works with practiced efficiency, stacking crates, checking inventory. Lorenzo barks orders, his voice carrying across the lot. These aren’t street-level dealers anymore. This is organized crime at its finest.
Then, another set of headlights. An unmarked police car rolls into the lot, and my blood turns to ice-cold focus.
Captain Victor Rourke.
