Page 2

Torrent

Salt and diesel hang in the air like a warning.

I light a smoke, the orange tip flaring against the fog creeping off the bay. The steel shipping containers stacked high around us cast long shadows in the early morning light. This place smells like work, sweat, and blood waiting to be spilled.

Perfect.

The rumble of engines behind me is the sound of home. One by one, the bikes roll in, the low growls cutting through the mist. My crew, my brothers, circle up around the container we tagged for this morning’s drop. Eyes sharp. Bodies ready.

Jude “Drift” Dunne is the first off his bike, as always. My VP, my second. Been with me since the beginning of this East Coast ride. He flicks his sunglasses down and gives me a crooked grin.

“Smells like someone’s about to fuck around and find out,” he mutters.

“Better them than us,” I reply, exhaling a stream of smoke.

Next off is Atticus “Finch” Gittes, our Sergeant-at-Arms. Lean, quiet, and cold as winter steel. He’s got the kind of stare that makes grown men question their choices. Doesn’t say a word. Just nods to me and scans the perimeter. Always calculating.

Cyrus “Crab” Ward, our Road Captain, swings off his bike next, tattoos twisting along his neck as he stretches. Grease under his fingernails. That’s how you know he’s been working. He handles routes, mechanics, and breakdowns. He’s damn near a genius with an engine.

Miles “Ganges” Beck pulls in smooth, riding like he’s cruising waves instead of pavement. Treasurer. Hustler. The man could turn a parking ticket into profit. His hands are always moving, cards, cash, or otherwise.

Rory “Riptide” Stone is already jotting something down in that worn leather notebook he never lets go of. Secretary. Keeps our business cleaner than it should be. The kind of guy who remembers everything, even shit you wish he’d forget.

Then there’s Nico “Cetus” Kade, our Enforcer. Built like a damn tank and just as silent. If you’re on the wrong end of a Cetus stare, odds are, your time’s about up. He doesn’t talk much, but when he does? People listen.

Last is the prospect, Gideon Barrett. Kid’s got the scars of someone who’s lived twice as long. New blood, but loyal as hell. He parks his bike and stands by, chin up, ready for orders. He knows his place. Knows he’s got to earn that patch.

“Where’s the shipment?” Drift asks, stepping up beside me.

I nod toward the container with the black RBMC tag scrawled on the side.

Finch steps forward, tapping his knuckles twice on the steel door. “If someone’s in there, they’re either dead or about to be.”

Crab chuckles. “Hope it’s the second one. I could use a little stress relief.”

Cetus crosses his arms and shifts his weight. “I’ll open it.”

“No,” I say, tossing my smoke to the ground and grinding it out with my boot. “Let them come to us. This is our territory now. Anyone who thinks they can push us around needs to learn how deep this water runs.”

The boys fall silent. The kind of silence that tastes like adrenaline and smells like gun oil. Every one of them is ready to ride into hell if I give the word.

We didn’t come to Rhode Island to play nice. We came to own it.

And if the Bloody Scorpions think they can rattle us? They’re about to find out the hard way that

the Royal Bastards Newport MC doesn’t blink.

Finch raps on the container again. Once, twice, hard enough to echo down the line.

“Might be rats,” Crab mutters, cracking his knuckles. “Or a body.”

“I’ll open it,” Cetus offers again, already moving toward the latch.

I lift a hand, halting him. “Stand down. It’s empty.”

Ganges raises a brow. “Then why the hell are we guarding it like it’s Fort Knox?”

“Because I wanted eyes on it.” I glance around at the rows of containers, the open concrete yard, the silence. “That Royal Bastards tag? We don’t mark our containers. But that?” I point to the logo we sprayed across the steel. “That’s bait.”

The realization settles over them like a wave.

“You trying to start a war?” Drift asks, grinning like the lunatic he is.

“No,” I say coolly. “I’m trying to finish one before it starts.”

The sound of approaching bikes slices through the still morning like a switchblade.

Three Bloody Scorpions roll in, engines snarling as they park ten feet from us. Their cuts are filthy. Their expressions worse. One of them, with broad shoulders and a face like a sledgehammer, kills the engine and steps forward.

“We heard there’s new blood in town,” he says, voice slick with arrogance. “And we don’t like the way it smells.”

Drift and Finch both take a step forward. Cetus’s already shifted to my right, like a shadow with fists.

I exhale, slow and steady, and walk right up to the guy.

“You always introduce yourself with threats, or just when you’re overcompensating?”

He squares up, but I’m taller. Broader. Meaner. I see the hesitation flicker behind his eyes before he covers it.

“You marked that crate. That’s our turf. Our port. You don’t get to move product through here without paying up or packing up.”

I lean in close, my voice a razor edge. “See, that’s the problem. I don’t do well with warnings.”

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.

“And if you’re dumb enough to come barking at my door,” I continue, “then maybe you’re dumb enough not to know that the last time one of your guys tried pushing weight through Boston, I was the one who fed the tip to the feds.”

That lands. Hard. His eye twitches. The two Scorpions behind him shift uncomfortably.

“Yeah,” I growl. “You remember Hector, right? Your gun runner who went dark? He’s sitting in a federal cell eating beans and snitching for dessert. Wonder what else he’s given up by now? Like the name of your inside guy at the warehouse?”

His confidence cracks, and I see it, fear.

I smile, slow and lethal. “I’m not the guy you want to poke, brother. Walk away while you still have the knees to do it.”

He sneers, but it’s empty. He backs off with a muttered curse, signaling his boys to mount up.

As their engines roar to life and fade down the road, my crew closes in.

“Holy shit,” Crab mutters. “You just bluffed your way into their nightmares.”

“Wasn’t completely bluffing,” I say as I light a new smoke. “Hector’s been singing like a goddamn canary for months. I just wasn’t the one who gave it up to the feds. I’d never get mixed up in that shit.”

Riptide whistles low. “You’re really not here to make friends, huh?”

“Nope.” I turn and start walking. “Let’s move. The real shipment’s three containers over. Ganges, get the van. Finch, take the others and secure the perimeter. I want eyes everywhere. We’re meeting the pickup crew in twenty. No mistakes.”

“You got it, Prez,” Drift says, already barking orders.

As I watch my brothers move, sharp and efficient, I let myself grin.

The Bloody Scorpions think this port is theirs?

Not anymore.