Page 90 of Single Mom's Bikers

Ten minutes later, we park behind abandoned buildings near the mill. The night provides good cover as we walk closer.

Death’s Head bikes line the loading dock. Marcus paces while his men unload crates from a van we don’t recognize.

“That’s military gear,” Zane whispers, spotting distinctive markings. “High-end shit.”

He’s right. The crates match what we’ve seen in gun shows—not the cheap hardware Death’s Head usually uses.

“Someone’s definitely backing them.” I count six prospects handling cargo while Marcus supervises.

Movement catches my eye. A car approaching—expensive, black, definitely not MC style. When it stops, the driver stays inside while two men in suits step out.

“Well, fuck me.” Chase’s voice holds dark humor. “Guess we know where the new money’s coming from.”

The suits talk with Marcus, gesturing at crates. One opens his jacket, revealing a shoulder holster.

“These aren’t local muscle,” Zane agrees, shifting for a better view. “Too polished.”

Before we can see more, a prospect spots movement where we’re hidden. “Hey! We got company!”

Everything happens fast. The suits dive for cover while Death’s Head members scramble for weapons. Marcus barks orders, trying to maintain control.

“So much for eyes only.” Chase grins, already moving. He’s always loved a good fight.

“Keep it contained.” I signal our positions to Clay’s backup team. “No guns unless they start it.”

The first prospect reaches us, swinging wild. I step inside his guard and drop him with two precise hits. Behind me, Chase takes another one down while Zane handles a third.

A suit tries flanking our position. His technique shows training—military or maybe private sector. But he’s not ready for how fast Zane moves.

My youngest brother flows like water, redirecting the suit’s momentum. The man hits the concrete hard, designer shoes scuffing as Zane locks his arm.

“Stay down,” Zane suggests pleasantly. “Those clothes look expensive.”

More of them rush us. I meet them halfway, trading punches that echo off mill walls. One catches my ribs but drops when I counter with an elbow strike.

Chase’s laugh carries over the chaos—he’s always enjoyed this part of our life. The pure physical release of combat.

“Enough!” Marcus’s voice booms. He stands by the van, pistol raised. “This isn’t how we do business!”

“Business?” I kick a fallen prospect clear of his dropped knife. “Is that what you call moving weight through our territory?”

“Temporary arrangement.” He tries for diplomacy, but his gun hand shakes slightly. “Mutual benefits for all parties.”

“Bullshit.” Chase wipes blood from his split lip. “You’re just the muscle. Who are your new friends, really?”

The remaining suit straightens his jacket, trying to look dignified despite a forming black eye. “This is a private matter.”

“Nothing in Wolf Pike is private.” I move forward, letting him see exactly who he’s dealing with. “Not without Black Wolves’ approval.”

“You don’t want this fight.” The suit’s voice holds a warning. “Walk away. Forget what you saw.”

“Or what?” Zane still has his man pinned. “You’ll send more suits to do your dirty work?”

Marcus lowers his gun slowly. “Twenty-four hours still stands. But after that…” He shrugs. “Accidents happen.”

The weight of his words hits hard. Before I can respond, sirens wail in the distance. Someone called the cops—probably his people creating a distraction.

“Time to go.” I signal our retreat. There’s no point involving local law.

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