Chapter 1 - Tank
I crouch behind the shipping container, surveying the warehouse yard through my night vision goggles. Two sentries patrol the perimeter, both armed with semi-automatics. Amateurs. They're walking predictable patterns and smoking, the ember glow making them easy targets in the darkness.
"Rage, you seeing this shit?" I whisper into my comm.
"Yeah," his voice crackles back. "Like shooting fish in a barrel."
"No shooting unless absolutely necessary," I remind him. "We're here to destroy the supply line, not start a bloodbath."
Beast's deep voice comes through my earpiece. "Torch is ready with the charges. Just give the word."
I check my watch. Two minutes until the shift change we observed during recon. Perfect timing. The Iron Eagles are creatures of habit, which makes them predictable. Predictable means dead in our world.
"Everyone hold position," I order. "Wait for my signal."
King trusts me with these operations because I'm methodical. Where he's all calculated fury and intimidation, I'm the strategist. The one who makes sure every move serves a purpose. And tonight's purpose is to hit Vulture where it hurts most—his wallet. The shipment of uncut cocaine in that warehouse is worth millions. Taking it out will cripple the Iron Eagles' cash flow for months.
My earpiece crackles. "Tank, come in." It's Shadow back at the clubhouse.
"Little busy here," I growl.
"Need you back at the clubhouse ASAP."
"In the middle of something."
"It's important, man. Someone's here to see you."
"Who?"
The pause lasts just a second too long. "Your sister."
My blood freezes. Jenny? At the clubhouse? In the middle of a fucking war?
"Is she okay?"
"She's fine, but she's not alone. There's a woman with her. And a kid."
"Christ." I pinch the bridge of my nose. "Put King on."
A moment later, King's voice fills my ear. "Take Beast with you. Rage and Torch can handle this."
I don't argue. King's word is law, and if he thinks the situation at the clubhouse needs my attention, I trust his judgment. Besides, Rage and Torch are more than capable of blowing up a warehouse.
"You heard the man," I say to the team. "Change of plans. Beast, you're with me. Rage, you're in charge. Wait for the shift change, then proceed as planned."
Beast materializes beside me like a mountain stepping out of fog. For a man his size, he moves with unsettling silence.
"What's going on?" he asks as we make our way back to our bikes.
"Jenny's at the clubhouse."
His eyebrows shoot up. "Your sister? The one you haven't spoken to in—"
"Yeah, that one," I cut him off, not wanting to discuss the five years of silence between us. "And she's brought company."
We reach our bikes, and I feel the adrenaline as my Harley roars to life beneath me. The vibration grounds me, helps me focus. Whatever's waiting at the clubhouse, I can handle it. I've faced down death more times than I can count. Family drama shouldn't be worse.
But somehow, it always is.
