Page 20 of My Single Dad Biker

I ride next to Tate in the formation we've used fifty times before. The route takes us out past the edge of Bloomfield where the houses stop and the land opens up into empty fields that nobody farms anymore.

The sun is already dropping and the light is going gold and orange across everything.

The adrenaline settles into that cold focused place it goes right before action. Everything unnecessary falls away.

The plan is simple because simple plans work. Fast entry. Neutralize resistance. Burn the product. Exit before emergency services arrive.

The warehouse appears exactly where Cain said it would. Chain-link fence half collapsed on one side.

Two vehicles parked outside that weren't there this morning according to the surveillance photos. A truck and a sedan, both newer models, which means someone with money is involved.

Clint signals the split a hundred yards out. Hand signals because we're not using comms for something this fast.

Tate and I peel off to take the back approach. Four brothers continue to the front.

The loading dock door has fresh pry marks on the frame. Recent work. I can hear voices inside but can't make out words yet. At least two distinct speakers. Maybe three.

My phone buzzes once in my pocket. Clint's go signal. Tate looks at me. I nod. We move.

The interior is darker than outside but not dark enough that I can't see.

Smells like mildew and standing water and gasoline and something chemical I don't have a name for.

Product is stacked in the center under tarps. A lot of product. More than Cain estimated. This isn't just a staging point, it's a distribution hub.

Two prospects are standing near the stack looking at their phones. Young. Maybe early twenties.

One of them is smoking even though he's standing ten feet from enough flammable material to level the building. The other one has earbuds in.

Sully is near the back exit on a phone call, his back is to us.

He's bigger than I remembered. Six-three, probably two-forty. Scar across his throat from something that happened before he joined Marrow.

He turns while he's talking and sees us.

His expression doesn't change.

He ends the call calmly and puts the phone in his pocket. The two prospects notice him noticing us and they finally look up from their phones.

"Wrong place," I say.

The prospects bolt immediately.

One runs straight toward the front entrance where he's going to meet four Vigil brothers coming the other direction.

The other one runs toward Tate and that's a miscalculation he's going to regret.

Tate moves like someone who spent eight years in the service learning how to neutralize threats efficiently.

Sully doesn't run. He looks at me and I look at him and we both know what happens next.

"This property isn't Vigil territory," he says. His voice has the rasp of someone whose vocal cords were damaged.

"Half mile from an elementary school makes it our territory."

"Crane's not going to see it that way."

"Crane can discuss it with our president."