Total pages in book: 40
Estimated words: 36214 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 181(@200wpm)___ 145(@250wpm)___ 121(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 36214 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 181(@200wpm)___ 145(@250wpm)___ 121(@300wpm)
“How?” My voice stays low. Dangerous.
“It never hit the checkpoint.”
The words land like fists. Interception. Planned. Someone with inside knowledge waited in the dark with sharp teeth and steady hands. My mind races through possibilities. Timings. Routes. Who knew what. The air feels thicker now. Harder to breathe. Sweat beads on my forehead and trickles down my temple.
“Last contact?” I demand.
“Seven Mile Bridge. Three hours ago.”
I turn slow. My gaze sweeps the room. Ghost meets my eyes for a brief second. Tank shifts his massive frame. Razor stops playing with his knife. Diesel sets his glass down with a soft clink. Every man here has buried bodies. Every man understands this does not happen by accident. No one holds my stare long. They wait to see how I’ll carve answers from flesh.
“Lock the gates,” I order.
The command snaps through the room like a whip. Chairs scrape back. Boots thud against wood. Radios crackle with urgent voices. Gates clang shut outside. Chains rattle. The compound seals itself tight. Muscle memory from too many nights like this. No one questions. My voice carries the kind of finality that ends debates in blood.
I step up onto the small raised platform overlooking the bar. The wood creaks under my weight. Neon reflects off the rows of bottles behind the counter. Amber liquid glows like trapped fire. The room falls into absolute silence again. I don’t raise my voice. I never need to.
“We’ve got a problem,” I say. The words roll out dark and heavy. “Our shipment disappeared. Either someone got greedy or someone forgot who owns these islands. Any ideas?”
Silence answers. Thick enough to choke on. No one moves. No one breathes loud. The only sound comes from the slow drip of a leaky faucet behind the bar. Plink. Plink. Plink. It echoes in the quiet like a countdown.
I nod once. “Fucking hell.”
Before the words fully settle the front doors slam open with violent force. Wood cracks against the wall. Every head snaps toward the sound. A prospect stumbles inside. Johnny. He was supposed to be following the delivery on his bike. Blood soaks his shirt dark and wet. It drips steady onto the floorboards with soft wet sounds. His face pale as bone. He sways. Barely keeps his feet. The metallic scent of fresh blood cuts sharp through the smoke and whiskey.
Ghost moves fast. He catches the kid before he collapses. Strong hands grip blood slick fabric. I cross the distance in long strides. My pulse hammers steady in my ears.
Mace barks the question first. “What the fuck happened?”
The prospect gasps for air. His chest heaves. Blood bubbles at the corner of his mouth. When he finally forces words out they come broken and wet. “They got Odin.”
Tension explodes through the room. Brothers surge forward. Voices rise in raw anger. The air grows hotter. Thicker.
Odin. Not a patched member, but still a close friend. He drives for our operation. He was driving the lost shipment. It was supposed to be a simple run. Drive to Marathon, drop the package, and come back.
Easy.
“Where?” someone shouts.
“Sugarloaf Bridge.” The kid swallows hard. More blood trickles down his chin. “He’s dead.”
That single word drops like a hammer on concrete. Dead carries different meanings in our world. This one feels deliberate. Staged. A message written in rope and flesh.
My voice cuts through the growing noise. “How?”
The prospect meets my eyes. Pure terror swims in his gaze. “They fucking killed him. Hung him under the bridge.”
“Who?” I demand.
“Uh… not sure.”
Chaos erupts fully. Shouts rip raw from throats. Fists slam tables hard enough to rattle glasses. Chairs topple. Glass shatters somewhere near the bar. The sharp scent of spilled whiskey mixes with blood. Brothers surge like a wave ready to crash. Anger boils hot and violent.
I remain still at the center. No outward reaction. Inside my mind sharpens to a razor edge. This was no simple theft. Someone wanted us to find the body. Someone wanted the message clear. Blood and rope under a bridge. A warning carved into our territory. This touches more than product. It strikes at who we are. At the fear we inspire. At the control we maintain with iron fists.
The noise swirls around me. I let it build for several heartbeats. Then I speak again. My voice carries low and final through the storm of rage.
“Get my bike ready.”
The command cuts everything off. Prospects scatter fast. Engines roar to life outside. No arguments. No hesitation. They know what this means. The problem has evolved.
It’s no longer a problem to solve.
This is war.
I feel the shift in every man. The air crackles with it. Blood will flow tonight. Bones will break. Answers will come screaming from broken mouths. The Keys will remember who owns the dark roads and the blood soaked bridges. I’ll carve that reminder into anyone who dared touch what belongs to me.