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The light banter dies instantly. Using the critical intelligence gathered from the gala's guest list, Elijah successfully identified a contraband shipment belonging to one of Nolan's newly reclaimed allies. It is scheduled to move through the east docks tonight, and we are going to intercept it before Nolan can rebuild his supply line.

Silence settles over us as Ezekiel unrolls the digital layout of the harbor on the SUV's hood, outlining our tactical formation.

"At this hour, the dock should only have a few perimeter guards," Ezekiel explains. "We should be able to overpower them quickly and secure the crate without drawing the harbor patrol. But don't get reckless. Be careful, keep your heads on a swivel, and watch each other's backs."

We all nod in silent agreement, the switch flipped from brothers to a deadly, synchronized unit.

We pile into the heavy jeep—Levi taking the wheel, Ezekiel in the front passenger seat, while Malachi, Elijah, and I lock down the back. Levi hits the engine, and the vehicle surges up the ramp into the night.

The engine purrs low as Levi cuts the headlights a block away, coasting the SUV into the shadowed alley between two rusted shipping containers near the pier. The salty, metallic tang of the harbor air hits us the second we open the doors.

We slip out like shadows, moving in silent, practiced sync. Under the cover of pitch-black darkness, we fan out to surround the drop site. Ezekiel raises a hand, signaling the perimeter, before giving the swift hand command to move in.

Through the thick fog hanging off the water, I spot six guards stationed around the open rear of a massive cargo truck, idly watching a forklift lower a heavy wooden crate.

We strike before they even hear the gravel crunch.

Malachi glides up behind the first guard near the truck's rear bumper, wrapping a thick arm around his throat and driving a knee into his spine. The man goes limp without making a sound.

Simultaneously, Elijah steps out from the shadows of a container, catching the second guard in a vicious sleeper hold, dragging him into the dark.

I take the third and fourth. I drop from the side of a rusted crate, landing silently directly behind two guards whispering near the cabin. I slam their heads together with a sickening crack; one drops instantly, and I catch the second before he hits the floor, driving a hard elbow into his jaw to keep him down.

Across the gravel, Ezekiel handles the fifth with a swift, brutal strike to the throat followed by a right hook. Levi steps up behind the sixth guard just as the man turns around, pressing the cold steel of his silenced pistol against the guard's temple before cracking the butt of the gun across it, knocking him flat on his back.

In less than forty seconds, all six guards are unconscious on the damp concrete.

"Area clear," Ezekiel mutters into his comms, stepping over a fallen guard to examine the unlocked cargo truck. "Let's check the shipment."

Malachi steps up to the truck, using the crowbar from his belt to pop the latch on the crate. The wood splinters, exposing row after row of high-grade military weaponry, stacked alongside wrapped bricks of untraceable currency and thick, leather-bound ledgers.

Elijah leans in, flipping through the pages of the top ledger under a dim light. "This isn't just a supply run," he growls, his voice tight. "It's a payout list. Names, accounts, shipping routes—this confirms everything. The Devlins are using these routes to buy back their old network."

Before he can grab the rest of the documents, a harsh blinding floodlight cuts through the fog, pinning us against the side of the truck.

A sharp spray of gunfire tears through the air, bullets pinging loudly off the metal container inches above my head.

"Ambush!" Ezekiel roars, diving behind a stack of wooden pallets while drawing his weapon.

More than a dozen heavily armed men fan out from the shadows of the surrounding warehouses, squeezing off rounds in a chaotic crossfire.

Sparks fly across the damp pavement as we return fire with ruthless precision. Levi drops two shooters advancing near the forklift, while Malachi clears a flank with a burst from his suppressed rifle. Elijah stays low, securing the ledgers in his jacket while providing cover.

I roll under the belly of the truck, coming up on the passenger side just as three men attempt to flush us out. I drop the first two with rapid, precise shots to the chest. The third man panics, dropping his weapon and turning to bolt back toward the main warehouse.

I spring forward, covering the ground between us in seconds, and tackle him hard into the concrete. His breath explodes from his lungs as he hits the floor.

Within minutes, the thunderous echo of gunfire fades into the hum of the river breeze. The remaining ambushers lie scattered across the dock, dead or unconscious.

My brothers step out from their cover, weapons lowered but ready.

I stand over the shooter I tackled, dragging him up by his collar and shoving him violently back against the side of a rusted container. His eyes bulge with terror as he looks into my face, gasping for air.

"Cain," Ezekiel says, stepping up beside me, his gun aimed low. “Is that the last man alive?”

"Yes," I rumble, my hand tightening like a steel clamp around the man's throat until his boots barely scrape the ground. “And he's going to tell us exactly who ordered this shipment.”

"I ain't saying a damn thing to you," the man chokes out, blood bubbling at the corner of his lips as he tries to fight my grip.