Rebel and his remaining prospect fire back blindly. No target. Just noise. Retaliation.
I force myself to breathe, carefully scanning the area I’d already swept up mere twenty minutes ago. Treeline. Warehouse roofs. Shadow pockets between stacked containers. We cleared this. Where the fuck did they come from?
“There,” Ryder mutters beside me, pointing toward a thin break in the trees. Closer than it should be.
Fuck. They were right there. Watching. Waiting. Exactly where Ryder and I had been standing earlier.
I take aim and fire. Ryder fires a split second later, and that’s when hell answers.
A hail of bullets slams into the container, metal screaming under impact. We’re pinned instantly. A bullet blockade trapping us in.
Christ. They didn’t just want us worried about our compounds. They wanted us distracted. Off balance. Sloppy. And it worked. This wasn’t a double trap. It was a triple one.
Metal shrieks above our heads as another round of bullets slams into the container. Ryder leans out, fires twice—clean, controlled shots—then drops back as return fire sparks against steel inches from his face. “They’ve got elevation,” he mutters. “At least four shooters.”
“Six,” I correct, catching movement near the treeline.
I fire. A body jerks back into the brush. Doesn’t matter. They’re not here to pick us off one by one. They’re herding us.
Another burst explodes against the trucks Two Hell’s Army men, their cut visible, break from cover—fast, coordinated—rushing the lead transport. One slides behind the cab. The other vaults into the driver’s seat like he’s done it a hundred times.
Ryder swears under his breath. “This isn’t a hit,” he says. “It’s a fuckin’ takeover.”
The engine of the first truck roars to life. Loud. Victorious.
They never wanted a firefight. They wanted the shipment. Seven hundred thousand dollars in weapons. Our leverage. Our protection. And they’re taking it.
I yank my phone out and start a three-way call. Blaze answers first, breathing hard. “They got Shotgun.” His voice cracks into something feral. “He’s gone, Wolf.”
“Fuck,” I whisper shakily, firing toward the truck tires. A bullet ricochets uselessly. “They’re taking our shipment, Blaze.”
Rebel joins the line. Silence on his end. Calm. Too calm.
“You seeing this?” I demand.
“I am,” he says evenly.
The second truck engine turns over.
Blaze lets out a strangled noise. “This was supposed to be routine.”
I contain my retort. Mere minutes ago, Blaze didn’t trust Bug’s intel, that this was a trap.
“It was never routine,” I grind out.
“This is on you!” Blaze roars. “Your intel. Your fucking sister stirring up Hell’s Army—”
A bullet slams into the container near my head, showering us in rust and debris. Ryder leans out again, firing toward the drivers. One of the Hell’s Army men drops, but another slides into place instantly. Disciplined. Prepared.
Rebel finally speaks again. “We’re out.”
Blaze goes quiet for half a second. “What?”
“You heard me,” Rebel says, tone glacial. “This was your arrangement. Your intel. Your mess. Handle your Hell’s Army, Wolf.”
My jaw tightens. “You walk now, you lose your cut. You lose the alliance.”
“Fine by me,” he replies smoothly. “Oh, and I’ll wait. For my share of weapons. Or cash for the advance I gave.”
