And I'm fucking furious.
How dare these biker bastards not only interrupt my time with Evelyn but have the audacity to attack my clubhouse? My territory? My people?
"Status," I bark at Ghost as we stride down the hallway toward the main room.
"Fifteen, maybe twenty hostiles. Four vehicles. Heavy weapons." Ghost's report is crisp, efficient.
"Prospects?"
"Armed and on the roof. Ace has the north side covered. Viper and Blade are setting up in the main room."
I nod, mentally cataloging our strengths, our positions, our arsenal. Fifteen to twenty Vultures MC against six Outlaw Order and three prospects. They should have brought more men.
The main room has transformed in the minutes since the alarm sounded. Furniture overturned to create barriers. Weapons distributed. Brothers in position.
"They're here for Naomi. For revenge," Blade says as I enter, checking the magazine on his rifle. "For Evelyn."
"They're not getting shit," I snarl. "Except a funeral."
I move to the security monitors, assessing the approaching threat. Four vehicles. Two SUVs, a van, and what looks likean armored truck. They're not being subtle. This isn't a stealth operation; it's a show of force.
Good. Let them come loud. Let them come bold. Let them come stupid.
"Ghost, you and Ace take the east entrance. Blade, you and Viper cover the main doors. I'll take the roof with the prospects." I check my weapons one last time. "No one gets in. No one. And if possible, I want the leader alive. I have questions."
My brothers nod, moving to their positions without question or hesitation. This is what makes us formidable—absolute trust, absolute loyalty, absolute certainty in each other's capabilities.
"They're stopping just outside the gate," Ghost calls from his position. "Looks like they're preparing to breach."
I climb the stairs to the roof, where two prospects are positioned with rifles. Both former military, both eager to earn their full patches.
"Remember your training," I tell them as I take position behind the low wall that circles the roof. "Controlled bursts. Aim for center mass. Don't waste ammo showing off."
"Yes, sir," they answer in unison, eyes focused on the approaching threat.
The Vultures MC don't waste time with negotiations. The armored truck accelerates suddenly, ramming through our front gate with a screech of tearing metal. The other vehicles follow, fanning out in the courtyard as men pour out, weapons raised.
"Wait for my signal," I order over the comm. "Let them get comfortable."
The Vultures MC advance with a confidence that tells me they've underestimated us. They expect to walk in, take what they want, and leave. They have no idea what they've walked into.
A man steps from the second SUV—tall, with a shaved head and an expensive suit despite the tactical situation. He barks orders, gesturing toward the clubhouse. This is their leader. The one I want.
"On my mark," I say quietly into the comm. "Three. Two. One. Fire."
The first shots come from the roof—precise, controlled bursts that drop two Vultures MC immediately. The courtyard erupts into chaos as my brothers open fire from their positions. The Vultures MC scramble for cover, returning fire with more enthusiasm than accuracy.
I sight down my rifle, tracking the leader as he ducks behind an SUV. Patient. Waiting. There—he moves to direct his men, exposing himself for just a second.
I squeeze the trigger. The bullet catches him in the shoulder, spinning him around but not dropping him. Wounded, not dead. Perfect.
"Moving to flank," Ghost reports over the comm. "Three hostiles down on east side."
"Two more here," Blade confirms. "They're trying to circle around back."
"Cover the rear," I order the prospects. "I'm going down."
I move quickly, taking the stairs three at a time. The clubhouse echoes with gunfire, the smell of cordite thick in the air. This is familiar territory for me. The chaos of battle, the clarity of purpose, the absence of doubt.
