We rose.
The shots that exploded through the air weren’t ours.
They ripped over the stuttering roar—automatic fire, controlled.
I spun toward the sound.
They came out of the dark in formation, engines howling, front wheels bumping over uneven planks without slowing.
Shore Vipers.
Lady Liberty at point, long hair whipping out behind her helmet, cut flapping. Half a dozen more women staggered behind her in a V shape, guns braced, firing as they rode toward us.
Muzzle flashes strobed their faces. Bullets tore through the cluster of suits and cartel boys trying to box us in. One spun and went off the edge of the boardwalk, screaming as he was hit and fell to the sand below. Another folded on himself, chest opening under the impact.
Valkyrie ducked and then popped up, adding her fireto the chaos. I swung back toward Vlad’s men, catching one of the remaining suits in the neck as he tried to take aim at our approaching backup.
He dropped, hands clawing uselessly at the blood.
Miami’s laughter crackled in my ear, almost manic.
Liberty rode past us, close enough that I could see the whites of her eyes in the helmet cutout. She swung her gun toward the boardwalk doors, laying down a line of suppressing fire that chewed up the wood near where one of the cartel members was trying to regain his feet.
“You Devils start every party without us?” she shouted as she passed.
“Fashionably late as always,” Valkyrie yelled back, teeth bared.
Behind Liberty, Rosé hunched low over her bars, pistol steady. Two more Vipers—Cali and India—fanned out, one taking the far side, the other angling in toward the guard rail.
The cartel and Vincino men hadn’t planned for this. You could see it in the way they reacted—not coordinated, just panic.
One of them turned his gun toward Liberty’s flank.
I dropped him with a shot through the sternum.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement inside the lobby.
It was Blackjack.
He and 8-Ball came in hard through the street-side interior corridor, guns already spitting. Turnpike was withthem, his new patch glistening, his face set.
The last of Vlad’s men on the inside were caught in a pincer—Devils at their backs, Vipers on the boards.
They broke.
Badly.
The Cartel member with the shotgun I injured earlier tried to run. Valkyrie shot him in the spine. He went down and stayed there.
The last suited gunman threw his hands up. Liberty’s rear rider, Medusa, winged him anyway, just to make a point. He dropped his weapon, clutching his arm.
Vladimir didn’t run.
He dragged Roman’s wife toward a railing, arm tight around her shoulders, still using her as cover. Gianna was pressed close now, between him and the rail, head ducked like she was just trying to survive the storm.
“Miami!” Blackjack barked into the comms. “Talk to me.”
“You’re clear on the boardwalk for now,” Miami said. “All I see moving are the women on their bikes, you idiots in cuts, and Vlad in the middle of the mess. Street side, we’re good. You’ve got cops starting to roll further up, but Roman’s men are already diverting tourists and traffic to block them from coming. You’ve got maybe five minutes, ten at the most before uniforms try to make this their problem.”
