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The roar of over fifty motorcycles echoes off the city blocks like a pride of lions coming through. The rumble is comforting, lulling me into a sense of safety in numbers and taking some of the edge off before the action. There's a lot I love about the Eagles and being in an MC, but nothing beats just the feeling of riding a horse made of steel and rubber. Even if I'd never heard of the Screaming Eagles, I'd still be fucking doing this.
Eagle-eye's got point. Even though he keeps telling everyone he's getting too old for this shit, he seems to always have it in him for one more operation. One day, he's just gonna collapse and I doubt he'll quit even then. He's been angling for King, who rides at his side, to take over one day, but every time I think that maybe it's gonna happen soon, Prez keeps proving us all wrong. I hope he keeps proving us wrong for years to come.
We cross the bridge into Blackworth. This is Giordano territory, but I assume someone called ahead so they don't think we're attacking. We're on good terms these days, but you don't wanna surprise the Mafia if you can avoid it. And the last thing we need is to get into a gunfight before we're even there. Still, I sit straighter and keep my eyes peeled.
I wanna ride faster. Get out of this area, sure, but I wanna be where Mila is. This isn't a casual ride, not by a long shot, and fuck, I wanna open the throttle all the way. But we're stronger as an army, and fifty of us going all out would almost definitely lead to a fuckup.
Reaper's on my right, riding a loaner while his old ride is getting rebuilt. I fucking miss having Scrapper on my left, but he's with Mila, and that's the best fucking place for him. Soon we'll be there too.
Or die trying.
As we enter downtown, my adrenaline surges. We're getting close to the action, and my body understands it—wants to be right in the fucking middle of it. Someone's threatening our woman, and I'll burn down the whole fucking world if I have to, if it's to keep her safe.
And then we're there. The big wrought iron gates that guard the entry to the Channel 7 parking lot in front of their studio compound have been blown off their hinges. Whoever's coming for our girl isn't fucking around.
Unfortunately for them, neither am I.
The Channel 7 building is a small skyscraper. Most of the floors are dark, but there's a shit ton of vehicles parked in front of it. Whoever started this threw enough money at it to call in a small army. Even if they aren’t organized, they’re still dangerous. The Screaming Eagles formation charges the front entrance like a roaring snake with Eagle-eye at its tip. My brothers, all dangerous men with hard faces and guns in their belts, slow their bikes as we fan out. I see figures scramble inside for cover. We're gonna have to treat this as a siege, and try to get to wherever Mila is quick enough to get her the fuck out.
A bullet screams through the air to my right, and then it's fucking game on.
Me and Reaper break off to the other side of a cement barrier between parking lots and throw ourselves to the ground, rolling into cover as we draw iron. I peer over the barrier, looking for a shooter. There’s a shadow in a window two stories up, looking like they're raising a shotgun. Here's fucking hoping I'm right. I pull the trigger, the muzzle flashing bright in the summer night. Glass shatters and someone screams. The shooter drops out of sight. Sounds like I at least made contact, but we gotta get inside.
“Ready?”
“As ready as I'll fucking ever be,” Reaper replies. “Let’s dance.”
“After you.” We vault over the barrier and run crooked. Potshots kick up gravel around our feet, but the mercs parked a lot of cars out front, and they're giving us cover as we charge the entrance. This is more than I expect from one shitty judge. So who the fuck is organizing this?
Until Mila's safe, I honestly don't give a fuck, but eventually it's gonna be a question worth asking.
The whole club leapfrogs forwards, some squads giving cover while the others run, then switch it up. A lot of former military in the MC, and it shows.
We charge through the front doors, which have also been blown open. No wonder there were explosions in the background when I talked to Bull. Fuck, that feels like forever ago.
A loud crack is followed by the whine of a gunshot past my face, so close I swear I can feel it tearing through my beard. “Cover!” I yell and jump behind a marble pillar.
The first floor of the studio is a massive reception area. The floor's marble, the ceiling's marble, the columns are marble. Even the reception counter top is fucking marble. Not my style, but I'm sure it's expensive as hell. The room's built almost like an arena, with stairs up all around leading to different areas, or to elevators.
A dark clad man tries to dart from behind one counter to another, definitely not one of ours. Reaper's gun barks once, and the man screams as he's knocked backwards in a brand new direction. His gun rattles over the floor, and I don't think he'll be getting up to get it back. “Nice shot.”
“Where the fuck do we go?”
“No idea. Gonna try to call.”
“I'll keep an eye out.”
I try Mila, but no answer. Same with Scrapper and Bull. Fuck. I try Faith too, but that mutes right away, like she's out of battery or something, and I don't have Mad Dog's number. “Nothing.”
My phone dings. From Mila. Just a message. FixerUppers.
The fuck?
I open the app, just in case.
And find a fucking live stream.
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