Page 14 of Savage Loyalty

“Still at the scene,” Torch replied. “He’s cleaning it up, but we’re gonna need you down there. It’s a mess.”

Of course, it was. The Vipers didn’t half-ass anything, especially not when it came to sending a message. “On my way.” I ended the call and shoved the phone into my pocket, the sharp click of the button echoing louder than it should have.

The clubhouse was quieter than usual, the late hour thinning the crowd. A few of the guys still lingered, clustered around the pool table in the corner, their laughter and banter filling the air like static. The sight of them, so carefree, grated against my nerves. They didn’t know yet. Didn’t know one of their brothers was lying dead at the depot, a bullet through his chest.

I stormed past them without a word, the heavy sound of my boots on the wooden floor silencing their laughter. They looked up as I passed, their expressions shifting from amusement to unease. They knew better than to ask questions when I was like this.

The cool night air hit me like a slap as I stepped outside, the faint scent of rain lingering in the breeze. My bike was parked in its usual spot, the black paint glinting under the weak glow of the porch light. I swung a leg over, the weight of the moment pressing down on me as I fired up the engine. The roar filled the quiet, loud and relentless, but it didn’t drown out the anger building in my chest.

The Vipers had made their move. And now, it was our turn.

The depot was a disaster when I arrived. The sharp, acrid stench of burned rubber hit me first, mingling with the sickly, sweet, metallic tang of blood that hung heavy in the damp night air. The faint glow of still-burning embers flickered in the darkness, casting jagged shadows across the wreckage. The front gates—once solid and imposing—were twisted and broken, one hanging lopsided on a single hinge like a cruel joke. Charred remains of crates and debris littered the ground, the telltale work of Molotovs scarring the asphalt with dark, jagged streaks.

I killed the engine of my bike, and the silence that followed was almost louder than the roar that preceded it. I swung my leg over and planted my boots on the ground, taking in the scene with a clenched jaw. The Vipers had been efficient—they knew exactly where to hit us. This wasn’t some spur-of-the-moment attack; this was planned. Deliberate. Calculated.

My gaze landed on Chains, crouched near the loading dock, his massive frame hunched over something I couldn’t yet see. But I didn’t need to see it to know. The heavy knot in my stomach twisted tighter as I approached, my boots crunching over shattered glass and debris.

Knox’s body came into view, and the knot unraveled into a sharp, burning ache. He lay sprawled on his back, his cut soaked in blood, the dark stain spreading from a single bullet hole just above his heart. His face was pale, his eyes half-closed, frozen in the last expression he’d worn before death claimed him. A kid. Just a goddamn kid. He hadn’t even drawn his weapon. He hadn’t stood a chance.

I clenched my jaw, the familiar anger bubbling up, hot and relentless. This was what the Vipers wanted: a statement, a body for us to find, a scar to remind us of our failures.

Chains looked up as I approached, his face carved from stone but his eyes betraying the weight of what he was feeling. He wasn’t the type to show grief, but it was there in the tightness of his jaw, the set of his shoulders. “They hit hard and fast,” he said, his voice low and rough as he rose to his full height. His hands were bloodied, though I couldn’t tell if it was Knuckles’ or the result of something he’d punched. Probably both.

“Didn’t even give the kid time to draw,” he added, his tone edged with frustration.

My hands curled into fists at my sides, nails biting into my palms. “How many?” I asked, my voice tight.

“Five, maybe six,” Chains replied. He gestured to the wreckage around us with a grim sweep of his arm. “They came in like they knew the layout. Hit us where it’d hurt the most. This wasn’t some random raid—they planned this.”

I stared down at Knox’s body, my mind racing. Of course, they planned it. Axel Cruz might be a reckless asshole, but he wasn’t stupid. This wasn’t just an attack—it was a message, and it had landed exactly how they’d wanted it to.

My gaze shifted to the wreckage of the loading dock, to the crates that should’ve been filled with supplies but were now nothing more than smoldering ash. This place wasn’t just a storage site; it was a nerve center. Losing it wouldn’t cripple us, but it would hurt. And the Vipers knew it.

“Any survivors?” I asked, forcing my voice to stay steady.

Chains shook his head, his expression dark. “They cleared out before we even got here. Left just enough of a mess for us to clean up.”

The words hit me like a gut punch, the weight of failure pressing down hard. Ghost was gone, and we had nothing to show for it. No leads. No vengeance. Just the bitter taste of defeat and the charred remains of what used to be ours.

I crouched beside Howl’s for a moment, my eyes scanning his still face. His cut was bloodied, but the patch on his chest still gleamed faintly in the dim light. It was almost cruel—the emblem he’d been so proud of, the one that should’ve marked him as part of something bigger, something that would protect him, was now just a grim reminder of what he’d lost. What we’d lost.

“This wasn’t just about the depot,” I said, rising to my feet and turning back to Chains. My voice was cold, steady. “This was about sending a message.”

Chains nodded, his jaw tight. “And they made damn sure we got it.”

My fists clenched tighter, the anger simmering just beneath the surface threatening to boil over. “Clean it up,” I said finally, my voice low but sharp. “I don’t want any sign we were hit. No bodies. No blood. Nothing they can point to and say we took it lying down.”

Chains nodded again, already moving to carry out the order. He crouched back down, pulling a cloth from his pocket to clean the blood from Ghost’s patch before moving to wrap the body. He worked in silence, his movements methodical but heavy with an unspoken weight.

I turned away, unable to watch. The weight of the scene pressed down on me, a suffocating reminder of everything we’d lost tonight. Ghost was gone. The depot was a wreck. The Vipers had landed their blow, and it was a damn good one.

But this wasn’t over—not by a long shot.

The remaining embers caught my eye, their flickering light reflected in a pool of rainwater on the ground. It was almost poetic, in a way. The fire might have burned out, but the damage was already done. The scars would remain, a reminder of what happens when you let your guard down.

By the time I got back to my bike, the anger burning in my chest had shifted. It wasn’t the raw, chaotic kind that demanded fists and bullets. No, it was something colder now, sharper, like a blade honed to perfection. The kind of anger that didn’t explode—it cut.

I stepped toward my bike, the cool night air doing little to ease the heat of my anger. My mind was already turning over the possibilities and the next steps. Axel Cruz thought he’d won, thought he’d weakened us. But he didn’t know what was coming.

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