Page 50 of Wings (Heavy Kings MC #5)

The rovers passed again, footsteps crunching gravel in lazy rhythm.

Bones lit another cigarette on the roof, ruining his night vision for crucial seconds.

Inside, someone told a joke that had the Serpents laughing, guard down, focused on money and brotherhood instead of the darkness beyond their walls.

Thirty seconds.

My team shifted subtly, muscles coiling for action. Tank's breathing changed, dropping into the steady rhythm of impending violence. Thor rolled his shoulders, loosening up for what came next. We'd all been here before—that moment when planning became action, when careful became kinetic.

Ten seconds.

I thought of Kiara, safe in our bed. Of the life we were building. Of the threats that needed to be eliminated for that life to flourish. My finger found the pin on the first smoke grenade.

Five.

Duke's voice in my ear: "Execute, execute, execute."

Four.

The weight of brothers beside me, counting on me.

Three.

The pendant warm against my chest.

Two.

Freedom, just out of reach.

One.

"Go," I whispered, and the night exploded into motion.

Thor moved like controlled thunder, all that Viking rage channeled into precise violence.

The first gate guard never saw him coming—one massive arm around the throat, cutting off air and scream in the same motion.

The prospect's eyes went wide, hands clawing at Thor's forearm, but it was already over.

Zip ties secured wrists and ankles while the kid was still seeing stars.

The second guard managed half a shout before Thor's fist connected with his jaw. The sound of bone meeting bone cracked through the night, followed by the dull thud of a body hitting gravel. More zip ties, duct tape across the mouth. Efficient. Professional. Alive but neutralized.

"Gate clear," Thor's voice rumbled through the earpiece.

Tank and I were already moving, staying low as we crossed the killing ground between the containers and the warehouse wall.

My prosthetic performed perfectly—all those hours of training paying off as we flowed through the darkness.

Behind us, Tyson's van crept forward, lights off, Duke riding shotgun with the assault team ready to deploy.

The ladder rungs felt like ice under my gloves. We'd identified this access point during surveillance—an old maintenance ladder that put us twenty feet from Bones' position. The sniper hadn't moved, still focused on the main approaches while we came from his blind spot.

I crested the roof edge silent as smoke. Bones sat in a lawn chair—a fucking lawn chair—rifle propped against the air conditioning unit while he scrolled through his phone. The cigarette dangled from his lips, cherry bright in the darkness.

The gravel under my boots made the faintest crunch.

Bones' head started to turn, hand reaching for the rifle.

Too late. The stun baton caught him just below the ear, voltage dropping him like a puppet with cut strings.

His phone clattered across the roof, screen showing some game with cartoon birds.

"Overwatch down," I reported, zip-tying the unconscious sniper.

Tank had already moved to the nearest skylight, lock picks working their magic. These old industrial skylights were built for ventilation, not security. The lock gave way with a soft click that sounded like opportunity.

I eased the panel open, careful not to let the hinges squeak. Below, the Serpents' laughter echoed off concrete walls. Someone had brought beer—bottles clinked as they toasted their profits. Through the gap, I could see everything Alex had promised.

Venom stood at the head of the counting table, gray hair slicked back, wearing that same leather cut I'd seen at every meet.

His hands moved through stacks of bills with practiced ease, sorting them into three piles.

Tomb worked the left side—massive black man with ritual scars across his shaved skull.

Slash had the right, his name earned from the Glasgow smile someone had carved into his face years ago.

"—new route through Pueblo," Venom was saying, voice carrying clear in the warehouse acoustics. "ATF's been sniffing around the old one. Lost a shipment last month to those federal fucks."

More laughter. More beer. Nine men total, just like the intel promised. Two soldiers per officer, all focused inward on the money. None watching the roof where death prepared to rain down.

"In position," Duke's voice crackled. "Perimeter team confirms no additional contacts. Execute on your mark."

I pulled the first smoke grenade, feeling the weight of it. In Syria, we'd used these to mark landing zones, to screen movement, to signal extraction. Tonight they'd signal something else—the moment the Heavy Kings stopped playing defense.

The pin came free with that distinctive metallic ping. I counted down the fuse in my head, waiting for the perfect moment. Tank had the second skylight open, his own grenade ready. Across the roof, I could see our other teams moving into position. Everything synchronized. Everything perfect.

"Smoke out," I whispered, and dropped the grenade through the gap.

It hit the concrete with a hollow thunk that made Slash look up, confusion creasing his scarred face. Then purple smoke billowed out like a living thing, thick and chemical and immediate. I was already moving to the second position, dropping another grenade through Tank's skylight.

"What the fuck—" Venom's shout cut off as the smoke engulfed him.

Inside, chaos erupted. Chairs scraped and toppled. Someone knocked over the beer bottles—glass shattered across concrete. The counting table flipped as men scrambled for weapons they couldn't see to use. Coughing, cursing, the sound of bodies colliding in the purple haze.

"Go, go, go!" Duke's command launched the ground teams.

The flash-bangs went off simultaneously—Thor's at the front entrance, Tyson's team at the rear. Even from the roof, the concussion punched through my chest. Inside, the screaming started. Disoriented men firing blind, muzzle flashes lighting up the smoke like purple lightning.

"Masks on, dropping in thirty seconds," I ordered, pulling my own respirator tight.

Through the smoke, I could see shapes stumbling, crashing into walls. Someone had found the emergency lights, but the purple haze ate the illumination, turned everything into shadows and confusion. Perfect conditions for what came next.

Tank grinned at me through his mask, all teeth and anticipation. "Just like Khasam, huh?"

"Except with better beer," I agreed, prepping the rope for our descent.

Below, the Serpents had stopped shooting—couldn't risk hitting their own men in the smoke. Smart, but not smart enough. They'd focused all their security outward, never considering someone might come from above. Classic mistake. The kind that got you killed in war.

The kind that got you robbed in peace.

"Fifteen seconds," I said, watching the smoke density. Too early and they'd see us coming. Too late and they might regroup, find gas masks, mount actual resistance.

Through the earpiece, I heard our ground teams breaching the doors. Rubber bullets and violence, but not murder. We weren't here to massacre—just to take what they'd stolen and disappear into the night.

Ten seconds. Tank and I positioned ourselves at the skylight edges. Below, someone was shouting for masks, trying to organize a defense. Venom's voice, I thought, though the smoke and acoustics made it hard to be sure.

Five seconds. My hand found the rope, tested the anchor one last time. The St. Christopher pendant pressed against my chest, a reminder of what waited at home.

"Now," I said, and we dropped into purple chaos.

The world turned purple and violent the moment my boots hit the steel shelf.

Metal groaned under my weight, threatening to buckle, but held long enough for me to drop to the concrete floor.

Tank landed ten feet away on what used to be someone's desk—now splinters and scattered paperwork under his combat boots.

The smoke was everything. Thick enough to taste through the respirator, turning the warehouse into an alien landscape of shadows and muzzle flashes.

My eyes burned despite the protective lenses, tears streaming as I oriented myself.

The counting table—overturned somewhere to my left.

The money—scattered but recoverable if we moved fast.

A shape lurched out of the purple haze, pistol raised. Tomb, his ritual scars making him recognizable even through the chaos. The rubber bullets from my shotgun caught him center mass, dropping him with a wheeze that said broken ribs at minimum. Non-lethal, but he wouldn't be getting up soon.

"Contact left!" Tank's shout preceded the crash of bodies hitting concrete.

I pushed forward, muscle memory from a hundred raids guiding me through the smoke.

The counting area materialized like a crime scene—bills scattered across the floor, some soaking in spilled beer, others dancing in the air currents created by our violence.

No time for selective grabbing. I pulled the first duffel from my back, started shoveling cash in by the handful.

The front door exploded inward with a crack of splintering wood.

Duke's team poured through, rubber bullets spraying in controlled bursts.

Through the smoke, I caught glimpses of the violence—a Serpent soldier taking rounds to the chest, spinning and falling.

Another trying to return fire blind, hitting nothing but air before Thor's massive shape emerged from the purple fog to put him down hard.

"Tyson, southwest corner," Duke's voice cut through the chaos with command clarity. "Two tangos behind the forklift."

More rubber bullets. More screaming. The smoke was starting to thin at the edges, but the center where we worked stayed thick as London fog.

I filled the first duffel, started on the second.

Hundred-dollar bills mixed with fifties and twenties, no time to sort.

Tank worked beside me, his bag already half full.

"Where's Venom?" The thought hit me sudden as a sniper's bullet. I'd been tracking targets, counting bodies, and the Serpent president was missing from the tally.

"Slash is down," someone reported. "That's eight total."

Eight. Not nine. And the missing one was the most dangerous.

I abandoned my money-gathering, scanning the warehouse through thinning smoke. The side door—an old delivery entrance Alex had mentioned but couldn't confirm the status of. If it was unlocked, if Venom knew about it . . .

"Tank, finish the bags," I ordered, already moving.

The door stood slightly ajar, purple smoke leaking out into the night. Fresh air on my face when I pushed through, respirator suddenly unnecessary. Tire marks in the gravel, fresh enough the edges hadn't settled. Motorcycle tracks leading toward the access road.

"Venom's gone," I reported, tasting failure bitter as burnt coffee. "Must have slipped out during the initial chaos."

"Copy," Duke's response was neutral, professional. "Continue mission. We've got what we came for."

Back inside, the smoke had thinned enough to see the devastation.

Eight Serpents down but breathing, zip-tied and moaning through various injuries.

Our rubber bullets had done their job—maximum pain, minimum permanent damage.

The warehouse floor looked like a tornado had hit—scattered money, overturned furniture, broken glass glittering in the emergency lights.

Tank had filled three duffels to bursting. More money than I'd ever seen outside of movies, each bill representing product pushed through Houston, misery sold by the gram. But that wasn't our problem. We were just redistributing wealth from one set of criminals to another.

"Ledgers," Thor called out, holding up leather-bound books. "Full accounting of the Houston routes."

"Burn them," Duke ordered without hesitation.

Tank already had the accelerant out—industrial stuff that would leave nothing but ash.

He doused the books, the remaining loose bills we couldn't carry, anything that might help the Serpents rebuild their operation.

The whoosh of ignition painted the warehouse orange through dissipating purple smoke.

"Exfil in thirty seconds," Duke commanded. "Thor, confirm the packages are secure."

The packages—our duffels of cash, each worth enough to fund the Heavy Kings for months. Thor did a quick count, nodded confirmation. We had what we'd come for, minus one Serpent president who'd proven smarter than expected.

"Move out!"

We flowed toward the exits like water finding its level. Professional retreat, each man covering the next, nobody left behind. The Serpents moaned and cursed from their positions on the floor, but none tried to pursue. Hard to chase when you're zip-tied and concussed.

The night air hit cold and clean after the chemical fog inside. Our vehicles waited exactly where we'd left them, engines already running. I threw my duffel into Tyson's van, climbed in after it. Tank piled in beside me, still grinning behind his mask.

"Clean as a whistle," he said, but I couldn't share his enthusiasm.

Venom had escaped. The most dangerous Serpent, the one with the reach and rage to retaliate. He'd seen his operation robbed, his men humiliated, his money stolen. That kind of insult demanded blood payment in our world.

"Good work," Duke said from the passenger seat. "Professional, efficient, minimum casualties. Couldn't have asked for better execution."

But his eyes met mine in the rearview mirror, and I saw my own concern reflected there. Venom's escape changed things. Made this less a clean victory and more the opening move in something larger.

None of that mattered now, though.

Tonight, I was going back to my Little Girl.

I just hoped Alex would keep his word.