Vulture calls the meeting to order with a sharp rap on the table. "Brothers, tonight we strike back." His voice carries the weight of his presidency, commanding immediate attention. "Not just for Sophia, not just for Cara, but for every woman these bastards have bought and sold like property."
Murmurs of agreement ripple through the room as I stand to outline the operation.
"Four targets, four teams," I begin, indicating the main map projected on the wall. "Alpha Team, led by me, takes the main compound. Primary objective: secure documentation and evidence linking Hargrove to trafficking operations. Beta Team under Ghost hits their distribution center in the industrial district. Gamma Team under Osprey targets their weapons cache at the lakeside property. Delta Team under Zip takes down their money-laundering front at the docks."
I detail entry points, timing, weapon restrictions, and communication protocols for each location. The plan balances maximum impact against minimum risk, though in an operation this size, some danger is inevitable.
"Local law enforcement response time to these locations ranges from eight to twelve minutes," I continue. "Each team has a maximum operation window of seven minutes from breach to extraction. No exceptions. We hit hard, we get what we came for, we ghost before the police arrive."
Questions follow—specific tactical concerns, contingency plans, extraction routes. I address each methodically, ensuring every team leader understands their objectives and limitations.
"What about injured?" Hustler asks from the back. "Protocol?"
"Doc has medical stations prepared at three secure locations," I reply, nodding toward our medic. "Coordinates are in your extraction packets. Under no circumstances do wounded go to public hospitals tonight. Too many questions, too many potential leaks."
As the briefing concludes, Vulture rises for final words. "This is the largest coordinated operation in Saints Outlaws’ history," he states, looking around the room. "The risk is significant. The reward is justice—not just club justice, but legal justice that puts these traffickers away permanently." His gaze settles on each brother in turn. "Ride safe. Ride smart. Come home."
The traditional closing carries extra weight tonight. We all understand the stakes.
As members disperse to final preparations, Cara approaches with last-minute intelligence.
"The server room," she says quietly, showing me a rough sketch. "Based on what Miranda remembered, it should be adjacent to the main office. Separate access, additional security. That's where the most valuable data will be stored."
I study her drawing, adding it to my mental map of the compound. "Good work. This helps."
She holds my gaze steadily. "Be careful," she says simply. "These people are desperate after the warehouse raid. They'll have enhanced security, possibly traps."
"We'll be ready." I hesitate, then add, "Stay on comms. If anything feels wrong?—"
"I'll alert you immediately," she confirms. Something unspoken passes between us—concern, respect, the complex emotion that has no simple name. Then she steps back, professional distance reasserting itself. "Good hunting."
Darkness shrouds our approach to the Reapers' compound, bikes running without headlights along back roads until we're within a mile of the target. Alpha Team—eight members total—dismounts at the predetermined staging area, continuing on foot through dense woods that border the property.
"Comms check," I murmur into my microphone.
"Alpha comms confirmed," comes the response from the clubhouse where Cara coordinates communication between teams.
Similar confirmations follow from Beta, Gamma, and Delta teams, each in position at their respective targets. Synchronized watches show 01:47—thirteen minutes until coordinated breach.
I signal for night vision to be activated as we move through the tree line, approaching the eastern perimeter of the compound. Security lights illuminate the main buildings, creating pools of brightness surrounded by convenient shadows. Two guards patrol the fence line at predictable intervals—a sign of complacency that works in our favor.
Through my scope, I count vehicles in the parking area. Fewer than expected for a weekend night. Either our intelligence is off, or the Reapers have reduced manpower for some reason. Either possibility raises concern.
"Possible light security at primary target," I report softly. "Proceed with caution. Could be concentrated inside or indication of advance warning."
"Beta reports similar conditions," Cara's voice responds in my earpiece. "Minimal external security."
"Acknowledged." I signal Ghost and Condor to move into position for perimeter breach. "All teams maintain schedule. Additional caution during initial entry."
The next ten minutes pass in tactical silence as we position for maximum efficiency. Two minutes before breach, we deploy flash-bang diversions at the opposite side of the compound, drawing guard attention away from our entry point.
"Breach on my mark," I instruct as the final seconds count down. "Three, two, one, execute."
Ghost and Condor take down the fence silently, creating an opening large enough for our team to slip through in single file. We move like shadows between security camera blind spots, approaching the main building complex from the rear.
The first resistance comes at the back entrance—a single guard who doesn't see us until too late. Osprey subdues him with a choke hold, securing him with zip ties and duct tape before he can sound an alarm.
"East entrance secured," I report. "Moving to interior breach."
