Page 30 of Victorious: Part 3
Lift adjusts his night-vision goggles, his massive frame somehow managing to blend into the shadows. Ace checks his comms equipment one last time, his tech expertise crucial for what’s coming. Vibe, the club’s steadiest hand, gives tactical signals to Pyro and Ace, positioning them for the initial breach.
“Thermal imaging confirms eight guards on the perimeter,” Ace whispers into his radio, studying the readout on his tablet. “Two at the main entrance, two patrolling the east side, threecovering the loading docks, and one in the watchtower.”
“What about inside?” I ask.
“Harder to tell with all the metal and concrete, but I’m seeing at least fifteen heat signatures. Could be more. Some areas are shielded.”
Fifteen armed cartel members, plus however many innocent workers might be caught in the crossfire. The intelligence suggested Javier used legitimate businesses as fronts, employing regular people who had no idea they were working for a Cartel.
That’s what makes this so fucking complicated.
I talk into the comms for my team, “Remember, we separate the innocent workers from the Cartel. No civilian casualties. We’re the good guys here, let’s make sure we stay that way.”
A chorus of acknowledgments comes back through the comms.
“Lift, Vibe, you’re with me on the main approach. Trax, Sensei, take the east entrance. Surge, Pyro, Ace, loadin’ dock is yours. We breach simultaneously in sixty seconds.”
I check my watch—2:03 a.m.
In Chicago, Houston, New Orleans, Tampa, Vegas, and Los Angeles, brothers are making the same final preparations, saying the same silent prayers, facing the same life-or-death stakes.
“Fifty seconds,” I whisper.
My hands are steady despite the adrenaline coursing through my system. Years of running Chicago’s streets have prepared me for moments like this, but nothing quite compares to a coordinated, simultaneous assault of this scale.
“Thirty seconds.”
Through my earpiece, I hear the subtle sounds of my brothers getting into position. The soft click of safeties disengaging. The barely audible whisper of tactical gear against concrete.
“Ten seconds.”
This is it.
For Chicago.
For Defiance.
For every innocent person Javier has hurt or plans to hurt.
“Go,go,GO!” I sprint from cover, Lift and Vibe flanking me as we rush the main entrance. The two guards at the front door barely have time to register our approach before Lift’s massive form tackles one, and Vibe drops the other with a precise strike to the pressure point at his neck.
The guard chokes as he falls to the ground, grasping at his neck for air before Vibe brings up his gun, shooting a single round into his forehead. He flops back, blood pooling as Lift continues to wrestle with the other guard on the floor. I step over the dead body toward Lift, and Vibe chuckles, watching Lift struggle. I shake my head, stepping up to the pair as the guard rolls on top of Lift, wrapping his hands around Lift’s throat, effectively choking him.
I press the muzzle of my gun to the guard’s head. He stills, his body tense, but he doesn’t have a moment to think before I pull the trigger. The front of his face explodes, and the guard’s body drops on top of Lift like a sack of potatoes.
“I had him, Pres!” Lift groans, shoving the dead asshole off him.
Vibe laughs, placing his hand out to help his best friend up. “Sure, looked like it, bro.”
“Shut up, man. I could have taken him,” Lift mumbles, and I smirk, reaching for my comms.
“Front entrance is ours,” I mutter into the radio, my voice low as I drag an unconscious guard into the shadows. His blood leaves a dark smear across the concrete, but I don’t flinch—this is war, not some clean-cut hit job. Vibe and Lift are right behind me, their boots scuffing the ground as they drag the other bodies, dumping them into the cover of stacked pallets.
No ceremony.
No hesitation.
Just bikers doing what needs to be done.
