Page 27

TICK TOCK

T he clubhouse felt different these days, there was less tension and was becoming more like the home it used to be. A sense of calm had returned, even if it was temporary. Definitely a lot more trust among the members. Tonight, had been a good night so far, we were just hanging out by the bar, just talking and relaxing. Heavy boots thudded against hardwood floor, there was the occasional sharp crack of billiard balls colliding, and the rustle of leather as men leaned over pool tables, beers in hand as they watched a football game on the new television sets, we'd installed them days earlier. At times, laughter echoed off the walls as a few of the guys gathered around the tables by the bar out front. Riddick was halfway into a story about a pair of twins he’d met at some dive bar near Lafayette when Knuckles finally walked in, late as usual.

He looked rough, road-dust still clinging to his jeans, hair windblown, and a quizzical furrower brow pasted on his face as he walked in. I sat with Macabre and Riddick, nursing a beer, boots up on the table.

“Took your sweet ass time,” Riddick called out.

Knuckles grunted and dropped down beside us. Riddick turned to the prospect behind the bar and signaled for another beer.

“You good?” I asked.

He nodded once, then shrugged. “Stopped to help a lady on the side of the road. Car was busted. Had a kid with her.”

Riddick raised a brow, grinning. “Knuckles the good Samaritan. That’s new.”

“Fuck off,” he grunted.

“You get a number?” Powertrain called from the other side of the room.

Knuckles shook his head, but something lingered behind his eyes. “I swear I knew her from somewhere,” he muttered.

“Probably just one of the many women you’ve left in a trail of broken hearts,” Riddick teased. “They’re bound to pop back up eventually.”

“You sayin’ I got a reputation?” Knuckles smirked.

“Not sayin’. Just stating facts.”

We were all chuckling when the front door slammed open. Goshawk stepped in, his eyes sharp and features hard.

"Here comes the life of the party," Macabre muttered sarcastically under his breath.

“Trouble at the docks,” he said. “Scorpions are fucking with the crates again.”

Just like that, our evening plans changed. I was on my feet in seconds. We’d been expecting a shipment tonight. They were gun parts Knuckles had sourced through some black-market contacts. The Scorpions had been sniffing around the docks for weeks, trying to push in on our territory.

I pushed off the table and gave out orders. “Riddick, grab the Enforcers. Knuckles, gear check, make sure everyone's got what they need. Powertrain, you're running point. We ride now. No delays.”

* * *

The docks were always cold, no matter the season. Fog rolled in off the water, covering the pavement, making it impossible to see a foot in front of us. Floodlights buzzed above us, casting long shadows over shipping containers and rusted fences.

We rolled in quietly, cutting the engines just before the first crates came into view. Knuckles had eyes on his shipment, eyes scanning every shadow.

“They’ve been tampered with,” he muttered. “That container was sealed tight when I left it.”

We dismounted fast and spread out. The sound of weapons being unholstered echoed in the night, licks, metallic snaps, the tension as we readied for a fight. I motioned for Powertrain to take the right flank and sent Riddick and the Enforcers to circle around left. Knuckles and I stuck to the center, advancing slowly and staying low between the rows of containers. The air was thick, heavy with salt and gun oil, the scent of something fouler lingering just beneath. And then that’s when I saw him.

Croak.

The Bloody Scorpions’ errand boy, and a sadistic piece of shit. He was all arrogance and a fiend for blood. He called himself Croak because he liked to choke the life out of his enemies. Said it made death more intimate. We had run-ins with him before, and it never turned out good. He was a wildcard, which meant we were always on alert.

He leaned against the side of a container, spinning a butterfly knife in one hand, smirking as we approached.

“Well, well,” he drawled. “Look who came to play.”

I stepped forward, boots crunching gravel with every slow step.

“Step off our shit, Croak. You know this dock ain’t yours.”

He grinned wider. “Didn’t see your name on it.”

“You really want to start some shit right now?” I asked, hand already near the grip of my gun.

“Only if you lead,” he sneered, lips curling around the blade of his knife like he already tasted blood.

I took a slow step forward, letting the steel of my gaze cut through the fog. "Be careful what you wish for."

And then, just like that, shit exploded. Gunfire erupted, the crack of bullets splitting the air like thunder, echoing off metal containers. Sparks flew as rounds pinged off steel. Someone yelled out behind me and darkness and gun smoke engulfed my vision.

Knuckles fired from behind a forklift, barking orders. Powertrain ducked behind a crate, unloading round after round with that custom piece of his. I caught a glimpse of Croak diving behind a container, laughing like a man who truly enjoyed shedding blood.

“Motherfucker!” I roared, flanking left. My boots slipped in a puddle of seawater, but I kept moving, gun up, eyes peeled.

That’s when I saw the muzzle flash. Pain punched into my side, hot and searing. I went down on one knee, vision going sideways as blood bloomed warm across my ribs.

“Tick!” Knuckles was already there, yanking me behind cover.

“Still breathing,” I gritted out. “Not done yet.”

Metal sparked. Glass shattered. The roar of gunfire echoed across the water. I ducked behind a container, fired off three rounds, clipped one of the Scorpions in the shoulder. Knuckles laid down cover fire, barking orders, while Powertrain flanked the far side. I moved quick, aa little too quick, and that’s when the shot hit me. Pain ran up my side, hot and fast. I staggered back and fell hard, teeth clenched as the pain continued.

“Tick!” Macabre was at my side this time, dragging me out and pressing down on the wound.

“Fuck… I’m fine,” I growled.

“No, you’re not, you stubborn ass. You're gonna bleed out,” he snapped, already dialing a number.

I knew who he was calling. We had a contact at the private clinic down in the city. A doc who owed us for keeping his little operation off the radar. Bulldog had arranged the deal years ago. The Doc knew not to ask questions. Just qork quick, fast stitches. Discretion is what we wanted.

“We gotta move him,” Macabre said, eyes darting for our exit.

The boys kept firing, keeping the Scorpions pinned. We made it to the bikes, loaded me on the back of one while Knuckles revved up the engine.

“Hold on, brother. Don't you fucking die on us.”

My vision swam and the world tilted. But I held on. "Fuck!" I cursed, hating that I was the one to have gotten hit. I was pissed, I hadn't been thinking.

"Croak can't get away with this! Just give me one more shot!" I shouted at him as he roared the bike out of the docks. Gunfire could still be heard.

"I called for backup. Jameson will deal with him."

I let my forehead fall onto his back as the world began to spin. "I'm going to fucking fall off this thing."

Knuckles tightened his grip on my jacket as he flew down the dark roads, it all became a blur, and I wasn't sure just how much blood I was actually losing.

Did it matter? No.

Maybe it was time. Maybe I could finally see my Kitten again.