She's in the passenger seat, face pressed to the window, watching me.
I force myself to turn away.
Phantom's waiting. "Time to move."
I nod, check my gun one last time. Loaded. Safety off. Ready.
"Let's end this."
We move through Houston like ghosts.
Three separate vehicles, taking different routes to avoid suspicion.
Lights off, moving slow.
My truck—me driving, Shiver in passenger seat, Banshee and three Reapers brothers in the back and the bed?—
I park a block from the clubhouse.
We're all in black, with our cuts on top of our clothes.
The radio crackles.
Phantom's voice: "Front team in position."
Damon: "Back team in position."
Me: "Roof team in position. On my count. Three... two... one... go."
We move.
Silent. Fast. Deadly.
The clubhouse looms ahead—three stories, lights blazing in windows, motorcycles lined up out front.
It might be the Copperhead Kings territory, but it won’t be for long.
We reach the back of the building.
Fire escape ladder leads to the roof.
Shiver goes first, nimble and quiet.
Then me. Then Banshee. The three Reapers brothers follow.
On the roof, there's a maintenance access door.
It’s locked.
Banshee pulls out his lockpick set, goes to work.
Thirty seconds later: click.
The door swings open and we're in.
The third floor hallway is dimly lit.
It smells like weed, stale beer, and something else.
