Ounce: "Four men down. No shots fired. They didn't even reach their weapons."
Ruger: "Secure the product. Count it. Then burn it."
More movement.
The sound of boots on concrete, crates being opened, someone whistling low—Porter, probably, reacting to the volume of what they found.
Porter: "Jesus Christ. There's got to be a hundred kilos in here, easy. Cash too—stacks, in a duffel. I'm counting."
Maddox: "Barn's clear. Found a cutting station in the back. Scales, bags, mixing equipment. This is where they were dosing."
"That's why kids are dying," Ounce says. His voice is flat, but I can hear the edge underneath it. "Look at this setup. No measurements, no quality control. They're eyeballing fentanyl doses with a kitchen scale. One wrong scoop and it's a body bag."
The radio goes quiet for a moment. Then Ruger.
"Burn it. All of it. Take the cash. Leave the men alive—tie them up, leave them for their bosses to find. I want them to deliver a message with their faces. Morgantown is off-limits. The Saint's Outlaws own this territory, and the next crew that moves product through it leaves in bodybags."
"Copy," Bloodhound says.
I hear the whoosh of accelerant catching fire.
Even through the radio, even from miles away, I can hear the sound of a hundred kilos of poison going up in flames, and I feel something loosen in my chest.
Not relief. Not yet. But the closest thing to it I've felt in weeks.
"Structure's fully engulfed," Bracken reports. "No civilian risk. Nearest neighbor is seven miles out. We're clear."
"Moving to relay point one," Ruger says. "Coin, keep the scanner running."
"Copy. Scanner's still clear. You've got a clean window."
They hit the first relay point at 9:30.
Smaller operation—two men, minimal product.
Same treatment. Tie them up, burn the product, take the cash, leave the message.
The second relay point at 10:15—empty, recently abandoned.
Someone tipped them off, or they got lucky.
Either way, the product is gone.
"Relay two is cleared out," Ounce reports. "Recent. Tire tracks are fresh, less than twenty-four hours."
"They're running," Ruger says. "Good. Let them run back to Ohio and tell their bosses what happened."
By 11:00, it's done.
The pipeline's main stash house is a pile of ash.
Both relay points are neutralized.
Men are tied up across two properties with a message they won't forget.
No brothers injured. No shots fired. As clean as it could be.
"Heading home," Ruger says. "Good work tonight, brothers."
