Page 56 of Ravaged and Ruined
I drop into the head seat, bracing my palms on the edge of the wood. My head dips and I take a breath. Then another. There’s a weight on my chest I can’t shake, like someone parked a Harley on my ribs and left it idling. My skull pounds from the whiskey, lack of sleep, and the hundred different scenarios racing through my head. I squeeze my eyes shut. Just for a second. Long enoughto picture her face. The fire in her eyes, her perfect stubborn mouth that wrecks me worse than any blade ever could.
The sound of boots outside the door, pushes the thought down deep where it belongs. I square my shoulders, shake off the weight, and sit back in the chair like I’m not coming apart at the seams.
I stand as the door opens. Grizzly walks in first, followed by Rancor and Crank. Padre and Tango trail close behind. I spot the thick soot still staining the creases of Backdraft’s knuckles from the last run as he folds his hands in front of him on the table. Pike’s got a toothpick in his mouth, chewing like he’s dying to stab someone with it.
“You look like shit,” Surge says, slapping me on the back as he strolls by, but he’s already taking his seat before I can fire back.
Hashtag’s the last one in, his arms full of tablets that he places onto the table. They’re already loaded with maps and blinking overlays. I give the guys a brief rundown of the meeting between Cholla and the unknown buyer before handing things off to Hashtag. He looks to me for approval before he starts to speak, which I give to him with a nod.
“Meatpacking plant’s here,” he says, jabbing a finger at the map on his own screen. “Looks dead. But someone’s been on the property in the last twenty-four hours. There’s one road in, one road out. This line over here,” he draws on his screen with a digital pen. “Gives us the best tactical view point.”
I study the map, my fingers tapping the table. “We hit the plant tonight. We lay low and wait for the buyer to show. We don’t move until all players are accounted for. With a little luck they’ll do the dirty work for us when they figure out Cholla has nothing.”
Surge grunts. “And if Cholla doesn’t show up?”
“Let’s hope he does. No one walks away tonight.”
The air shifts with rising anticipation. They’re sharper now, wired, ready to return to the fight. “That’s it. Load up and move out.”
Chairs push back. Boots hit the floor. Surge pops the locks on two crates in the corner, the lid slamming open to reveal rows of weapons. Handguns, rifles, full mags. Grizzly grabs a shotgun and checks the barrel with practiced ease. Padre flips a butterfly knife open then closed, with muscle memory. Everyone else follows suit strapping extra weapons on top of what they already carry.
You can never be too prepared when you don’t know who you’re up against. They sure as hell won’t see us coming.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Aero
I step out onto the clubhouse porch, half-drunk and half-dead from the inside out, but I don’t care. Not with the rage still burning in my gut and the ache of Lacey’s absence clawing at my ribs.
The night air, thick with humidity and sharp with salt from the bay, hits me like a punch. Sweat’s already slick down my spine, whiskey still warm in my blood. Atlantic City’s glowing in the distance, all neon lies and broken dreams.
Boots creak behind me. Grizzly, Surge, Crank and the rest of my brothers, moving in tight formation like wolves hungry for the kill. I clench my jaw and descend the steps. Gravel crunches under my boots like bones snapping. Hashtag’s already pulled the tech van around. Rancor tosses his gear in the back while Padre double-checks weapons with the reverence of a man preparing for war.
“Gear’s loaded,” Pike mutters. “All mags are full.”
“Let’s finish this,” I say, swinging a leg over my bike.
Our engines fire one by one, coughing up hell into the air. The ground shakes. Streetlights flicker overhead like they’re scared to stay lit.
I glance back at the clubhouse and think about how empty it feels now. Then I twist the throttle, pushing the thought away and lead us out. Tires peel as we rip through backroads. The summer heat follows us, clinging to our skin. The wind whips past, but it doesn’t cool me. It doesn’t touch the fire crawling under my skin.
Every mile is another one closer to the men who think they can take what doesn’t belong to them. Who think women are currency. The world narrows to taillights and the red glow of brake lights ahead of me. We ride through the outskirts of the city, past shuttered gas stations and old strip malls. Hashtag’s van cuts off into the woods at a predetermined point, circling around for higher ground. The rest of us follow the road another five miles before we veer off onto a gravel road barely visible to civilization.
We kill the engines a mile out, leaving the bikes behind, hidden beneath the trees. Padre shoulders the duffel full of extra ammo and holy rage. We hike in silence, the darkness swallowing us whole. No headlights. No voices. Just the sound of boots crunching dirt and the low click of weapons being checked in the dark. We’re tucked into a shallow ridge line just north of the lot. Not much elevation, but enough to see without being seen.
We move quietly through the tree line, hugging the ridge until we hit the advantage point Hashtag scouted out. The meatpacking plant comes into view through the trees. We stop at the ridge, crouching low in the overgrowth.
Hashtag’s already patching into surveillance feeds from the van, tracking movement patterns. I drop to a knee beside Grizzly. Padre tosses down a pack and stretches his neck. Cranksets the long-range scope on a tripod while Pike loads extra mags into the side pockets of his cut. Rancor, Tango and the rest fan out around us, eyes sharp.
Backdraft lets out a low growl. “I’m gonna enjoy burning this place to the ground.”
“Focus,” I bark. “We’re not here to be noticed, we’re here to erase a problem.”
That earns me a few glances, the kind that saywe’re watching you, Prez. Padre’s one of them, like he’s weighing whether there’s anything left of my soul under all the shit piling up.
“You talk like this is just another job,” Surge shifts beside me, his voice a low growl, “Like we’re not about to go to war over something personal.”
His words land like a gut punch. Not because he’s wrong, because he said it out loud.
