Chapter 18

The Green Devils had finally gotten some intel and the Wolverines would pay for their mistakes. The harsh growl of motorcycles roared outside as Jaxon stared at the map spread across the scarred oak table. His knuckles were white where they gripped the edge, rage simmering in his gut like acid.

The Wolverines had crossed a line this time. They’d ambushed Slick as he was leaving the clubhouse, brutally beating him before he could get a swing in. Now his best friend was fighting for his life in the ICU, and Jaxon was out for blood.

“We’ve got their location,” Marcus said, tapping a spot on the map. “According to Dirk, they’ve been receiving shipments of illegal firearms for months. Probably stockpiling them.”

Jaxon’s jaw clenched, rage spiking. The bastards were gearing up for war. He should have seen this coming.

“We’ll hit ‘em with everything we’ve got,” he said, voice rough. “Take out as many as we can and destroy their supplies. They won’t be causin’ trouble for a long damn time after this.”

Marcus’s eyes glinted with grim satisfaction, loyalty etched into the lines on his weathered face. “You got it, boss.”

Jaxon stared at the map, heart pounding as he imagined the chaos that would ensue. The sting of smoke and gunpowder, the shouts and screams, the metallic taste of blood.

The Wolverines had left him no choice. They would learn not to fuck with the Green Devils.

And if a few of his own men didn’t make it out alive? That was the price of protecting what was his. Jaxon gritted his teeth, knuckles cracking.

The Wolverines signed their own death warrant. Now it was time to deliver.

Jaxon stood, pushing away from the table with a scrape of wood on concrete. “Mount up,” he ordered, gaze sweeping over his men. “We roll out in ten.”

The room erupted into action as the bikers jumped to obey. Jaxon stalked outside, tugging on his cut and sliding a cigarette between his lips. His arm stung where a bullet had grazed him during their last run-in with the Wolverines when they tried some shit, a reminder of how dangerous this life could be.

How dangerous he could be.

Jaxon lit his cigarette and took a deep drag, exhaling a cloud of smoke. Once they hit the Wolverines’ clubhouse, there would be no going back. They would be at war, a point of no return that would likely end in blood and death.

But some things were worth fighting for. Worth dying for.

Like family. Like honor. Like the cut he wore, the patch that bound him to something greater than himself.

Jaxon flicked away his cigarette as the rumble of motorcycles shattered the night. His men pulled up, an army of leather and chrome, weapons glinting under the pale glow of the moon.

“Time to go to work,” Marcus said, face obscured by his helmet. Jaxon nodded and swung onto his bike, the familiar power thrumming between his legs.

“Move out!” he bellowed, twisting the throttle. The formation of bikes surged forward as one, tearing off into the darkness. Toward their destiny.

Toward war.

The Wolverines’ clubhouse came into view, a ramshackle building at the end of a long dirt road. Jaxon killed his headlight and rolled to a stop, the rest of his men flanking him. An eerie silence hung over the compound, as if the enemy were lying in wait.

Jaxon’s instincts screamed danger. His arm throbbed in warning.

“Something’s not right,” Marcus said, voice low. “Place looks deserted.”

Before Jaxon could respond, a shot rang out, shattering the quiet. A bullet whizzed past his head as all hell broke loose.

“Ambush!” someone shouted as the Wolverines emerged from the darkness, unleashing a hail of gunfire.

Jaxon dove behind his bike for cover, peering around the back tire.

Pain exploded in his arm and he jerked back, cursing. Hot blood seeped between his fingers—he’d been hit. The bullet grazed him, but it was enough. He gritted his teeth against the pain, refusing to show weakness. His men were counting on him.

The familiar rage bubbled up inside, blinding him. How dare these bastards attack his family? He would make them pay. Jaxon grabbed his spare gun from his saddlebag and leapt up, squeezing off several shots. Two Wolverines dropped as the rest scrambled for cover.

They wanted a war? He’d give them one.

Jaxon ducked behind a stack of crates, reloading his gun with a practiced hand. His arm was on fire, but he pushed the pain aside. Staying alive was all that mattered now.

“We’re pinned down!” Marcus shouted over the roar of gunfire. “What’s the play?”

Jaxon peered around the crates, searching for an opening. They were outnumbered, but he wasn’t about to surrender. Not when lives were on the line.

“Flank ‘em from the left,” he ordered. “Move!”

Marcus nodded and waited for an opening, then sprinted along the side of the warehouse. Jaxon unleashed a barrage of bullets, forcing the Wolverines to take cover.

A scream rang out as Marcus’s gun barked twice in succession. Jaxon’s lips curled into a snarl. One less bastard to deal with.

The gunfire slowed as both sides regrouped. An eerie silence descended over the compound, broken only by the moans of the wounded. The smell of blood and gunpowder hung heavy in the air.

Jaxon’s chest heaved as he caught his breath. He spared a glance at the bodies littering the ground, a mixture of his men and the enemy. They’d paid dearly for this fight.

“Bastards retreated,” Marcus said, emerging from the shadows. “Guess they’ve had enough for one night.”

Jaxon nodded, jaw clenched. “We won tonight, but the war’s just begun.”

His gaze hardened as he stared into the distance.

Something’s not right…