Page 37 of My Reckless Biker

Thirty seconds of silence.

Then shouting from inside the warehouse, muffled but clear. "Hands up! Guns down! Do it now!"

Cain's team hitting the front entrance.

Tate kicks the bay door and it crashes inward with a shriek of metal on metal and we're through, weapons up, moving fast into a large open space stacked with wooden crates and pallets wrapped in plastic.

Two prospects near the front door spin around at our entrance, hands going for weapons tucked in their waistbands but not fast enough, not nearly fast enough.

"Guns down," Tate barks, and his voice has the authority of someone who's done this in combat zones where the stakes were higher than this. "Hands up. Now. Don't fucking think about it."

The prospects freeze. Young, maybe early twenties like Clint said, wearing Marrow cuts but looking like they've never actually been in a real firefight. Scared eyes. Hands trembling as they slowly raise them.

"Do it," Tate says again, and there's no room for negotiation in his tone.

They drop their weapons. Cheap nine-millimeters that clatter on concrete. Hands go higher.

Near the front entrance, visible through the maze of stacked crates, Cain and Holt have their weapons trained on Dutch.

Dutch is everything I remember from the intel photos and more. Six-three, maybe two-fifty, broad shoulders that strain his cut, arms covered in ink and scars. The scar across his throat is prominent even from here, thick and ropey, whatever gave it to him years ago should have killed him but didn't. He's not scared. He's not even tense.

He's smiling.

"Vigil," he says, and his voice is rough, damaged from whatever cut his throat, gravelly and wrong-sounding. "Didn't expect you boys so soon. Thought you'd take a few days to work up the courage after seeing what I did to your friend."

The rage that's been simmering since this morning flares white-hot and immediate, flooding through me like ignition, and I have to consciously force myself not to move, not to react, not to give him the satisfaction of seeing it land.

"Secure the prospects," Clint says.

Knox moves in with zip-ties and yanks the first prospect's arms down, binds his wrists behind his back with quick efficient movements. The kid doesn't resist, doesn't speak, just lets it happen with wide eyes that keep darting to Dutch like he's waiting for orders.

Knox shoves him toward the wall and does the same to the second prospect. Both of them end up sitting against the concrete with their hands bound, and they're not going anywhere.

I walk toward Dutch and his eyes track to me, that smile widening like he's been waiting for this moment.

"You must be the one fucking Crane's daughter," he says, and his voice carries across the warehouse floor. "Saw the photos going around. She's got a nice ass on her. Thick. Real thick. Bet she's real grateful for the protection, shows her appreciation on her knees."

The words are designed to provoke and they work. The rage spikes so hot I can feel it in my hands, in my jaw, in the way my vision narrows to just his face and that fucking smile.

But I don't react. Not yet. Not until I'm supposed to.

"Where's Crane?" Clint asks, stepping forward.

Dutch's attention shifts lazily. "You think I'm telling you shit? You think you scare me?"

"You're going to tell us everything. Question is whether you're conscious when you do it or whether we extract it other ways."

Dutch laughs, the sound rough and wet. "Go ahead. Try. Your club's been soft for years. You protect civilians, you follow your little code, you act like you're better than the rest of us. But you're not. You're just MC pretending to be something you're not."

Clint doesn't rise to it. Just turns to Cain. "Check the product. See what we're dealing with."

Cain moves to the crates stacked near the back wall, crowbar in hand, and pries one open with a shriek of nails pulling free. He looks inside and I can see his expression change.

"Heroin," he says. "Bricks. A lot of them. Rough count puts this at fifty, maybe sixty kilos. Street value somewhere around two million."

"Burn it," Clint says without hesitation. "All of it."

He turns back to Dutch and his voice is flat and final. "Here's how this works. You tell us what Crane's planning. Where his operations are. What moves he's making. Where he's positioned. You give us everything. And maybe you walk out of here with just broken bones and a story to tell."