Chapter 3
606 Words
Crowley walked in, half a cigar dangling from his lips.
Outside, a line of armored SUVs formed a barrier, while over a hundred men with guns fanned out, turning the garage into a trap.
These weren’t street thugs.
Their stances, the way they held their weapons, the spacing between them—veteran mercenaries, the three-hundred-a-day kind.
For thirty years, the county knew: Crowley’s money was at the docks, his life depended on this hundred-man crew.
Rex practically rolled over to grab his sleeve.
“Mr. Crowley! Glad you could make it!”
“This crazy woman the Walkers picked up, she crippled my son’s hand, and look at my car outside—”
“Get to the point,” Crowley flicked ash from his cigar.
“These bikers are from nowhere. I can’t handle them. I need you to step in—”
Crowley hummed, lifting his chin.
Gun barrels clicked and rose, dark and ominous.
The Priest stepped half a pace toward me. I raised my hand and held him back.
Crowley strolled up, looking down at me from above.
“Little girl, what’s your name?”
“June Walker.”
“Walker, huh.” He removed the cigar.
“You know how this county’s run for thirty years?”
“From the docks to the state line. Every shipment had to pass my approval. Rattlesnake watched the southern line for me.”
“A girl picked up from some garage has no say here.”
Someone behind him snickered.
Lyra, dangling from the post, yelled, “Mr. Crowley! She tied me up! I’m Uncle Rex’s fiancée—”
Crowley didn’t even flinch.
“Shut up,” he spat through his teeth.
Lyra’s scream choked off.
He turned his head and ordered the men behind him:
“Pin her hands to the garage doors. Let every biker in this county learn the rules.”
“Crowley,” I said.
“Huh?”
“The ARs that came into your southern warehouse last month…”
I paused.
“Want me to recite the serial numbers for you?”
Dead silence.
“Warehouse three, container CXU—4471.”
“Want the bill of lading too?”
Crowley’s eye twitched.
His cigar-hand froze midair, hung for three seconds, then lowered.
“Thirty percent of your shipment came from me.”
I stepped half forward.
“You pointing a gun at me with my own weapons?”
He squinted, voice low: “…Who do you work for?”
I didn’t answer.
Rex tugged at his sleeve. “Mr. Crowley, don’t waste time with this lunatic—”
Crowley shook him off.
He took a deep breath and forced a smile.
“Forget it. Why am I arguing with a girl?”
But that half-step back didn’t fool anyone.
He looked back.
“Keep her restrained. No blood. The rest we’ll handle later.”
Over a hundred barrels raised an inch.
The clicks of safety switches echoed like a swarm.
Luke shifted in front of me; I held his shoulder.
“Sit. Still.”
“June—”
“Sit.”
I glanced at my phone.
One minute, fifty seconds.
I pocketed it and looked up.
A distant, low rumble skittered across the ground.
The coffee cup on the workbench slid inch by inch.
Crowley frowned.
Thirty years in the business, he’d heard more engines than meals.
But this sound was different.
It wasn’t a few vehicles—it was an entire highway coming alive.
The roar grew closer, teeth-chattering.
His men scrambled forward:
“Sir! The highway—lights everywhere! Too many to count—”
Crowley turned.
- Writer
- chap_listContents
- likeADD