Page 34

33

WRAITH

T he easiest way to let our enemies know we’re coming is to move on our bikes.

It would be hard to miss a convoy of over twenty patched-in members and prospects and the gutsy rumble of our Harleys. But nondescript vans are our friends.

We all have our priorities.

Grudge and I are going to lead teams in the front and rear, respectively.

Smoke is going to rig the place to blow when we finish.

And Butcher is on surveillance, watching the building using a drone, something Vex encouraged us to learn how to operate.

But for the first time in a while, despite how clear my plan is, my main thought is about what will happen to someone else if I die.

I’ve got an out-of-date will that Hallie had me write before Lottie was born, naming the two of them as beneficiaries.

Now I find myself worrying.

Catfish is driving, so I grab my phone and type a message to Smoke in the other van.

Me: Anything happens to me, give everything to Raven and Fen.

It takes a second for him to respond.

Smoke: Don’t make me come over there and smack you about the head.

I laugh at that.

Me: I’m serious. My will’s out of date. Give everything to Raven except the bikes. Keep them working and give them to Fen when he’s old enough.

Smoke: This isn’t the time for this conversation.

Me: Be even harder to have if I’m dead. Just wanted this to be a record of my wishes. Everything to Raven and Fen.

Smoke: Tomorrow, you can get a better will written so I don’t have to deal with this fucking shit. Because you are NOT going to die tonight.

Me: From your lips to God’s ears.

Smoke: And next time, you get to drive with the new prospect because his breath is so bad, it’s burning my eyebrows off when he speaks.

I send a vomit emoji in response, then tuck my phone away in my cut.

As I watch the roads become more populated and the city go from a speck in the distance to something tall and glowering, I should be thinking about what we’re supposed to do when we arrive at our destination.

Instead, I’m thinking about the way Fen sat at the table with us to eat his dinner and told me all about the outdoor projects he’d done at kindergarten, and how he hated sushi even though he’d never had it because it was raw, and that the label on his T-shirt made him itch.

And the whole while, I’d glance over at Raven in the hope I’d catch her eye so I could get lost in her for a second.

Butcher’s van rolls down onto a deserted street on an industrial estate ahead of us. We hold back. Nondescript warehouses and storage companies line either side. Two of the streetlights are missing bulbs, which helps our cause.

“Quiet as a fucking morgue on the street,” Butcher says over the radio. “But there are lights on in the building. Three cars parked outside. In and out, brothers. In and out.”

Catfish pulls us up closer to Butcher’s van, and we drop out.

“Follow me,” I encourage as we slip down the narrow path along the side of the building. Vines have taken over the wire fencing, leaving it overgrown. Garbage and cardboard packaging has accumulated in places. It’s dark and provides us all the cover we need.

A man stands outside, looking up at the sky. One hand is in his pocket; the other holds a cigarette to his lips. I slip up behind him and run my knife straight along his neck. Blood pumps out as he gurgles, but no other noise escapes.

He slumps to the floor, his eyes wide.

“Surprise,” I say, and wipe my knife on his jacket.

Catfish points to two prospects, who reach beneath the guy’s arms and drag him back into the alley. Nothing says you’re under attack like a dead body in the parking lot.

The door isn’t locked.

“Nice and secure,” Catfish whispers.

I nudge the door open with the end of my Glock, but all it reveals is a long, sterile corridor with blue laminate flooring, white walls, and fluorescent lighting that fizzes and hums.

It’ll make for a gnarly exit if we’re chased. Hard to miss when the corridor is barely two people wide and longer than a shooting range.

We make our way up it, weapons raised, backs to the wall, single file. Deeper into the building, I can hear the muted notes of music being played.

There’s a door ahead of us with a pane of glass in it. I hold out my hand to stop those following me and creep up to it. And there’s our fucking weed. The plants are under grow lamps, but the pots are numbered the way all our plants were. Dates when they were planted, repotted, pruned.

“You in?” I say into the earpiece.

“Slight distraction. Three down,” Grudge says. “I’m front right.”

“Back right corner,” I say. “In three, two?—”

“Who the fuck are you?” The face appears at the window, and then seven levels of shit explode.

He pulls his weapon and fires through the glass as I duck out of the way.

Catfish steps out from the wall and fires, killing the man instantly.

“You forgot to say ‘one’,” Grudge says in my ear.

“One, you asshole.” I shove the door wide open, pushing the dead man’s body out of my path.

Men begin shouting, running off the main warehouse floor. There must be weapons somewhere, but none of them are carrying them. I guess they’re all up on the mezzanine, because that’s where they seem to be headed.

“Catfish. Cut off the stairs. Don’t let them get up there.”

He positions himself on one knee and starts picking off the men trying to make it.

There are gas tanks along the far wall. Guess they may have been using propane heaters to keep everything nice and toasty. “Watch your fire toward the back wall. Gas cylinders.”

Smoke huffs. “That’s gonna be cheaper and faster than laying explosive.”

“I’m over being the lookout while you guys have all the fun,” Butcher grumbles. “I’m coming in. Sitting in this truck is boring as fuck.”

“Stay in the goddamn va?—”

The punch to my jaw comes out of nowhere, sending me sprawling to the ground. “You bastards. We teach you lesson,” he says as my Glock spins out of reach on the floor.

“Someone should teach you to lock your fucking doors,” I say as I raise my foot and nail him in the knee. Something breaks, I feel it give, and he falls to the floor.

It gives me time to spring to my feet, grab my knife, and stab him through the side of his neck. While I love watching them die, I don’t have time tonight and grab my Glock.

“Keep one of those fuckers alive,” Butcher says as he charges into the room.

“Maybe that can be your job,” Grudge says through my earpiece. The words come out like he’s in the middle of a struggle, and I scan the warehouse, looking for him.

A tall man with black hair pulled back into a pathetic-looking ponytail has Grudge in a headlock. Grudge fires his elbow backwards into the man’s ribs, but he doesn’t let go.

I run towards the two of them as Grudge grows more and more red. He stops attacking and tries to defend, scrambling to get his hands beneath the man’s arms.

When I reach them, I pistol whip the motherfucker so hard, I swear I hear his skull crack. He stumbles for a moment until his eyes roll back in his head like I just pulled the handle on an arcade game.

Grudge drops to his knees. “Thanks.”

I offer him my hand and hoist him to his feet, just as Butcher reaches us.

“Atom, stop that shit,” he shouts. “We don’t want any of your DNA left behind.”

Atom holds a man on the floor by his collar and beats his face over and over until he’s covered in blood spatter and the man is clearly dead.

Atom looks at his knuckles. “None of it’s mine, Butcher.”

Butcher shakes his head and looks at one of the three men on their knees by the steps, who appear to have decided that surrender is the right path here. Catfish points his weapon straight at them.

Gunfire is slowing down. Butcher walks straight through the warehouse like a man who knows God decided that today is not the day for him. The confidence that no bullet or fist in this building could possibly bring him down. When I was younger, I used to think it made him the coolest man alive.

Now I realize it’s reckless.

And the club would be utterly bereaved if anything happened to the man.

So, I provide backup. While he looks at the three on their knees, I look at everyone else.

“Which of you fuckers is the most senior?” Butcher asks when he gets to them.

They look at him blankly. “Don’t play the ‘we don’t speak any English’ bullshit with me.”

The looks they pass between one another is one of confusion. “Who’s the boss?” I ask.

“Him,” the one with thick dark eyebrows says. He points to the man I stabbed through the neck.

I look to Butcher. “Shit. These guys are probably just the hired help.”

Butcher points to the man who just spoke. “You. Come with me.”

The man does as Butcher says, then Butcher looks at me. “Finish it off. Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

I raise my gun and fire a single shot into each of them. “That’s for scaring Raven.”

We make quick work of raising the warehouse doors enough to take out all our plants and put them in the back of the vans.

Catfish makes it up to the office and manages to find two large bundles of cash.

Smoke enters the room. “I’ve left the explosives in the van.”

“Why the fuck would you do that?” Butcher asks as he zip-ties his hostage’s hands.

“Because we’re gonna find all our bullets, dig ‘em out of bodies if we have to, and then stage this like an explosion. Then, if they even bother to autopsy this shit, they won’t find anything suspicious, like a bullet casing.”

Butcher rolls his eyes. “Do we need to?” He looks to me.

“Don’t want to, but it is a better plan.”

So, we start the slow and painful process. First, we count how many bullets we used, then we retrace our steps through our entrance and victims. I use a knife to cut the bullets out.

I get to my final victim and lean over him, looking at the hole in his pec. I’m about to lift him by the neck of his shirt when the fucker lifts a knife.

And the blade burns as it tears through my skin.