Page 20

CHAPTER EIGHT

Regnor

The warehouse squats in the industrial district like a cancer, all concrete and corrugated metal under the pale moon.

We've been in position for twenty minutes, watching, waiting.

The Patriot's inside—Tor confirmed it an hour ago.

After years of this psychopath poisoning our community, it ends tonight.

"Two guards on the north entrance," Fenrir's voice crackles through the comm. "Three on the south loading dock."

I adjust my position behind a rusted shipping container, AR-15 steady in my hands.

The weight of the vest is familiar, the taste of adrenaline sharp on my tongue.

Beside me, Kraken checks his weapon for the third time.

We've been paired up for the breach, Runes' idea of forcing us to work together, even though things couldn’t be worse between us right now.

"Rooftop's clear," Oskar reports from his sniper position. "No movement up top."

"Interior lights are on in the northwest corner," Tor adds. "Thermal shows at least fifteen bodies inside."

"You good?" I ask Kraken, not looking at him.

"Peachy," he grunts. "Just thinking about how you knocked up my little girl."

Jesus Christ. Now?

"Not the time, Kraken."

"When is the time?" His voice is low, venomous. "When you're playing daddy to my grandkid? When you're moving her into some house, playing happy family with a baby that?—"

"That what?" I turn to face him. "That I'm going to raise? What's your fucking problem?"

"My problem is you couldn't keep your hands off her. I told every man in this club?—"

"She's not a possession," I cut him off. "She made her choice."

"Some choice. Pregnant and tied to the club forever now."

"She was already tied to the club. She's your daughter."

"Yes, she damn well is," he snaps. "The second I took her in, I promised myself I'd give her a normal life, away from this, this chaos that comes along with it."

"Yeah? How'd that work out?" I gesture toward the warehouse. "Dylan was as far from the club as you could get, and look where that led."

His jaw clenches, but before he can respond, Runes' voice cuts through:

"Positions in sixty seconds."

I push everything else down—Everly, the baby, Kraken's anger.

None of it matters if we don't survive the next hour.

"Ready?" I ask Kraken.

He nods once, sharp. Professional, even if there is some intense personal shit going on.

That's why we're still brothers, even when we want to kill each other.

"We’re ready to go."

We move as one, decades of training taking over.

The guard at the north entrance doesn't even see us coming.

Kraken takes him down silently, knife between the ribs, while I cover our six.

The body drops quietly, and we drag it behind a dumpster.

Blood pools black in the moonlight.

The door's reinforced steel, but Emil's already there with the breaching charges.

"Fire in the hole," he whispers.

The explosion is controlled, precise, and shows that we’re not letting this bastard get away this time.

The Patriot has evaded us for long enough.

The door buckles inward, and we're moving before the smoke clears.

Inside is immediate chaos.

Muzzle flashes in the darkness.

The sharp crack of automatic fire.

"Contact in the front!" I shout, diving left as bullets spark off concrete where I was just standing.

Return fire is instant.

We move in teams, covering each other, clearing corners like we've done a hundred times before.

The truth is, we’re trying to keep this as uniformed as possible, but it’s hard.

You can never anticipate how these attacks will actually go.

The warehouse is a maze of hallways and storage areas, each one potentially hiding shooters.

But they were ready for us.

More ready than expected.

Magnus grunts as a round catches his vest, spinning him back. "Fuck!"

"How many?" Runes demands over the comm.

"Too fucking many," Dag responds, pinned down behind a forklift. "They've got overlapping fields of fire. This is fucking ridiculous."

I peek around my cover, counting the bodies I see immediately.

At least a dozen shooters, well-positioned, using the warehouse's layout to their advantage.

This isn't normal security.

This is an ambush.

"They knew we were coming," I tell Kraken.

"Yeah, no shit." He's reloading, blood dripping from a graze on his cheek. "Question is how."

Dylan.

Has to be.

That fucker's photos from our last raid, his intel gathering.

He warned them.

"We need to smoke ‘em out," Fenrir calls.

Canisters bounce across the concrete, filling the space with thick gray clouds.

"Move up! Push through!"

We advance through the haze, violent shadows in the artificial fog.

Someone looms in front of me—I put two in his chest before he can raise his weapon.

Another on my right—Kraken drops him with a headshot.

"Left side, left side!" someone shouts.

More shooters, trying to flank us.

We pivot, laying down suppressing fire.

We're working together without thought, covering each other's blind spots.

Whatever beef we have, it doesn't matter in combat.

Brothers first.

Always.

"Frag out!" Emil's warning comes just before the explosion.

Screams follow, then silence from that direction.

We push forward, stepping over bodies, boots slipping in blood.

The main floor opens into a massive storage area, and what we find stops us cold.

Pallets of drugs.

Not just fentanyl—everything.

Heroin, meth, synthetics I don't even recognize.

Enough to supply half the state.

"Jesus," someone breathes. "Look at all this shit."

"This is bigger than we thought," Fenrir says. "This isn't just distribution. This is the whole fucking operation."

"Documents," Tor calls out, already at a desk covered in papers. "Shipping manifests, distribution networks... fuck me, this is huge."

I move to look while Kraken covers the entrance.

Names, dates, quantities.

And there—Dylan Mitchell, listed as a "distribution coordinator."

Before I can respond, Fenrir's voice cuts through: "Found something else. You need to see this."

We follow him to a side office where he's standing over a map pinned to the wall.

It's our city, marked with colored pins.

Red in the minority neighborhoods.

Blue in white areas.

Green in between.

"Distribution map," Fenrir says grimly. "Red zones get the fentanyl-laced product. Blue gets clean. Green is mixed."

"He's still targeting minorities," I say, bile rising in my throat. "Specifically poisoning?—"

"Cleaning up the country," a voice says from the doorway. "One dead junkie at a time."

We spin, weapons raised.

The Patriot stands there, hands visible but relaxed, like we're having a casual conversation.

He's smaller than I expected—average height, graying hair, could be anybody's grandfather.

Except for the eyes.

Cold. Dead. Fanatic's eyes.

"Took you long enough to find this place," he continues. "Though I expected more of you. My men took down, what, three of yours already?"

"Bullshit," Dag growls. "We haven't lost anyone."

"Yet." The Patriot smiles. "Night's still young."

"Where are you getting your intel?" Runes demands, stepping forward.

The Patriot shrugs. "Wouldn't you like to know? Let's just say your club has more leaks than a rusty boat."

"Dylan," I growl.

"Among others." His smile widens. "Amazing what people will do for the right price. Or the right threats. Your girlfriend was particularly helpful, even if she didn't know it."

Red floods my vision.

Kraken moves faster than I can, rifle butt crashing into the Patriot's face.

He drops, blood streaming from his nose.

"That's for my son," Kraken snarls. "For Bjorn's leg."

The Patriot spits blood, still smiling. "The bomb was meant to kill them all. I'll have to settle for making one a cripple."

This time I'm the one who hits him, boot to ribs, feeling bones crack.

"Secure him," Runes orders. "Clear the rest of the building. I want every document, every hard drive. Then we burn it all."

We drag the Patriot to a loading dock while the others finish clearing.

Cable ties on wrists and ankles, as rough as we can make them.

He doesn't resist, just watches with those dead eyes.

"You think this changes anything?" he asks as we prop him against a wall. "You think killing me stops what's coming?"

"What's coming?" Fenrir demands.

"The cleansing. The real America fighting back against the parasites." He looks at each of us. "Bikers. Immigrants. Addicts. All the filth that's poisoned our country."

"Says the man literally poisoning people," Tor points out.

"Targeting the weak. The ones who choose drugs over contributing to society." His eyes find mine. "Your girlfriend's ex understands. He's been very helpful."

"What else has Dylan told you?" I grab his throat. "What else does he know?"

"Everything," the Patriot wheezes. "Every secret. Every weakness. Every pressure point. Did you know your girl's pregnant? Shame if something happened?—"

My fist breaks his jaw mid-sentence.

"Enough talk," Runes says. "We need information. Real information. Dag?"

Dag steps forward with his toolkit.

Pliers. Blades. Things that hurt without killing too quickly.

"Networks," Runes says calmly. "Suppliers. Distribution chains. Names."

We have some information on the paperwork we found, but there has to be more, and what helps us will, in turn, help out the Mackenzie family.

The Patriot spits blood and teeth. "Fuck you."

"Wrong answer."

What follows isn't pretty.

Isn't clean.

But it's what we’ve needed to do for a long time.

Dag starts with fingers, joint by joint.

The Patriot screams but doesn't break.

Just keeps ranting about racial purity and America's destiny between shrieks.

He moves on to more creative methods.

Still nothing but curses and threats about what will happen when his men avenge him.

"Tough old bastard," Dag admits after twenty minutes, hands slick with blood.

"Let me," Rio says quietly.

We all turn. Rio hasn't spoken much since Flora died, just existed in his grief.

But now his eyes burn with purpose.

"My wife," he says to the Patriot. "Flora. You remember her?"