Page 24

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T he streets are like a ghost town as we speed through them, our six vans loaded with eight to ten men in each, all armed to the nines with extra weapons stored along the walls of each van.

If we get pulled over by cops and searched, we are fucked. There’s no way to hide our tools of trade, so we don’t break any speed limits, trying to maintain our cover so we can reach our destinations without issue.

“Are all ten locations down?” I ask from the front seat before Lewy’s voice comes through the car’s speaker.

“Yes, Sarg. I have my team working on a solution, but it’s almost like something is blocking our access. If you could get someone to check the comms controls on site, that will help me figure out what’s going on. ”

Glancing over my shoulder, I eye Murf, who gives me a nod, silently telling me he’ll handle that.

“Will do, Lewy. Keep working on it. We’ll be in touch,” I bark before ending the call, frustration that we are going in blind evident in my snappy tone.

“Lewy’s good at what he does.” JD reassures me from the driver’s seat as he slows the van at an intersection.

“Yeah, I know,” I mutter, looking both ways down the road to see them completely vacant. It’s fucking eerie seeing the normally bustling streets resemble something I’ve only ever witnessed in movies.

As we turn onto the main road, three of the vans veer off in the other direction, heading to our northern locations while the other two stay on our tail.

This whole fucking situation doesn’t feel right to me. It feels very fucking off.

Leaning forward, I scoop up the CB radio receiver and press the button.

“Van two to all vans, do you receive?”

“Van three receives.” Tups, our club Secretary acknowledges first.

“Van one hears you loud and clear.” Smitty chirps, sounding way too fucking cheerful to be on a mission. But that’s just him. He’s an adrenalin junkie through and through. This shit fuels him.

“Van six is present, sir.”

The men in my van chuckle at the mocking tone of Spud’s voice. He may be our Vice President, but the fucker is a clown.

“Van four, ready,” Roadie announces.

“Van five, locked and loaded,” Mex practically yells .

“I wish he wouldn’t say that over the radio,” JD mutters from beside me, and I have to agree, but now’s not the time for me to bring that up.

With all vans listening on, I issue my order. “Suit up in protective gear. I have a feeling this plumbing job will be messy.”

Groans come from the back of my van, but they immediately start shucking off their vests and slipping the Kevlar vests on, a generous gift from the police commissioner last year.

“You got a feeling about this one?” JD asks, and I nod.

“Yeah. Losing comms and eyes on all ten sites at once isn’t a fucking coincidence.”

Trunk passes two vests over to the front for us, and as we continue driving, veering off to our destination as van one and three stay south bound, I too suit up.

JD slows the van as we get closer to our main warehouse. This is the one with all the really illegal shit that the cops turn a blind eye to.

Well, the ones on our payroll.

The others are gently steered in another direction by the ones on our payroll, so we rarely have to worry about them.

The street gangs, on the other hand, are a different fucking story.

Last year was fucking chaos. The whole fucking world locking down because of the virus, and all of a sudden, the most valuable items to hit the black market were medical supplies and fucking dunny roll.

Who would have thought that arse paper would be worth so much?

The medical supplies were understandable, and in a group operation with the Marx crew, we very fucking quietly seized an illegal shipment of medical supplies that the Triad tried to get in.

Had they, they would have controlled our fucking hospitals, and we couldn’t let that happen.

Hell, even the state premier had a hand in making sure we were the ones to seize the goods. If the cops had gotten it, it would have been held up in red tape. But the Marx family have ties that go all the way to the top, and they needed extra muscle to help not only seize the shipment, but to store it and protect it to avoid more chaos and looting.

“All looks quiet.” JD observes as he pulls into the laneway that leads to our warehouse entrance.

He’s not wrong. Nothing looks amiss, but that doesn’t mean all is well.

Picking up the CB receiver again, I reach out to the other vans.

“Van two on location and ready to go.”

I wait a moment, but all we get from the radio is static.

“Van two, does anyone receive me?” I ask, my gaze shooting to JD’s wide eyes when we get nothing else but static.

“Sarg. There’s zero phone signal,” Murf says from the back, so I pull my phone out to see the same thing.

No bars. SOS only.

Fuck.

“What the fuck does that mean?” JD snaps, shucking on his Kevlar.

“It means we have no way of communicating with the others,” I hiss, and Trunk grunts from the back.

“So, do we still go in?”

Fuck .

Protocol would say hell fucking no, but we have to check this out.

“Double up on your metal and ammo,” I bark, opening the glove compartment to take out another gun for JD before snatching another out for me. “Murf, when all is clear, you and Vender check the comms cupboard and security cameras. Trunk. Bowey. You two do a perimeter sweep. Trigger and Mule, you stay at our six at all times.”

A round of yeses sounds from the back and I eye JD.

“You ready, man?”

He holds up his Glock and flashes me a fucking grin.

“Ready Sarg. Lead the way.”

With a nod, we all get out of the van, moving quickly but quietly to the entrance door.

JD tries the handle, but it’s locked, as it should be, so I key in the code and hear the faint click, releasing the latch.

Swinging the door wide, our guns are raised, ready to shoot anything that moves, but all is clear in the entrance, so we continue in.

For an MC, we aren’t quite as thug populated as other MCs in the country. A lot of our men are ex-army, many of which have seen action over in the middle east.

For whatever reason, they left the service and found their way to us, which gives us a unique advantage over most.

Skill and experience.

We move as a unit through the long passage that opens up into the main warehouse, JD and I veering off towards the office just off to the side where the hum of a TV sounds, as well as laughter .

JD eyes me, and he doesn’t need to speak for me to know we are thinking the same thing.

What the fuck is going on?

As we reach the door to the office, I glance over my shoulder to see Trigger and Mule on full alert behind us, their guns raised and ready, while the others stand back, fanning the entrance, ready for battle.

When my gaze locks onto JD’s again, I give him a nod and he turns the doorknob slowly and quietly before shoving it open.

“Hands in the air!” I yell, scaring the absolute fuck outta the men sitting around a card table playing fucking poker.

“Fuck. Don’t shoot,” cries Yabbie, his hands darting in the air as his cards go flying.

“Uhhhh, they seem fine.” JD voices my fucking thoughts.

“What’s going on, Sarg?” Scooter asks this time, his bald head appearing as he accidentally knocks his cap off while raising his hands.

“You all good?” I ask, my gaze darting from my two men, to Patrick and Gerald, who belong to the Marx crew.

“Yeah. Everything is good here,” Patrick answers for them and they all nod.

“Lower your guns,” I call, relaxing my shoulders and huffing in frustration as I step back out the door to eye Murf and Trunk. “All clear. Get your tasks done.”

They nod and hurry off, while I step back into the room, noting that even though I’ve called all clear, Trigger and Mule remain on high alert with their guns ready.

“We got an alert from this warehouse, but comms and eyes are down,” I tell them, and they all lower their hands to pull out their phones.

“Shit. I didn’t even notice,” Scooter mutters, as Patrick shoots from his seat to check the security monitors in the other room.

Following, I watch as he frowns, clicking a few things before his gaze meets mine.

“The security cameras are down. It doesn’t look to be on site, though.”

“So the cameras haven’t been tampered with?” I ask, and he shrugs.

“I’d have to check, but this shows them still there, but they are somehow not turned on. It’s like someone else is controlling them.”

Fuck.

“I already have my men checking the hardware, and Lewy can’t seem to access them remotely.”

“That’s weird.” Patrick frowns, and right as he opens his mouth to say something else, loud yelling from out in the warehouse has us moving quickly in that direction, guns raised.

“Put your guns down!” a voice booms, over and over, and as I step out into the warehouse where JD retreated with Trigger and Mule, I come face to face with some of the deadliest motherfuckers around.

Marx brothers.

“Lower your guns,” I order my team as I step forward, catching my mate Liam’s attention.

The cheeky fucker has the audacity to fucking grin as he points his gun at me, kissing the air and shooting me a wink.

“Hey Camy boy.”

“Fuck off, you prick. It’s Ringo to you.” I chuckle and the four Marx brothers, plus Riggs, their head of security, lower their guns as they chuckle too .

“Jesus, do you arseholes sleep in suits?” JD teases as he steps up to my side, and Kendrick shrugs.

“I was born in a fucking suit.”

“Speak for yourself,” Liam whines. “These fucking shirts choke me.”

“What the fuck are you complaining about? I heard you like to be choked.” Oswald, the youngest Marx present, snickers, and Liam rolls his eyes.

“Dude. I’m the giver, not the receiver.”

“Fucking hell.” Conrad Marx, the oldest Marx present, shoves past them and steps forward. “I swear I have no idea how he’s still fucking alive.” He holds out his hand to shake. “Ringo. Good to see you again.”

Taking his offer, I shake his hand before the other brothers step forward and do the same.

It’s more formal than what I’m used to. MC members don’t exactly shake hands.

Maybe a slap on the shoulder, a fist bump, or even a simple nod is how we typically greet someone, which is exactly the way Riggs greets me. With a nod.

Seth Riggs has been a part of the Marx crew for as long as I can remember. He grew up with Conrad. They were best mates, from what I’ve been told. When he was in his teens, Ewan Marx, the father and leader of the Marx family, recruited Riggs as one of his soldiers, and after years of loyalty, Riggs was bumped up to the head of the Marx security, watching over Ewan and his heir, Leo as they lead.

This guy doesn’t fuck around. He’s loyal to a tee, and fucking deadly in the blink of an eye, yet here, now, he re-holsters his gun, not at all finding us a threat .

We are, after all, working together.

“So what the fuck is happening? Why did we get an alert? And why couldn’t we access comms?” Kendrick asks, taking the lead on behalf of the family.

“We are trying to figure that out now.” I turn to Patrick, who starts filling Kendrick in on the surveillance issue.

Noise from behind us makes the Marx men stiffen, their hands on their weapons in an instant, but I hold up my hand to reassure them.

“It’s my men. They were checking comms and doing a security sweep.”

“Always got it all covered,” Liam chuckles, coming up to my side and bumping his shoulder into mine.

“Always,” I agree, watching my men approach.

“Please tell me we are gonna hit a club or two when this lockdown lifts. I could use some Ringo time.”

I chuckle, taking in my mate. “I don’t think your old man would be too fucking happy about that.”

“Nah, he’s too busy putting Leo up on a pedestal to notice my clubbing habits. Being child number eight has its perks.” Liam grins, wagging his brows, and I can’t help but grin back.

I have a feeling he’d like Abbey. Hell, I have a feeling she’d like him too.

My smile drops. Yeah-nah, I don’t like that fucking idea.

“Are you sure you’re not child number nine?” I ask, trying to cover up my swift mood change at the thought of my Angel being attracted to my mate. “Who was born first? You or Fallon?”

Liam rolls his eyes. “I was born before my twin sister, so that makes me child number fucking eight.”

I snicker, already knowing it pisses him off when there’s any mention that his twin sister, Fallon, is older than him.

“Sarg. Comms cupboard seems okay, and the cameras are intact.” Murf advises as he nears, and I glance at Patrick.

He was right. The problem isn’t here, it’s online.

“So that means someone else has control over our system?” Kendrick asks Patrick, coming to the same conclusion as me, and Patrick shrugs.

“Maybe. I’m not IT, so I have no idea about that.”

“You have Lewy working on it?” Conrad asks me and I nod.

“If there’s something to be found, then he’ll find it.”

“Would whatever it is be blocking our phone signals as well?” Scooter asks and I frown.

“I have no fucking idea.”

All of a sudden, my phone starts ringing, scaring the fuck out of most of us since we were just speaking of the lack of signal.

“Speak,” I bark, already knowing it’s Lewy and putting him on speaker.

“Sarg, I’ve got control back, and everything looks fine at all warehouses except for one.”

My eyes dart to JD and he instantly stiffens.

“Which one?” I snap.

“Warehouse four. I have access again, but the cameras are showing as offline, which means they’ve been disconnected on location.”

“Fuck,” Conrad mutters, taking his phone out before texting someone.

Fuck is right. Warehouse four is where the bulk of our medical supplies are kept .

“Thanks Lewy. I want a report on what happened and a contingency plan to make sure it doesn’t happen again,” I order.

“Yes, Sarg,” he says warily, knowing this breach reflects on him and his team as the ones to set up our online security.

As soon as I hang up, I try to conference call all leaders from each van, to give them a quick rundown on what’s happened here, but one van won’t respond.

Van five.

To the other responding vans, I give them the details we know, only to find out that they had similar experiences at their locations, too. The real concern is that van five, the one that was tasked to check warehouse four, isn’t responding.

“Everyone rendezvous at warehouse four. Stay on high alert and approach with caution,” I order, and after agreeing, all locations disconnect except for van one.

“Ringo, am I on speaker?” Smitty asks.

“No,” I say, stepping away from the others, like that will somehow ensure no one can hear, even though he’s not on speaker.

“How do you read Kendrick?” Smitty asks, and I sigh, turning to face the Marx men, a couple on their phones barking orders, while the others talk in hushed tones.

“He was alright until we found out warehouse four is still unreachable.”

“Dammit. Why do I get the feeling we have been sent on a wild goose chase?” Smitty asks.

“Because I’m pretty fucking sure we have been. It looks like the Marx crew got directed to this warehouse too, and we split up to check some of the other locations only because Lewy noticed them all down, otherwise we’d all be here where I am. ”

“I’ve got a bad fucking feeling about this,” Smitty mutters, “try to keep the Marx brothers on side. The last thing we fucking need is them deciding we’re their enemy when we fucking aren’t.”

Although the Marx brothers can be crazy motherfuckers, most of them at least have their heads screwed on right and are fair men. Their old man, on the other hand, well, he’s a fucking nutter. Seems to be getting worse the older he gets as well, so Smitty’s concerns are understandable, because even if Kendrick and his brothers don’t think we have a hand in whatever the fuck this is, it doesn’t mean Ewan won’t jump to his own fucking conclusions.

“Leave it with me,” I mutter before ending the call and rounding up the men.

Why do I get the fucking feeling shit is about to hit the fan?