Page 40 of Total Carnage
"Time's running out," I snapped, feeling the weight of every second slipping away. "We do this now."
"Watch close, brothers," Toolie growled, his voice low and gravelly. The room stilled, the air charged with anticipation as he stepped into the center of our circle. We were a mess of raw nerves and seething anger, but in that moment, we all knew Toolie was about to remind us why we were more than just a band of bikers.
His body convulsed, muscles rippling beneath his ink-stained skin. Bones cracked and reformed with a symphony of grotesque pops and snaps. It was a transformation I'd seen before, but it never lost its primal edge. Fur sprouted where leather and denim had been, his form expanding and contorting until man was replaced by beast. A massive wolf stood before us now, silver fur catching the dim light of the clubhouse, eyes glowing with fierce intelligence.
"Fucking hell," I muttered under my breath, unable to look away. The power coursing through Toolie's new form was a tangible thing, a force of nature we were all part of. The others watched with silent respect, the energy in the room shifting from desperation to something else—something powerful.
The wolf paced, heavy paws thudding against the wooden floor, and then, with another shudder, Toolie was back. He stood there, chest heaving, a wicked grin splitting his face. "That's what we're up against, boys. But remember, Stansfield ain't got shit on us."
"Damn straight," Shivs barked out, clapping Toolie on the shoulder. “Let’s rock some shit.”
Vin
The clubhouse door slammed open, and Totgut's boots thumped across the floor with the urgency of a death knell. We all turned, sensing something big on the wind, something that smelled like trouble and tasted like revenge. "Got word on the Black Market Railroad," he panted, his eyes wild as a cornered animal. "I think Raven might be there." The Black Market Railroad was built by a group of Russians, possibly mafia-related, trafficking young women. Raven had mentioned seeing the name in the papers on her father’s desk. It made sense that Stansfield would use them to hide his daughter.
Totgut spilled the information in one long breath as if he’d forget what he knew if he didn’t get it out all at once. The most important piece was that the Russians were using the Interstate -75 corridor between Detroit and Miami to move young pussy, meaning they went straight through Lexington.
“You’re sure about the location?” I said and Totgut nodded.
"Okay, listen up," Canon said, his voice slicing through the thick air with military precision that could cut diamonds. "We hit 'em fast, we hit 'em hard. Timing and coordination are key. They won't even see us coming." He laid out the plan, his fingers tracing invisible lines on the tabletop, orchestrating our moves like we were pieces on his personal chessboard.
"Totgut, you're on lookout. Shivs, Moab—you're with me. We do this clean. In and out. No one gets left behind." I looked at each for assurance.
The clubhouse transformed into a hive of activity as we geared up. I checked my Glock, the slide snapping back with a sound that promised hell to anyone on its receiving end. The weight of it in my hand was a familiar comfort, a lover's touch in a world that offered little warmth. Leather creaked, zippers snarled, and the air hummed with the electricity of impending battle. This wasn't just another ride, another fight—it was personal.
The night was a deep shade of betrayal as we rolled up a block from the warehouse, engines growling low, like predators stalking through the darkness. We parked the bikes a safe distance away, the thrum of our arrival fading into the heavy stillness that clung to the place like a warning.
"Stay sharp," I murmured, already moving ahead, my every sense dialed up to eleven. The others followed, silent as shadows, our boots barely whispering against the gravel.
The door to the warehouse waited, a barrier to what lay beyond, its rusted hinges a testament to the decay within. I slipped a knife from my boot, easing it into the gap, prying with controlled force until the lock gave way with a resentful groan. We paused, a collective breath held, before I pushed the door open with the barrel of my Glock.
Inside, the air hit us, heavy with the scent of oil and sweat. Dim bulbs dangled from the ceiling, their feeble light castingshadows that stretched and twisted across the walls, long fingers reaching out like the damned.
"Smells like hell took a shit in here," Shivs muttered behind me, his voice a low rasp that cut through the silence.
"Keep your head in the game," I shot back, my eyes scanning the darkened expanse of the warehouse. It was quiet—too quiet—and every instinct screamed that this was just the calm before the storm.
I led them deeper into the belly of the beast, every shadow scrutinized, every sound a potential threat. This was the dance with death we knew all too well—the razor’s edge walk between victory and oblivion. "Positions," I whispered, hand signals cutting through the dimness as we fanned out, ready to unleash hell on those who dared to trade in human misery.
The stillness shattered, the first gunshot a thunderclap in the tomb-like silence of the warehouse. I was out in front, where I always am, and the rounds came at me like hornets from hell. Each bullet might as well have been a love tap for all the harm it did. My brothers fanned out behind me, my body a shield made of something tougher than flesh and bone.
"Move!" I barked, the sound of my voice almost lost in the cacophony. We'd walked into an ambush, but if these Kasparov goons thought we were easy prey, they were about to get schooled in the art of war, Royal Bastards style.
Canon had found his perch, a shadow among shadows, the glint of his scope the last thing these bastards would ever see. I could hear the mechanical whispers of his rifle, each shot a promise delivered—a life for a life.
"Cover me," Moab growled, and Shivs was on him like a second skin, the two of them a storm of violence, moving through the enemy ranks with a kind of savage grace. Close-quarters combat—their bread and butter, their dance macabre.
"Vin! Left flank!" Canon’s voice cut through, and I pivoted, my own weapon roaring to life as I laid down cover fire. A symphony of violence, orchestrated by necessity, conducted with brutal efficiency. Vin Reed and the Royal Bastards, we were more than a club, more than a name—we were a force, relentless and undying.
We reached a van we thought would give us cover, its cold metal sides echoing the chill of the lives trapped inside. “Fuck. People are inside.” I tore open the door and looked beyond the cage at each face inside, none of them Raven. Wide and glassy with terror, the girls' eyes met mine through the slats in the side doors. Hell, if that didn't stoke the fire burning in my chest hotter than the barrel of my gun.
"Moab, on me!" I commanded, and the big brute was there in an instant, his presence like a war machine made flesh. Together, we attacked the locks, our hands working in tandem—a symphony of destruction aimed at liberation. With one final, guttural yell, I ripped the cage doors open, the sound of metal tearing a sweet chorus to my ears.
"Come on, out!" Moab's voice was gentle as he spoke to the women. It was a stark contrast to the grizzly bear demeanor he wore like armor.
"Stick close," I instructed, shepherding them through the chaos, making sure each frightened soul passed from the shadows of captivity into the promise of dawn. It was moments like these that reminded me why the fight was worth it. Why the Royal Bastards rode, why we bled. As we emerged from the belly of the beast, the night air kissed our faces, tasting of freedom and the faintest hint of redemption. Maybe, just maybe, we were more than our pasts, more than the sum of our scars.
The last bullet flew, ricocheting off a steel beam with a high-pitched whine before silence reclaimed the warehouse. I stood amidst the settling dust, the adrenaline still coursing throughmy veins. We had won, but victory tasted like ash without a lead on Raven. The crew circled up, our heavy breaths and the clinking of gear the only sound echoing in the hollow space.
