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“Swift,” I warn, and he raises his hands in defeat, standing from his seat.
“Okay, but just remember, we’re here. Utilize us.” He closes the folder, slides it my way, then turns and walks off.
Clearing my throat, I stand and walk toward Loki’s tech den. Punching in the pin code to enter the vault, it clicks, and the door opens. I pull it back to see the green luminous hue of the room. How he can work in here with green lighting is beyond me. The guy takes on the Loki theme a little too seriously. He’s deeply entrenched in his work on one of his many screens, his ears covered in his Loki-themed headphones, the green and gold matching most of the equipment in the room.
I go to gently place my hand on his shoulder so I don’t startle him, but he beats me to it. “I know you’re there, Pres. My monitor alerted me to you coming through the vault door.” He spins in his chair, pulling off his headphones with a wide smile. “How can I help?”
I drop the folder to his desk beside him and exhale. “Swift came to me with some information. Not sure how he got it, but I want to know how and when I can act on it.”
Loki nods and picks up the folder, quickly sifting through the pages. The guy is smart, as in evil genius smart. It takes him all of five seconds to read through the folder, and he places it back down on the desk and folds his arms over his chest. “You wanna know if we can hit them?”
Raising my brow, I shrug. “I wanna know when.Whenthis shipment is going out, so I can hit them. It’s not a matter ofif.”
Loki rolls his shoulders and turns back to face his computer screens. He begins typing, and multiple pictures and lines of code fly over all the different screens. I have no idea how he is keeping track of all this shit at once, but that’s why he is so good at what he does. Because he can multitask like no one I have ever known.
“Found it,” he states, zeroing in on a specific piece of detailed information.
I stand closer, trying to read it. “Here…” Loki points to the piece of the puzzle I need the most right now. “It says the shipment should make it to the Tijuana border by eleven this morning. Which means it should be leaving any minute now. If we wanna leave to catch it, we’re gonna have to hustle.”
“Loki, can you get me an ID on the shipment truck?” I urge.
He turns back to the screen, zooming in on an image to show a vineyard shipment truck and the license plate. Nodding, I start walking out of his den. “Send that image to my cell and a live tracking of that truck.”
He groans, slumping back into his chair. “Pres, take some men with you.”
I grit my teeth, providing no answer, and then close the door behind me. Taking off, I rush underneath the mezzanine of the Chapel to the armory. I open the security lock and pull back the heavy doors, grabbing myself a couple of loaded guns and a grenade. I have no idea what I will need, but it’s better to be overprepared than under.
I close and lock the armory door, then head for the clubhouse exit. The eyes of my brothers drill into me as I pass, but none of them try to stop me. I make my way to my ride, shrugging off my cut and placing it at the bottom of my saddlebag, followed by the grenade on top. I then move to the license plate on my bike and detach it, yanking it off and placing it on the small bench in front of where I park my bike. For this, I need nothing to trace back to me or the club. Grabbing a skull neck gaiter, I hike it up over my mouth and nose to just under my eyes, covering my face as I throw my leg over my ride.
My cell beeps with the information I need and automatically sends it to my watch. I glance down, seeing the live tracker showing on my watch face. Grinning beneath my neck gaiter, I start my bike, the roar of the engine igniting a fire inside me. The idea that I might finally be able to start this slow fight back ofvengeance makes me feel alive—more alive than I have felt in the past two years.
I hammer down, narrowly missing the gate as Rip barely has enough time to open it. I speed out onto the feeder road, making my way as fast as I can onto the freeway. I ride, trying like hell to reach my target, not having a game plan for when I do, but knowing I will do everything in my power to stop that truck from crossing the Tijuana border.
If I can disrupt the flow for the cartel—fucking good.
Let them suffer, if only for a little while.
Cars honk their horns at my sporadic riding while I weave in and out of the traffic. I know I’m driving erratically, but right now, I only have one thought on my mind—bringing down Rico’s men.
I don’t care who gets in my damn way.
My heart hammers in my chest, my blood pumps as I breathe faster, and the adrenaline flows through me when my watch beeps, advising me that I’m approaching the target. I glance down at my screen to have another look at the truck’s license plate. The last thing I want to do is target the wrong one. I memorize the numbers and letters and bring my eyes up, looking for a truck with a vineyard logo on the side.
Ducking and weaving in and out, I spot an oversized truck with grapes and wine all over the sides. The thing that really gives it away, though, is the picture of the heron in the background. For a cartel with a heron as their logo, they’re not too smart about concealments. I snap my eyes to the license plate to make absolutely sure, and as I suspected, it’s a match.
Jackpot.
A slow, steady smile crosses my face before I ride alongside the truck and yank out my gun. I hear a scream coming from the car driving behind me, but I don’t hesitate to pull the trigger on the passenger in the truck. The gun recoils in myhand, the window shattering as the blood from his exploding head splashes all over the guy beside him. The truck instantly swerves, trying to hit me, so I dart to the left, trying to dodge the giant eighteen-wheeler.
A second cartel goon sticks his head out of the window I just shot through, his gun in his hand, and begins firing on me. I duck when the bullets zoom past me while I swerve, trying to dodge them, one just scraping past my bicep. But I speed up, attempting to get a better angle as I bring my gun up and fire off a round at the same time he fires his. Mine slams him straight into his forearm, making him drop the gun. It falls under the truck, hitting the tires and making it flick back up underneath the undercarriage. It fires with the force of the hit, and I spot the gas tank instantly springing a leak.
I don’t hesitate to fire again. He flails his arm about, blood splashing all over the side of the truck, before I shoot him straight between the eyes. His lifeless body dangles half out the window as the driver continues to swerve, trying to push me off the road.
If they haven’t already, I must finish this before the drivers behind me get on their cells and call the heat. So I hammer down faster, riding up in front of the truck and skidding the bike, making the truck have to weave to avoid me. I hear the driver screaming at me in Spanish, but I can’t make out what he’s saying. I slam on my brakes, skidding my bike to a halt and spinning it around so I am now facing the driver dead on, my gun aimed directly at his face. His eyes widen, and he hits the brakes. The truck begins to jackknife as the brakes squeal with the pressure, and I don’t wait. I shoot off two rounds straight into the cab. The driver instantly falls to the right, taking the steering wheel with him. The truck starts to veer off the freeway’s edge, and I jump off my bike, reaching into my saddlebag for the grenade. The truck breaks the barriers of thefreeway and begins to nosedive to the Shelden Basin below. I grip the pin of the grenade with my teeth through the neck gaiter and rip it out, then hurtle the grenade on top of the falling truck.
With a smile, I turn, walking back toward my bike. Cars are stopped in the street, all of them looking at the chaos I have caused. I assume many of them are on their cells to the emergency services. A woman screams as I glance her way while she films me on her cell, and before I have a chance to hop back on my bike, the explosion rocks through the Los Angeles air. Everyone yells, running to the edge of the freeway, leaning over to take in the scene as I jump back on my bike and take off, not looking back.
A sense of pride washes over me.
