Page 25 of Dead Devil's Playground
Hudson nods, his expression grim. "Someone's trying to hit us from all angles. Weaken us before delivering the knockout punch."
I straighten my spine, ignoring the way my body screams for sleep, a cold determination settling over me. "Take me there," I demand. "To the docks. I want to see it for myself."
He hesitates, clearly weighing the risks. "Ry, it might not be safe—"
"I don't care," I cut him off, my voice dropping to a growl. The exhaustion burns behind my eyes, but anger burns hotter. "This is my city, my business they're fucking with. I need to see it."
For a moment, I think he might argue, but then he gives a short nod. "Alright. But we do this my way."
I brush past him, letting my shoulder graze his chest. "Whatever you say, old man," I murmur, letting a hint of a smile play at my lips. "I know how you security types get all worked up about protocols."
His eyes flash with something that isn't entirely professional as I walk toward the exit. Despite everything that's happened, despite the threats closing in from all sides, there's a part of me that feels alive with anticipation. Whoever is behind this has made a critical mistake.
They've underestimated just how far I'll go to protect what's mine.
The docks are a different world from the glittering clubs in the entertainment district—gray, grimy, and reeking of fish and diesel. Shipping containers are stacked like massive building blocks, creating a maze of metal corridors that could hide any number of threats. I've studied the shipping manifests for years, looked at blueprints, approved the security protocols, signed off on every detail of our operation here, yet being here in person among the stacked containers feels different.
Hudson slows Rev's bike to a halt at the main gates. He flips his visor up, revealing his face to the guard who steps forward with a nod of recognition. The guard's eyes shift to me, his hand making an upward motion. I hesitate before reluctantly lifting my own visor, the cool air hitting my exposed skin. A fleeting thought crosses my mind: this constant verification, this suspicion—it would all be unnecessary if I hadn't spent two years ruling from the shadows, my face a mystery even to those who serve me.
The motorcycle engine growls beneath us as Hudson guides us through the labyrinthine paths between towering metal containers. His voice crackles through the intercom in our helmets.
"Our shipments come in through the northeast section. Private dock, minimal traffic, maximum security—or so we thought."
I watch the scenery blur past, noting the increasing isolation as we move deeper into the dock complex. "How many people know about the route?" My voice sounds tinny in the confined space of my helmet.
"That's the problem." Through the intercom, I can hear the edge in his voice even over the wind. "The list should bevery short. Me, the twins, our top security personnel, and the shipping company we contract with."
"So either someone talked, or we have a leak," I conclude, feeling heat rise in my chest. Two years of careful anonymity, of ruling through proxies and paperwork, and now this enemy threatens everything.
Hudson slows the bike near a nondescript warehouse with a single loading bay, the tires crunching on loose gravel as we come to a stop. "This is it."
We dismount, pulling off our helmets. I immediately notice the additional security—four of Hudson's men positioned strategically around the perimeter, all armed and alert. They nod respectfully as we approach, but their eyes continue to scan the surroundings.
Inside, the warehouse is cavernous and mostly empty. A few shipping containers sit in various stages of unloading, but it's the one at the far end that catches my attention. Its doors stand open, revealing nothing but empty space where crates of premium liquor should be.
I follow Hudson to the empty container, my boots echoing against the metal floor. The hollow sound matches the emptiness in my chest—rage filling the void where our merchandise should be.
"Look at this," Hudson says, crouching down near the container's edge. His fingers trace something I can barely see—small scratch marks around the lock. "These aren't from crowbars or bolt cutters. This was done with precision tools."
I kneel beside him, squinting at the barely visible markings. "They could have just broken it."
"But they didn't," he says, his voice low. "They wanted to get in and out without anyone noticing until it was too late." He stands, moving to the container's interior. "No fingerprints, no bootprints, nothing left behind. They even knew about our security cameras."
He points to a corner where a small camera should be recording everything. "They didn't destroy it—they looped the feed. Made it look like nothing was happening while they emptied the container. That's not amateur work."
"Professionals," I mutter, the word tasting bitter on my tongue.
"Military grade," Hudson confirms. "Or ex-military at least." His eyes meet mine, and I see the same cold fury I feel burning in my chest. "This wasn't a random theft. This was targeted. Planned. They knew exactly what they were looking for and how to get it without leaving a trace."
My hands curl into fists so tight my nails bite into my palms. "They have to be storing it somewhere," I snap, my voice rising with each word. "A shipment that size doesn't just vanish. Someone's housing it, distributing it, something."
Hudson watches me carefully, his face impassive.
"Someonein this fucking city knows who's behind this," I continue, pacing the empty container. "I don't care what it takes. I want names. I want locations. I want whoever did this strung up as a fucking example."
"We'll find them," Hudson says evenly.
"When?" I whirl on him, fury bubbling over. "After they burn down another building? After they poison more of our customers? After they completely destroy everything?"
