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Second one drops to Fuse’s silent work. Clean.

“Sentries down,” I confirm.

“Main floor has eight heat signatures clustered central,” she reports, calm as steel. “Two more on catwalk. Feeding you overlay now.” My watch pings with a photo of her map. Precise. She’s our eyes in the sky. The protectiveness surges—grateful she’s safe, but furious she could’ve been out here.

We stack at the loading dock. East team confirms vehicle sabotage. I ease the door. Hinges whisper. Inside, the stale air is thick with beer and gun oil. Crates stacked like barricades, half-stripped bikes littering corners. The voices louder now. I motion split. We clear methodically.

First room: three Vipers at a card table, guns lazy. Suppressed shots drop two mid-laugh—heads snapping back, cards scattering. The third scrambles. I close fast, knife driving under ribs, and with a twist, he lets a gurgle out before his body goes down. His blood pooling like dark sludge around him. The bloodlust stirs deeper, hungry. This is for the prospect. For the fence breach. For every brother who bled yesterday.

“Three down, central annex,” I mutter.

“Copy. Catwalk movement—Fuse has eyes,” Tatum replies. Her voice cuts through the adrenaline like a tether.

Gunfire erupts east—Diesel and Judge drawing attention. Shouts explode. “Intruders!”

Plan shifts. “Go loud,” I order. “Fuse, roof lines.”

Chaos ignites. I push forward, dropping a runner with two to the chest. Bullets whine past, one grazing my vest with bruising force. I roll behind a forklift, returning fire. A Viper spins down, chest splattered red. Tatum’s updates flow steady in my ear, keeping me calm. “Flank left, two coming. Heat spike central office.”

I signal Diesel. We push. A big bastard with a shotgun barrels out. Pellets chew concrete near my boot. I fire mid-roll, tagging his shoulder. Closing the gap—I jam my knife up into his soft underjaw. He drops heavy. Satisfaction rolls through me, dark and pure. More. I want them all screaming.

The team moves like an oiled machine. Fuse’s rifle cracks distant—catwalk sniper tumbling with a wet thud. Good. “Clear. Heading to the roof,” he reports.

Central area opens: six Vipers now scrambling for weapons. I take point, methodically. One drops to my suppressed burst. Another charges with a bat. I duck, elbow shattering his arm, then kick my boot to his knee. The cartilage crunches, and I finish him off my with knife. His blood sprays hot across my arm. The rage builds, controlled but deepening. These fucks celebrated hitting us. Now, they die confused and broken.

“Status?” Tatum asks, edge creeping in.

“Pushing leader,” I reply.

The tattooed leader backs toward the office with two guards like a fucking coward. He’s yelling into a dead radio, panic twisting his face. “Redline’ll bury you bastards!”

I charge through suppressing fire. Vest taking another hit, my ribs protesting. But the pain is sharpening my focus. First guard: headshot.

I go after the second when Tatum’s voice warns of his draw just in time—“Right flank!”—I pivot, knife plunging into his gun arm, then to his throat. He falls, choking on his own blood.

Their leader is alone now, so he starts swinging. Fists like hammers. I absorb one to the side, countering with a liver shot that buckles him. We crash into crates. The wood splinters around us. Grappling tight—I take his elbows, followed by his knees. He lands a solid one to my jaw. Stars burst across my vision for a second. I headbutt him back, his nose exploding from the hit. Blood is everywhere and coating both of us. My knife finds his side—I strike shallow. It is more painful instead of a straight through strike. I pin him, knee on his sternum, blade to a carotid artery. I want information.

“Talk,” I snarl. “Who greenlit the compound hit? Redline?”

He spits blood, defiant. “Go to hell⁠—”

I twist my knee on his sternum, adding more pressure. His scream rips out of his throat. Details flood out of his mouth like they are going to keep him alive. Redline’s president using Vipers as cheap muscle to probe weakness. Ties to Thomas’s brother chatter. That’s enough for Judge to carry out the sentence.

Walking over, he puts a bullet between his eyes, body thudding against the concrete floor. The warehouse quiets to groans and dripping blood. We sweep the remnants. Three surrender—but we aren’t here to deliver mercy. There are no casualties for us. As for them, there is no one left breathing.

“Burn it all,” I order.

Charges get set on ammo and products that aren’t coming back with us. Once we get back to the bikes, explosions sound, leaving an orange hue behind us. The warehouse is engulfed in flames, lighting up the sky. Message sent. Vengeance delivered. The prospect’s face, the burning bikes, yesterday’s yard—it balances a fraction. But some threats still linger. Redline is still out there waiting in the dark. Tonight, we reminded them: if you hit us, you’ll end up bleeding worse.

The compound lights welcome us. Doc patches up the minor wounds that some have received. Judge debriefs in the war room—the map updated with fresh red. The brothers mutter satisfaction, and claps on shoulders are given. Lennox reports clean. Fuse nods his approval. Tatum’s already inside and back at her monitors before I make it in the door. Screens alive with the aftermath, eyes sharp on all the data. She doesn’t even look up as I enter. “All feeds confirm burn. No runners,” she says crisp.

“Solid work,” I reply, heading back down the hall to finish the debrief.

The debrief wraps. Most of the guys crash while we can. I linger on the reports until the compound quiets down. I know this is far from over. I can feel it in my bones.

TATUM

Ipush back from the desk, rolling my shoulders to ease the knots that have built up over hours of relentless monitoring. I remind myself: posture, you don't need a bent spine. I replayed the entirety of how yesterday went, making sure there isn’t a single thing I could have missed. My fingers still tingle from the keyboard marathons—looping comms, spoofing signals, watching heat signatures bloom and die in real time. It worked. The Iron Vipers got exactly what they deserved for hitting our compound, for thinking they could even test us.