The garage bay was an icebox, the scent of cold concrete and high-grade synthetic oil hanging heavy in the air. I stood before the Norton, my hands trembling as I reached for the locket tucked beneath my grease-stained tank top. The alarm outside had transitioned from a sharp siren to the rhythmic, low-frequency thud of heavy-duty flash-bangs. The Iron Wolves were engaging the first wave of the National Death Dealers’ hit squad, and the sound of suppressed gunfire was a terrifying, metallic rain against the clubhouse's reinforced exterior.
Dax was at the heavy steel door of the garage, his silhouette framed by the flickering emergency lights. He held a tactical shotgun in one hand, his eyes scanning the monitors that lined the security hub. "They’re through the south gate, Mia. They’re no
