Page 17 of Riot

That thought settled warm in my chest while we kept moving through the sunrise, engines rumbling loud enough to shake the empty morning around us.

Somewhere behind me Merk tapped the horn once at Mayhem for drifting too close to the center line. Mayhem flipped him off without even looking back.

I rolled the throttle a little more.

The warehouse sat in an industrial strip a few towns over. Corrugated metal. Faded paint. Chain-link fence with a gate already rolled open. Nothing flashy. That was how Bulldog liked it.

I pulled in after Mayhem and swung my bike into place while Merk eased the van up near the loading bay. The motor ticked under me as it cooled. Morning air still carried some bite, but the sun was climbing fast. Diesel fumes hung around the place, laying on hunks of old metal.

Bulldog came out before we killed all the engines. He was a big bastard, thick through the middle now, beard gone more salt than dark over the time I’d known him. But he had the same steady eyes, the same heavy walk that said he wasn’t worried about a damn thing on his own property.

I got off the bike and pulled my gloves free. Mayhem shut off his engine and did the same. Behind us, Merk climbed out of the van and stretched like the drive had personally offended him.

“Morning,” Bulldog said.

We clasped forearms. Firm. Familiar. No bullshit in it. I liked that about him.

“Morning,” I said. “You look ugly as ever.”

Bulldog snorted. He shifted his jaw like he was working out a knot and looked me over. Then he glanced at Mayhem and Merk and nodded once at each of them.

“Still breathing, so I’m ahead,” he said. “Preacher good?”

“He’s good.”

At the loading area, two men stood near the dock. Both were armed and watching.

Merk walked to the back of the van and opened the doors. He hauled the case out and set it on a dented rolling cart near the bay, metal clacking under the weight. Mayhem stayed near my right, relaxed but ready. I stayed where I was and watched Bulldog.

“Same order?” Bulldog asked.

“Yep,” I said.

He jerked his chin toward the inside. “Come look.”

The air inside was cooler and smelled like machine oil, dust, and old wood. Bulldog led us to three long crates already opened. They were packed clean, wrapped right, and no loose shit tossed in to make up space. That was another reason we used him. Bulldog didn’t do sloppy.

I crouched by the nearest crate and checked what was on top. Then I checked the foam beneath it. Serials were gone, and the weight felt right in my hands. I set it down and moved to the next.

Behind me, Mayhem lifted one of the wrapped pieces and checked it with his usual silent focus. Merk stayed near the case and watched the doorway.

Bulldog folded his arms. “Everything’s there.”

I stood and looked at him. “I know.”

His mouth twitched.

While I nodded to Merk, he knelt by the case and popped it open, revealing neatly stacked bundles of cash. Bulldog crouched and lifted two bundles at random. He thumbed through enough to satisfy himself. He hadn’t counted every bill. We’d been doing business too long.

“Pleasure as always,” Bulldog said.

I grabbed the side of the first crate. “For one of us.”

He barked a laugh, the sound bounced off the metal walls and died quickly. Then he stepped aside and let his men move in to help load.

Together, we carried the crates to the van. The metal lip at the loading bay scraped one crate corner and set my teeth on edge. Merk slid everything into place and strapped it down. Mayhem checked the tie-downs himself before slamming one rear door and then the other.

Smooth, fast, with no surprises.