Page 40 of Savage Loyalty

“This doesn’t sit right,” Smoke said, his voice low as he scanned the shadows. “Feels like we’re walking into something.”

“You’re not wrong,” I muttered, my eyes narrowing as I stepped deeper into the warehouse. My hand tightened around my gun, every nerve in my body on high alert.

Torch straightened, his knife still in hand. “What’s the call, Wraith?”

“Keep looking,” I said. “If there’s something here, we’ll find it.”

We moved cautiously, our steps echoing in the oppressive silence. My gaze swept the room, catching every shadow and flicker of movement. Something felt off—too still, too quiet.

Then I heard it.

The sharp click of a gun being cocked.

“Down!” I barked, diving behind a stack of crates as the first shot rang out.

Chaos erupted.

Bullets tore through the air, slamming into metal and concrete with deafening cracks. Sparks flew as ricochets danced wildly around the room, and the warehouse filled with the roar of gunfire.

Figures emerged from the shadows, their leather cuts emblazoned with the Vipers’ insignia.

The fight was brutal, every moment a blur of sound and movement. Chains charged forward, his shotgun booming as he cleared a path through the chaos. Torch moved like a predator, his knife flashing as he took down anyone who got too close.

“Wraith!” Torch’s voice cut through the din, sharp and urgent. “Over here!”

I moved quickly, ducking behind cover as bullets whizzed past me. When I reached Torch, he was crouched near a stack of crates, his knife buried in the lock of a metal box.

“What is it?” I demanded, my voice tight.

Torch pried the box open, revealing a stack of documents and ledgers. The Iron Serpents’ insignia was stamped across most of them, but one name jumped out immediately.

Axel Cruz.

I grabbed the papers, flipping through them quickly. The documents detailed shipments, payment schedules, and meeting locations. Axel wasn’t just involved—he was working directly with the Serpents.

“Son of a bitch,” I muttered, shoving the papers into a bag.

“What the hell is Cruz playing at?” Torch growled, his eyes narrowing.

“Something big,” I replied, my voice dark. “And we’re going to find out what.”

The gunfire slowed, the last of the Vipers either dead or retreating. Chains stood over one of the bodies, his shotgun resting against his shoulder.

“We lost two,” he said grimly.

My jaw tightened, rage simmering just beneath the surface. “They’ll pay for it,” I said, my voice cold and final.

As we mounted up, Torch shot me a look. “What’s the plan, Wraith?”

I tightened my grip on the handlebars, the stolen documents weighing heavily in my saddlebag.

“The plan,” I said, my tone sharp as a blade, “is to remind Cruz what happens when you fuck with the Reapers.”

The ride back to the clubhouse was a blur of asphalt and rage, the cold night air slicing across my face like a blade. The silence between us was loud, deafening in its weight, the kind of silence that wasn’t born from calm but from restraint—barely leashed anger simmering just beneath the surface. My grip on the handlebars tightened, the leather of my gloves creaking as I fought to keep my thoughts from spiraling. The documents in my saddlebag felt heavier with every mile, a grim reminder of what we found.

The roar of our engines died as we pulled into the lot, the floodlights casting sharp shadows against the rough exterior of the clubhouse. It stood like a fortress, its scarred walls a testament to the blood and sweat that had built it. My boots hit the gravel with purpose as I dismounted, my brothers following suit, their expressions as grim as my own. No words were exchanged; none were needed.

“Church. Now,” I barked, my voice cutting through the stillness like a whip.

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