Riot pockets his phone slow and sure. “This is where it gets interesting.”
Lucky cracks his knuckles but tries to hide his shaking hand.
I slide a knife from the console and tuck it inside my jacket. Metal cold against my ribs, familiar as breath.
“No sudden moves,” I murmur, eyes locked on the silhouettes ahead. “We watch first.”
Riot nods, a predator grin cutting across his face. “Then we hunt.”
We move out. Doors barely click shut behind us before we melt into the dark. Boots silent on broken gravel. The air smells like piss, oil, and trouble stacked to the rafters.
Lucky sticks close behind me. Smart. Riot’s already ghosting ahead, phone tucked away, focus sharp as a blade.
The warehouse looms up like a metal beast, all busted windows and rusted siding. Light leaks through gaps in the loading dock doors. Voices too. Low. Rowdy. Confident.
We creep up along the side and stop behind a stack of rotting pallets. I peek around first.
Yeah. Jackpot.
Lots of guys. Not college boys. Not amateurs. Muscle. Tattoos. Faces carved hard by fights they probably won. Some unloadheavy wooden crates like they weigh nothing. Others stand with rifles slung casual but ready. Security. Real organized.
Riot whistles under his breath. “This ain’t frat boy shit.”
“Nope,” I murmur. “These boys are connected.”
Lucky inches forward and I yank him back by his hood before he gets his head blown off.
“Use your eyes, not your ego,” I growl.
He nods quick.
The Range Rover pulls in tight to the dock. The three college idiots hop out with nervous swagger, trying to look like they belong. One wipes sweaty palms on his jeans before stepping forward.
A guy breaks from the pack to greet them. Bigger than the rest. Clean-cut but radiating menace. Not a face I know. He shakes their hands like he owns them. Like they’re nothing more than delivery boys.
Riot leans close, whispering against my ear. “You know him?”
“No,” I say quietly. “But he’s the one pushing the buttons.”
Lucky’s eyes widen. “This is way bigger than we thought.”
No shit. I watch crates get pried open. Bricks of white powder glint under industrial lights. Drugs. Lots of them. Enough to bury this whole damn town alive.
My teeth press together until my jaw ticks. Rage simmers low and hot in my ribs.
The clean-cut guy laughs, claps one of the college boys on the back, and looks around like a king surveying his kingdom.
We’re crouched low behind the pallets, every muscle locked tight. Riot nudges me with his elbow and lifts his phone just enough to peek over the edge. No flash. Screen dimmed. He moves like he’s done this a hundred times… because he has.
He snaps a few shots quick. The crates. The armed guards. The handshake between the college losers and the clean-cut boss. He keeps his breathing even, thumb steady while he zooms in on faces. On product. On license plates.
Evidence.
The kind that gives the club leverage.
Lucky watches with wide eyes, like he didn’t know Riot had more skills than swinging fists and mouthing off.
Riot lowers the phone and smirks. “Got ‘em.”
