Vulture opens the door, nodding to two of our prospects standing guard in the hallway. "Escort our friend out. Make sure he leaves the neighborhood."
After they depart, I turn to Zip. "Double security on all locations. I want members armed, civilians protected."
"You think this is just intimidation, or something more?" Zip asks, already typing instructions into his phone.
"Better to overreact than underestimate," I reply, a cold certainty settling in my gut. "The Reapers lost face with that warehouse raid. They'll want to reestablish dominance."
"I'll alert the brothers," Vulture agrees. "But we maintain normal operations. Show of strength."
We return to the main bar, my senses heightened for any other anomalies. Nothing seems immediately threatening—just the usual Tuesday afternoon crowd enjoying drinks and conversation. But the photographer's confidence suggests something larger in motion. A warning we'd be wise to heed.
Evening brings increased business to The Iron Horse. Tuesdays feature live music and drink specials, drawing a reliable crowd of locals and regular customers. I survey the room from my position at the bar, tallying members strategically positioned throughout the space. Hustler near the front door. Harrier by the stage. Zip and Condor at separate tables with clear sightlines to all entrances.
"Boss, you've been nursing that same beer for an hour," comments Mike, our head bartender and a trusted friend of the club. "Everything okay?"
"Just one of those nights," I reply with a casual shrug. "Keeping an eye on things."
He nods understanding without pressing further. Mike's worked for us long enough to recognize when club business is in play, though he's never involved directly. Plausible deniability protects him and our legitimate operation.
The band—a local blues quartet we book regularly—launches into another set as the door opens, admitting a rush of cool evening air and several new customers. Among them, I spot Cara entering with Maggie and Tessa, the three women drawing appreciative glances from various patrons.
Cara's changed since the warehouse operation, wearing jeans and a simple black top that hugs her recovering figure. Her hair falls loose around her shoulders, and she's applied light makeup—choices that speak to her reclaiming her appearance after years of having such decisions made for her. The transformation from the hollow-eyed woman we rescued a month ago is remarkable.
Our eyes meet across the room, and she offers a small smile before following her companions to a table near the stage. The normalcy of the scene—women enjoying a night out, listening to music, ordering drinks—contrasts sharply with the heightened security and the threatening encounter earlier today.
For two hours, the evening progresses without incident. The band plays their final set. Customers come and go. Club members maintain vigilant but unobtrusive watch. I begin to wonder if the photographer was merely a scare tactic, an attempt to rattle us rather than a genuine warning.
Then everything changes in an instant.
The front windows explode inward, showering the nearest customers with glass as the distinctive crack of automatic weapons fills the air. I'm moving before conscious thought forms, diving across the bar for cover while drawing my sidearm.
"Everybody down!" I shout above screams and shattering glass. "Stay down!"
More gunfire rips through the space, bullets splintering wood and smashing bottles. From my position, I catch glimpses of motorcycle riders outside, faces obscured by helmets, weapons raised. Reapers colors flash in the street lighting.
Zip and Condor return fire from defensive positions, providing cover as civilians scramble toward the back of the building. I spot Cara herding people toward the kitchen exit, her combat training evident in her movements—low profile, using tables as cover, prioritizing the most vulnerable customers.
The attack lasts less than two minutes, though it feels like hours. Engines rev outside as the shooters retreat, satisfied with the destruction they've wrought. I emerge from cover cautiously, assessing the damage with practiced efficiency.
"Status!" I call out, moving quickly through the chaos.
"Two brothers hit," Zip reports, pressure on a wound in Hustler's shoulder. "Multiple civilian injuries, none critical from what I can see."
"Police have been called," Mike adds, emerging from behind an overturned table. "Ambulances too."
The bar is unrecognizable. Windows shattered, mirrors behind the bar reduced to glittering shards, tables splintered by bullets. Blood smears several surfaces where patrons were cut by flying glass. The air reeks of gunpowder, spilled alcohol, and fear.
I find Cara helping an elderly woman with a cut on her forehead, her own hands bloody but movements steady. "You good?" I ask, crouching beside her.
She nods, not pausing in her first aid. "Go. Handle what needs handling. I've got this."
The simple competence in her response tightens something in my chest. I squeeze her shoulder once, then move to organize our response before law enforcement arrives. Evidence needs securing. Witnesses with MC knowledge need coaching on their statements. Wounded brothers need private medical attention.
Within minutes, sirens wail in the distance. I find Vulture near the back exit, already issuing instructions to members.
"Office security footage?" I ask.
"Ice Pick's handling it. We'll have clean copies before the police get the originals." He surveys the destruction grimly. "This is a major escalation. Public attack, civilian casualties."
