Page 27

EVEREST

Outside, the sun is long gone, and inside, the clubhouse is filled with the low hum of the women unwinding after getting kids settled while we men hash out intel over a cold beer.

We’ve been at this table for hours, running down every name, location, and rumor tied to Velasco, and we still have nothing solid.

Nothing but whispers and cold trails. We’re trying to piece together a puzzle when half the pieces are missing.

Tony’s club trashed, and him getting beat was another message, one we heard loud and clear. He’s close, proving he doesn’t give a damn who he burns to get what he’s after. But unfortunately for Velasco, it didn't have the desired effect. It only threw gasoline on the fire.

The low rumble of tires crunching gravel outside draws everyone’s attention. More than the fact that it’s late, not many people roll up unannounced. Not unless they’ve got a damn good reason.

Catcher steps inside, his voice calm but alert. “Tony’s here.”

Riggs narrows his eyes. “Show him in.” He lifts his gaze to the women. One look is all it takes. The women don’t say a word and clear the room.

A beat passes, then the front door opens, and Tony walks in, favoring his left side, eyes bruised and swollen. But he carries his injuries with a kind of grit you can’t fake.

Tony meets Riggs and stares from across the room. “Appreciate you seeing me.” His voice is rough but steady.

Riggs nods to an empty chair. “Have a seat.”

Fender pours the old man a shot of whiskey and slides it across the table. Tony accepts the drink, sipping it slowly.

Tony sets the glass down, and his eyes sweep the table as he eases onto the chair. “Not here to bitch about what happened. I’m here to give you what I got.”

I lean back, crossing my arms, waiting for the old man's words.

“I know you're already digging, but I did a little of my own on this Velasco fella.” Tony lets the name hang in the air like smoke. “I don’t have much. No one knows what this bastard looks like. Not anyone who is still breathing, anyway. He’s like a fucking ghost. People never talk to him directly.

He has runners, guys who move through the shadows.

Word on the street is they call him Sombra.

It means shadow or some shit, depending on who you ask. ”

Riggs nods. “That tracks with what we know.”

Tony gives a tight smile. “He doesn’t just hide behind people. He becomes someone else when needed. From what I hear, he changes names, trades accents, and slips into new skin like it’s nothing. You could be drinking next to him in a bar and not know it unless he wanted you to.”

A chill works its way up my spine. The kind of enemy you can’t see coming is the most dangerous.

Tony continues, “He’s got a guy, goes by the name Tito, who acts as a middleman in Baton Rouge. I hear Tito’s been active lately, recruiting muscle, paying off low-level street dealers to keep tabs on people.”

“Which people?” Wick asks.

“The Kings,” Tony says.

That gets everyone’s attention.

“Who gave you this information?” Nova asks.

Tony’s eyes flick to my brother. “Not revealing my sources. Hope you can respect that.” Tony pauses.

When nothing is questioned, he continues, “This source used to run with a crew that dealt on the west bank. They’re small-time, but they hear things, and this Tito’s been runnin’ around with the club’s name in his mouth.

Also heard him mention the youth center, Twisted Throttle, and Kings Tactical. Seems Velasco has feelers everywhere.”

Riggs leans back, arms crossed. “You said no one knows what he looks like?”

"Not even his own people. I’ve gathered that he’s only met face-to-face with three men. One’s already dead, gunshot point-blank to the temple, execution style. His body was found in a ditch outside of Lake Charles. The second, no one has seen him in over a year, and the third, well, that’s Tito.”

Nova scratches his jaw. “This Tito, he walks around Baton Rouge untouched?”

Tony nods. “He’s got protection. You move against him, and you’ll have eyes on you in minutes.”

The following silence is thick, and every man at this table understands how close this threat is pressing in.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, breaking through the silence.

I pull it out.

Blocked number.

That’s never a good sign, but my gut tells me to answer. “Yeah?”

“She's alive.” The voice on the other end is distorted and warped, sounding like it’s speaking through a tube of cardboard and static.

My pulse spikes. “Who?”

“Amara. If they haven’t sold her yet.”

“Where?”

“Port Allen. Abandoned warehouse. There’s a shipping container. The south side of the property near the river. Number 29XB.”

“Be more specific,” I bark.

“Look for the old, abandoned sugar refinery. The container is in the clearing behind it.”

I glance around. Everyone is watching me because they feel the shift in the air.

“Who is this?” I demand, but the line goes dead.

Slowly, I lower the phone, feeling the weight of every man’s eye on me.

“That was a tip. That woman London was lookin’ for, Amara, is alive.

They got her in a shipping container in Port Allen at the old sugar mill. ”

“I know the place,” Nova says.

Tony is on his feet. “She was mine to look after. Let me help.”

Riggs puts a hand up. “You’re not going anywhere.”

“Like hell, I ain’t,” Tony barks.

“No.” Riggs’ voice is pure steel. “You can barely move. You’re more help to the club here, watchin’ over the women and children with Catcher.”

Tony’s jaw clenches, but he reluctantly nods.

Riggs looks at Catcher. “Need the keys to your truck, brother,” he says, and Catcher pulls them from his pocket, tossing them Riggs’ way. “No one in or out. Got it?”

“Got it,” Catcher says.

Riggs directs his attention to the rest of us, everyone checking their weapons and getting ready to roll out. “We’re takin’ cages and leavin’ the bikes. Can’t risk the noise. Some of you are with me. The others in the van,” he barks, and we move fast.

The road out of New Orleans is dark, except for our headlights cutting through the long stretch of Louisiana blacktop. I’m behind the wheel of Catcher’s truck, with Riggs riding shotgun. Behind us, Wick follows in the van with Nova, Kiwi, and Fender.

The hum of the tires and the occasional creak of the truck’s old suspension are the only sounds filling the silence. But my head is not quiet.

Amara isn’t a part of this war. She’s just a young woman trying to survive who got caught up with the wrong person. She’s not ours, but that doesn’t matter.

We aren’t saints. There’s plenty of blood on our hands and bodies that will never be found.

But there’s a line. We won’t let scum prey on the weak and look the other way.

We don’t sit back while a woman’s life is on the line.

Sometimes, we protect more than our own.

Sometimes, that includes the ones with no one looking out for them.

The port smells like rust and rot, like time has forgotten the place for decades.

We roll up quietly, just short of the yard's edge where the river meets the bank. There’s no activity.

There's no sound. The abandoned sugar mill looms in the distance, half-collapsed with jagged beams jutting toward the sky like broken ribs.

Its brick walls are crumbling, and the smokestack is no longer standing.

We leave the vehicles and trek the rest of the way on foot, our boots crunching over loose gravel and overgrown weeds.

We keep our eyes sharp and don’t speak. Containers are scattered about the property, some stacked three high, and graffiti covers the sides of the steel boxes.

Right where the anonymous caller said it would be, a solo container sits near the river's south end.

Riggs holds up a hand, and we stop, hidden behind a rusted-out forklift.

There are three guards. One is pacing slowly along the fence line near the river. Another is camped out near the back end of a semi-trailer. The third is leaning against an SUV about thirty feet from the container. A cigarette glows in the dark, lighting his face with each drag.

There are no words spoken.

Riggs gives silent commands. Each directive is precise. We fan out, circling the perimeter. The guards have no clue we’re even here.

I watch Fender slip behind one of the men, a knife in his hand. One quick move, he covers the guard’s mouth, dragging the blade across his throat.

Wick and I head for the smoker. He’s distracted, eyes on his phone.

While the dumbass is still looking down, Wick slides in behind him, grabs his head, and twists, snapping his neck like a twig.

The second guard drops like a sack of bricks.

The third motherfucker shouts, but Kiwi is on him, and a gunshot cracks through the air, then the third guard drops.

We rush toward the container as Kiwi digs the keys out of the dead man’s pocket, tossing them to Riggs, who unlocks the padlock and pulls the double doors open.

The smell hits us first—sweat, piss, vomit, and blood.

I use the flashlight on my phone, shining it into the container.