I turn the key. The engine hums low, ready to hunt.
Riot flicks through screens, thumb steady and sure. “Tracker’s live. They pull out, we got their every move.” He gives me a sideways look. “Don’t tail too close, Grandpa.”
I shoot him a deadpan stare. “Keep talkin’ and I’ll throw your nerdy ass out and take the phone.” He smirks and goes back to it.
The Range Rover squeals out of the lot like they’re proud of being idiots. I let them get ahead, then roll out slow, lights off, riding the shadows.
We fall into formation behind them. Riot keeps his phone angled just right so he can watch the little blinking dot crawl across the map.
“They hit Perimeter Street,” he mutters. “Bet you a case of whiskey they’re making stops.”
He’s right.
The Rover slows near a shitty, flickering-lit corner store. One of the pricks leans out the window, palms something to a jittery dude on a BMX bike. Cash gets slapped back in return. Quick. Sloppy. Amateur-hour drug dealing.
“That’s one,” Riot says with a dark little hum of satisfaction.
Lucky presses his forehead to the glass trying to see. “Can’t believe they’re bold enough to do that right in the open.”
Riot snorts. “Bold? Nah. Stupid. Big difference.”
The Rover continues, weaving deeper into town where the streetlights are dying and buildings look like they’re halfway to condemned.
Next stop, some college off-campus housing. Another hand-off. This time to a girl with mascara smudged halfway to her ears and heels too high for the cracked sidewalk she's on.
Lucky shifts, shoulders bunching like he’s ready to jump out. “We’re not stepping in?”
I shake my head, jaw tight. “Pres wants the guy running them. We scare these fuckwits now, the trail goes cold.”
Even saying it feels wrong. I don’t like standing by while poison gets passed to people who don’t know it’s gonna bury them alive. But club orders are club orders.
The Rover hits two more spots. Kids with shaky hands. Rich frat boys disguised as street rats. One guy sniffing like his skull itches from the inside. Every exchange twists something dark in my gut.
Lucky’s voice drops low. “We could put a stop to all this. Easy.”
Riot shoots him a sharp look. “You’re new. You do what you’re told and learn when to hit and when to wait.”
Lucky swallows hard. “Yeah. Got it.”
The Range Rover finally leaves the neighborhoods behind and takes a hard turn past the tracks. The city lights vanish. Asphalt turns to gravel. Street signs to rusted metal riddled with bullet scars.
Lucky cranes his neck, trying to see. “Where you think they’re headed?”
Riot taps the map with a calloused knuckle. “Industrial side. Old warehouses.” His voice goes lower. Serious. “Not a place you go unless you’re up to something.”
Wind cuts through the cracked window. Cigarette smoke spirals out. My fingers tighten on the wheel.
The Rover turns down a deserted road, tires crunching gravel. I kill more speed, staying far enough back to be a ghost.
Riot leans forward, phone inches from the windshield. “Right there.” He points to a wide, dark lot surrounded by rust and busted security lights. “They stopped.”
Lucky’s breath fogs the glass. “We go in now?”
I flick a toothpick between my teeth, watching those silhouettes swagger around like kings of piss-soaked concrete. They don’t know monsters are already here.
I put the truck in park and feel the switch inside me flip. Cold. Sharp. Ready. “Not yet,” I say, voice low as a threat. “We see what business they’re mixed up in.”
The truck goes silent. The kind of quiet where every breath feels like a trigger pull. I nudge the truck into the darkest patch of shadow and kill the engine. My pulse is steady, calm like a storm right before it hits land.
