Bear said, racking the bolt of his own rifle. We don't give them a chance to reposition. We draw their fire, pin them down, and let Southside hit them from the rear. Wyatt, take five guys down the left alley, get an angle on the roof. Davis, right side, suppress the ground crew.
The rest of you with me. We're going straight down the throat. On the roof of the main warehouse, the mercenary commander, a cold-eyed ex-contractor named Vance, Wait, but a man named Miller stared through the thermal optic of his sniper rifle. Something was wrong. The rumble of the bikes had stopped a block away.
The heat signatures were stationary. They weren't moving into the yard. Ground team, hold your fire. Miller whispered into his headset. Target has halted.
They might have a scout. Should we push? The ground team leader replied, "Negative. We hold the choke point. If we push out, we lose the crossfire.
Let them come to us." But they didn't come. The silence stretched thick and suffocating. The rain masked the sound of boots on pavement. Miller adjusted his scope, trying to peer through the heavy curtain of rain and the blinding glare of the distant street lamp.
Then he heard it. The screaming roar of a V-twin engine revving to the redline. A single motorcycle tore around the corner, heading straight for the loading dock at 60 mph. Target entering the kill zone. Miller barked, "Light him up."
The trap snapped shut. The darkness of Miller's yard vanished in a blinding strobe of muzzle flashes. Four sniper rifles roared from the roof, their heavy-caliber rounds tearing through the rain. From behind the shipping containers, six assault rifles opened up on full automatic. The deafening, overlapping thunder of gunfire echoed off the brick walls, a terrifying wall of sound that shook the foundation of the city.
The motorcycle took the brunt of the crossfire. Tires blew out. The gas tank ruptured in a spray of vaporized fuel. The engine block shattered under the impact of armor-piercing rounds. The bike violently flipped end over end, sliding across the wet concrete in a shower of orange sparks.
But there was no rider. The angels had locked the throttle and ghost-ridden the bike straight into the yard. Miller realized the mistake a fraction of a second too late. Ceasefire! Ceasefire!
It's a decoy! He screamed into his comms. Before the echo of his order could fade, the world exploded. From the dark alleyways on the left and right of the yard, Wyatt and Davis's teams opened up. They weren't firing blindly.
They had thermal sights of their own. A hail of suppressive fire slammed into the roof of the warehouse. The brick parapet exploded into lethal shrapnel. One of the mercenaries on the roof took a round to the shoulder, spinning backward with a sharp cry. Contact left and right!
The ground team yelled, diving behind the rusted steel containers as bullets sparked and whined off the heavy metal. Down the main access road, Bear Sullivan walked forward. He didn't run. He moved with a terrifying, heavy inevitability. 10 angels moved with him, spreading out in a skirmish line, firing controlled, rhythmic bursts into the yard.
The mercs were highly trained, but they were pinned. Their perfect L-shaped ambush was useless because the enemy had refused to step into the center. Instead, the angels were chewing away at the edges, keeping the shooters suppressed, forcing them to keep their heads down. Behind the brick retaining wall a block away, Chloe clamped her hands over her ears. The noise was physical.
It felt like the air itself was tearing apart. She squeezed her eyes shut, burying her face in the thick flannel shirt Bear had given her. It smelled like motor oil, tobacco, and old leather. It smelled like safety. Cole stood above her, a massive revolver in his hand, his eyes scanning the dark street for flankers.
He didn't flinch at the sound of the gunfire. He just chewed his gum, occasionally patting her shoulder. "You're doing fine, kid. Almost over." In the yard, Miller was losing control.
The bikers weren't supposed to fight like this. They were supposed to panic. They were supposed to die. "Ground team, lay down covering fire. We need to exfil."
Miller yelled, realizing the element of surprise was gone. "We can't move. They have us pinned at the front." "Then fall back to the train tracks. Get out the back."
The six mercenaries on the ground broke cover, laying down a wild wall of automatic fire as they sprinted backward towards the rotting wooden doors of the rear rail entrance. They moved with tactical precision, bounding past each other, covering their sectors. They kicked the rear doors open, stepping out onto the abandoned gravel tracks, expecting to find the dark, empty escape route they had planned. Instead, they found 40 Hells Angels waiting in the dark. The Southside chapter had arrived.
They didn't yell. They didn't posture. They just raised their shotguns and rifles. The flash of 40 weapons firing simultaneously illuminated the train tracks like a lightning strike. It wasn't a firefight anymore.
It was a slaughter. The ground team was decimated in seconds. The overwhelming wall of lead threw them backward into the mud. Nobody armor could stop that volume of fire. Up on the roof, Miller heard the catastrophic eruption of gunfire from the rear.
He heard the comms go dead. He was surrounded. Screw this. Miller muttered. He abandoned his sniper rifle, drawing his sidearm.
He motioned to his three remaining men. We're leaving. Down the fire escape. Now. They scrambled towards the rusted iron stairs on the side of the building.
But Bear Sullivan had anticipated the route. As Miller's boots hit the metal grating of the fire escape, a spotlight clicked on from the alley below. It hit Miller directly in the eyes, blinding him. Going somewhere? Bear's voice boomed from the darkness.
Before Miller could raise his pistol, a three-round burst from Wyatt's rifle caught him in the chest. The heavy rounds punched through his Kevlar, sending him tumbling down the rusted iron stairs to crash onto the wet pavement below. The remaining three mercs on the roof dropped their weapons and threw their hands up. We surrender. One of them screamed into the rain.
We're done. The gunfire echoing through Miller's yard slowly sputtered and died. The silence that rushed in to fill the void was heavier, thicker, and smelled violently of cordite, copper, and burned rubber. Bear walked out from the shadows of the alley, his rifle lowered but ready. He stood over Miller's body.
The mercenary was staring up at the rain, gasping for air, his lungs filling with fluid. Bear crouched down. Who sent you? Miller just coughed, a bloody bubble forming on his lips. Didn't matter.
You were supposed to be dead. I get told that a lot. Bear whispered. He stood up, turning to his men. Sweep the yard.