Bear's blood ran cold. Tactical gear, rifles, roof positions. That wasn't a local syndicate looking for a sit-down. That was a hit squad. A cartel cleanup crew, or a highly coordinated ambush.
They had been invited into a slaughterhouse. Wyatt stepped forward, still unconvinced. Bear, we can't let a street rat dictate club business. We look weak if we turn back now. We look dead if she's right.
Bear fired back. He turned his head slowly, scanning the pitch-black rooftops of the warehouse 50 yards down the street. It was too quiet, Davis. Bear said softly, not taking his eyes off the dark horizon. A wiry biker near the middle of the pack stepped off his bike.
Yeah, boss? Kill the headlights, all of them. Now. One by one, the 22 headlamps snapped off, plunging the street into near absolute darkness, lit only by the distant dying amber of a broken street lamp. Give me your thermals.
Bear ordered. Davis reached into his saddlebag and tossed a heavy military-grade thermal monocular to Bear. Bear brought it to his eye, pointing it straight down the access road towards the abandoned warehouse. Through the green and white phosphor screen, the cold night came alive with heat signatures. Bear felt the air leave his lungs.
Four glowing white silhouettes lay prone on the roof of the warehouse, perfectly still, sniper rifles aimed directly at the access road. Down below, behind the steel containers, six more heat signatures crouched in the mud, holding assault weapons. It was a perfectly executed crossfire ambush. If the Angels had ridden into that yard, the doors would have closed behind them, and not a single man would have ridden out. Bear lowered the monocular.
He slowly turned his head to look at Chloe, who was standing in the rain, shivering violently, waiting for him to snap her neck. He didn't speak. He just reached out a massive leather-clad hand and gently placed it on her shoulder. The weight of it was grounding. "Wyatt."
Bear said, his voice deadly calm. "Yeah, Bear." "Get the heavy artillery out of the saddlebags, and call in the Southside chapter. Tell them to bring everything they have." Bear looked down at Chloe, a grim, terrifying smile spreading beneath his thick beard.
"They brought a trap." Bear said softly. "But they forgot to check if the cage was locked. Let's show these ghosts what a real nightmare looks like." The rain didn't stop.
It just fell harder, washing the grime of the city into the storm drains, indifferent to the blood that was about to follow. Bear Sullivan didn't panic. Panic was a luxury for civilians. In the 30 seconds after he lowered the thermal monocular, the dynamic of the street completely inverted. The hunted became the hunters.
He turned back to the 21 men behind him. They were watching him, reading the rigid posture of his broad shoulders. They didn't need a speech. They needed orders. "Bikes off."
Bear commanded, his voice a low, carrying rumble. "Kickstands down. We go silent." The heavy clanking of metal echoed down the line as 21 heavy cruisers were parked in the middle of the street. Bear looked at Wyatt.
They've got the high ground. Four snipers on the main warehouse roof. Six shooters on the ground behind the containers. They're running a classic L-shaped ambush. If we had rolled past that gate, they would have caught us in a crossfire.
We wouldn't have made it 10 ft. Wyatt spit on the wet asphalt. His hand finally left the wrench at his belt and moved to the heavy saddle bag on his bike. Cartel? Mercs.
Bear said. Private military or cartel hitters who know what they're doing. They have discipline. They haven't fired a shot yet because they're waiting for us to enter the kill box. They know we stopped.
Davis chimed in, racking the slide on a matte black Glock 19. Yeah, they know. Bear agreed. But they don't know why. Right now, they're looking through their scopes, wondering if we're just cautious or if we made them.
We use that confusion. Bear turned his attention back to Chloe. She was still standing in the freezing rain, her oversized coat plastered to her thin frame. She looked incredibly small surrounded by the towering leather-clad men. The adrenaline that had propelled her out of the transformer box was evaporating, leaving her trembling so violently her teeth audibly chattered.
She had just ruined a multi-million-dollar hit. She had just saved 22 lives and she was completely, hopelessly exposed. Bear walked over to her. He didn't loom. He dropped to one knee, ignoring the icy puddle that soaked through his denim jeans.
He looked her dead in the eye. What's your name, kid? Chloe. She whispered. Chloe, I'm Bear.
You did a brave thing tonight. A stupid, crazy, brave thing. Bear unzipped his heavy leather cut, shrugging off the thick flannel shirt he wore underneath. He wrapped the dry, warm flannel around her shivering shoulders. I need you to do one more brave thing.
I need you to stay alive. He looked over his shoulder. Cole, a massive, heavily tattooed biker with a scarred jawline stepped forward. Take Chloe. Bear ordered.
Get her behind the brick retaining wall at the end of the block. You stay with her. If anyone comes down that alley who isn't wearing our patch, you put them in the ground. Understood? Got it, boss.
Cole rumbled. He gently put a hand on Chloe's back, steering her away from the exposed street. Chloe looked back over her shoulder at Bear. What are you going to do? We're going to have a meeting.
Bear said, his eyes going dead and flat. Just not the one they planned. As Cole led her away, the street erupted into organized, terrifying motion. The Angels were not a street gang. Many of them were veterans, men who had traded the uniform of the military for the patch of the club.
They knew tactics. They knew how to breach, how to flank, and how to apply overwhelming violence of action. Wyatt began distributing heavy weaponry from a false bottom in the lead supply bike. Short-barreled AR-15s, pump-action shotguns, and flashbangs. The mechanical symphony of weapons being loaded and chambered was a chilling counter-rhythm to the falling rain.
Southside chapter is 3 minutes out. Davis reported, checking his phone. 40 riders. They're coming up the abandoned rail tracks behind the warehouse. No headlights.
Bear nodded. A grim, predatory satisfaction settled over him. The mercenaries in the yard thought they had trapped 22 guys on motorcycles in a bottleneck. They didn't realize they had just invited 60 heavily armed Hells Angels to surround them in the dark. All right.