PART 1

The smell of 10W-30 motor oil and stale coffee—that was my peace. It was the perfume of a life I’d fought twenty years to earn.

The morning sun in Newport, Maine, didn’t sting like the Iraqi glare; it was soft, diffused through the coastal mist, painting long, lazy shadows across the concrete floor of Wilson’s Auto and Marine. I wiped my hands on a rag that was more grease than fabric, admiring the precise hum of the hydraulic lift.

At forty-five, my joints creaked a little more than they used to, a souvenir from too many HALO jumps and too many hard landings in places the government denied we were in. But the muscle memory was still there. The way I held a wrench wasn’t so different from how I used to hold an HK416. It was all about control. Precision.

“Morning, Mr. Wilson.”

I turned, the ghost of a smile touching my lips. Sarah Mitchell. Nursing student. Good kid. She drove a Honda Civic that was holding onto life out of sheer spite and the prayer of a timing belt I’d been nursing for months.

“Sarah,” I nodded, my voice gravelly from disuse. I didn’t talk much these days. “That rattle’s getting worse.”

She sighed, clutching a stack of medical textbooks like a shield. She looked tired—the bone-deep exhaustion of double shifts and student loans. “I know. I was hoping… how long can I push it? Tuition is due next week and—”

The sound hit me before they did.

It wasn’t just noise; it was a vibration that started in the soles of my boots and rattled the tools on the wall. Low-frequency thunder. The distinctive, aggressive growl of modified exhausts. Not one bike. Five. Maybe six.

My eyes narrowed. The calm in the shop didn’t break; it evaporated.

They turned into the lot in a diamond formation. Textbook. Tight spacing. Discipline. These weren’t weekend warriors out for a joyride. They cut their engines in unison, the silence that followed heavy, pregnant with violence.

Chrome gleamed under the sun—flashing like mirrored sunglasses. The leader swung his leg over his Harley. He was a mountain of a man, wearing a leather vest that creaked as he moved. Drake, the patch said. The rocker on the back read RAZORS.

I watched them dismount. I didn’t look at their faces yet. I looked at their hands. I looked at their waists. No visible holsters, but the guy on the left—Switchback, according to his vest—kept tapping his right thigh. Fixed blade knife, probably dropped in a sheath inside the pocket. The big one, Drake, walked with a slight limp on his left side. Old injury. Maybe shrapnel.

“Well,” Drake announced, his voice carrying the rough, jagged edge of someone used to shouting over gunfire. “Looks like we found the right place, boys. Wilson’s Auto. Heard this is where the locals come to get bled dry.”

I didn’t move. I stayed positioned between them and Sarah, a subtle shift of weight that put me on the balls of my feet. “I’m with a customer,” I said. My voice was flat. Neutral.

The other riders spread out. It was a flank. They were establishing a perimeter without even talking. Military training, my brain whispered. Sloppy, arrogant, but trained.

“Hey, Grease Monkey,” Switchback stepped forward, sneering. “Boss is talking to you.”

“I heard him,” I replied, not breaking eye contact with Drake. “There’s a shop in Brunswick if you’re looking for service. We’re booked.”

Drake laughed, a dry, barking sound. “Oh, we ain’t here for an oil change, old man. We’re here to discuss… territory. Respect.”

Sarah shrank back against the lift. I could smell the fear coming off her—sharp and sour.

“Sarah,” I said softly, not turning my head. “Go inside. Call yourself a ride.”

“But my car—”

“Go.” It was the voice I used to use on the radio when things went sideways. The voice that meant move or die.

She scrambled into the office. Drake watched her go, his eyes lingering a second too long. My blood temperature ticked up a degree. Just one.

Drake stepped into my personal space. He was trying to intimidate me, using size and proximity. It was a bully’s tactic. “Here’s the thing, Old Timer. Newport is changing. Small businesses… they’re vulnerable. Accidents happen. Fires. Broken legs.”

“I have insurance,” I said.

“Not the kind we sell.” He leaned in, his breath smelling of tobacco and mint. “The Razors are expanding. You’re either with us, paying your dues, or you’re against us. And trust me, you don’t want to be against us.”

I looked at him. Really looked at him. Beneath the bravado, beneath the scarred tissue on his cheek, I saw eyes that hadn’t slept in years. They were haunted. The eyes of a man who was still waiting for an IED to go off.

Marine, I guessed. Maybe Force Recon based on the unit tattoo peeking out of his collar.

“I think we’re done here,” I said.

Drake’s jaw clenched. For a second, I saw the violence spike in his pupils. He wanted to swing. He was begging for a reason. But something stopped him. Maybe it was the fact that I hadn’t flinched. Maybe it was the way I was standing—hands loose, center of gravity low.

“You got until tomorrow,” he spat, backing up. “After that… accidents happen. Especially to stubborn old men who don’t know their place.”

He signaled his crew. “Let’s roll. Our friend here needs time to think.”

They peeled out, kicking gravel against the pristine siding of my shop. I watched them go, cataloging everything. License plates. Tire tread patterns. The specific fluid leak on the third bike.

I wasn’t scared. I was disappointed.

The vandalism started two days later.

I arrived to find the front window shattered, glass dusting the floor like diamonds. LAST WARNING was spray-painted in angry red jagged letters across the bay door.

I swept the glass in silence. My phone buzzed in my pocket.

“Mr. Wilson?” Sarah’s voice was trembling, pitched high with panic.

“Sarah. Slow down. What is it?”

“I… I think they’re following me. The bikers. I’m at the hospital. My shift just ended, but they’ve been circling the parking lot for twenty minutes. I’m scared to walk to my car.”

The broom handle in my hand almost snapped.

“Stay inside the doors,” I commanded. “I’m coming.”

I locked the shop. I didn’t take the shop truck. I took my personal vehicle—a matte black F-150 that I kept maintained to a standard that would make a NASCAR crew chief weep.

The drive to the hospital usually took fifteen minutes. I made it in seven.

The sun was setting, casting long, bloody streaks across the sky. The hospital lot was sparse. I saw them immediately. Three bikes parked near the staff exit, idling in the shadows like wolves waiting for a straggler.

Ray “Burner” Martinez. I’d learned his name from a quick call to an old contact in the Pentagon. Dishonorable discharge, or so the file said. He was sitting on his bike, laughing with two others I hadn’t seen before.

I pulled up right in front of them. I didn’t slam the brakes. I just stopped. Controlled. Inevitable.

I stepped out. I wasn’t wearing my coveralls anymore. I was in jeans and a grey t-shirt.

“Look who decided to play hero,” Burner called out, spitting on the asphalt. “Little late for auto repairs.”

“Just picking up a friend,” I said, walking toward the automatic doors. My heart rate was resting at 55 beats per minute. “You boys might want to find a hobby that doesn’t involve harassing nurses.”

Burner slid off his bike. The other two flanked him. Triangle formation. They were trying to box me in.

“Funny thing about friends,” Burner sneered, his hand drifting behind his back. “They get hurt real easy. Drake wants you to understand… everyone you help is fair game.”

I stopped. The distance between us was twelve feet. The kill zone.

“Let me be very clear,” I said. My voice dropped an octave, losing the ‘local mechanic’ twang. “If anything happens to Sarah, or any of my customers… the police won’t be the ones you have to worry about.”

Burner laughed, but it was nervous. “You threatening us, old man?”

“No. I’m giving you a chance to walk away.”

The hospital doors slid open. Sarah stepped out, her eyes wide. She froze when she saw the standoff.

“Sarah,” I said, keeping my eyes locked on Burner. “Get in the truck.”

She ran. I could hear her sneakers slapping the pavement. Burner twitched, like a predator tracking movement, but he didn’t pursue. He was too focused on me. He couldn’t figure out why I wasn’t sweating.

Once the truck door slammed shut, I turned my back on them. It was the ultimate insult. I walked to the driver’s side, opened the door, and looked back one last time.

“Tell Drake I’m willing to talk,” I said. “Just him and me. But if he pushes this… he better be ready for what pushes back.”

That night, I made the call.

The phone rang twice.

“Wilson,” the voice answered. No hello. No pleasantries. Just a name and a readiness.

“Chief,” I said. “I need a favor. I’ve got a situation in Newport.”

“Local cops?”

“Useless against this. It’s a crew. Veterans. Marines mostly, maybe some Recon. They’re organized, they’re trained, and they’re going down a dark path. They’re targeting civilians.”

There was a pause on the line. “How many?”

“Core group of five. Probably twenty total.”

“You need extraction?”

“No,” I looked at the reflection of my own eyes in the darkened window of my kitchen. “I need a team. I’m not running, Chief. These guys… they’re lost. They brought the war home. I need to show them the difference between a soldier and a thug.”

“We can be there by 0400. Who’s the target?”

“Drake Stevens. And Chief… bring the toys. I think we need to make a statement.”

The next morning, the sun rose on a battlefield.

I was at the shop early. I swept the last of the glass. I brewed a fresh pot of coffee. I sat on a stool in the middle of the open bay, waiting.

They didn’t disappoint.

The roar was deafening this time. Twelve bikes. They filled the lot, blocking the exits, surrounding the building. It was a show of force. Shock and awe.

Drake led the pack, dismounting with a swagger that screamed victory. He walked up to the bay door, kicking a piece of the broken glass I’d missed.

“Nice decoration,” he shouted over the idling engines. “Though I gotta admit, I’m surprised. Smart money said you’d be halfway to Canada by now.”

I stood up slowly. “Never was much for running.”

Drake smirked. “What are you one for then? Besides fixing timing belts for pretty nurses?”

“You’re making a mistake, Drake,” I said calmly. “This isn’t Fallujah. These people aren’t insurgents.”

The smile vanished from his face. It was replaced by a look of genuine shock, quickly covered by anger. “What did you say?”

“Third Battalion, First Marines. Force Recon. Second Battle of Fallujah, 2004. You were trapped in a collapsed building for three days. You lost half your squad getting out.”

The silence that fell over the lot was absolute. The other bikers shifted uneasily. I was reading their mail, and they didn’t like it.

“You think reading a file makes you an expert?” Drake stepped forward, his hands balling into fists. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know you’re using small unit tactics to shake down grocery stores,” I said, disgust coloring my tone. “I know you’re dishonoring every man who died in that building.”

Drake snapped. He lunged, grabbing my shirt collar, shoving me back. “Burn it!” he screamed, his spit hitting my face. “Burn it all down! Let’s show this wannabe hero what happens!”

Behind him, three of the Razors pulled Molotov cocktails from their saddlebags. They flicked lighters. The rags caught fire, orange flames dancing in the morning air.

I didn’t struggle against Drake’s grip. I just looked at him with pity.

“Before you do that,” I whispered, “you might want to look up.”

Drake frowned. “What?”

“Look. Up.”

He turned his head.

A tiny red dot appeared on the chest of the biker holding the first Molotov. Then another on his forehead. Then another on the gas tank of Drake’s bike.

Drake looked down at his own chest. A red laser danced right over his heart.

He froze.

From the roof of the warehouse opposite us, from the water tower a hundred yards back, and from the grassy knoll to the east, dark figures rose. They didn’t look like cops. They didn’t look like SWAT. They looked like shadows with rifles.

“I made some calls too,” I said, my voice cutting through the tension like a knife. “My brothers are a little possessive.”

Drake stared at the laser on his chest. He knew exactly what it meant. He knew the windage was already calculated. He knew the trigger pull weight.

“You’re… you’re one of them,” Drake breathed, the realization hitting him like a physical blow. “SEAL?”

“Was,” I corrected. I brushed his hand off my collar. “Now, I’m just a mechanic.”

I stepped back, addressing the group.

“Put the cocktails down. Slowly.”

They did. You don’t argue with a laser designator.

“Now,” I said, looking at Drake. “We’re going to have a conversation. Because this isn’t about territory. And it isn’t about money. It’s about the fact that you’re still fighting a war that ended ten years ago. And if you don’t wake up, you’re going to die in a parking lot in Maine for absolutely nothing.”

Drake looked at his men. He looked at the snipers on the roof. Then he looked at me. The anger drained out of him, leaving only the exhaustion.

“Talk?” he asked, his voice raspy.

“Coffee’s inside,” I said, turning my back on him for the second time. “And Drake? Tell your boys to kill the engines. They’re disturbing the peace.”

PART 2

The coffee in the mug was black, bitter, and hot enough to strip the lining off a throat. Drake held it with both hands, staring into the dark liquid like he was reading tea leaves that spelled out his own obituary.

We were in the back office of my shop. Outside, the uneasy truce held. My team—Ghost, Dave, and a massive corn-fed operator named Tiny—were watching the Razors. The bikers looked like scolded children, leaning against their chrome machines, trying not to make eye contact with the men on the roof.

“You got a nice setup here,” Drake said finally, his voice low. “For a grease monkey.”

“And you’ve got a disciplined unit,” I countered, leaning against a filing cabinet. “For a criminal enterprise.”

Drake flinched. “It wasn’t supposed to be this. When we came back… nobody hired us. We had skills, sure. We could clear a room in three seconds, but we didn’t know how to write a resume. The club… it was just a way to stick together. To watch each other’s six.”

“And the protection racket?” I asked. “Terrorizing nurses? Is that part of the brotherhood?”

Drake slammed the mug down. Coffee sloshed onto my paperwork. “We needed money, Mike. And then… they came. Suits. Said they could help with the legal bills, help with the VA claims. All we had to do was provide ‘security’ for a few shipments. Keep the locals in line so nobody asked questions about the trucks moving through town at 2 AM.”

“Who are they?”

Drake hesitated. He pulled a worn photo from his vest pocket—a squad of young Marines in desert cammies, smiling in front of a HMMWV. He traced a thumb over the faces. “If I talk, my guys go down. We’re implicated in things… big things.”

“Your guys are going down anyway,” I said, my voice hard. “You saw the laser on your chest. That wasn’t a threat, Drake. That was a promise. You have two choices: you go down as a thug who got wiped out by a retired SEAL team, or you help me figure out who’s pulling your leash, and maybe—maybe—you earn a way back.”

He looked up. The anger was gone, replaced by a desperate, clawing hope. “There’s a guy. Burner brought him in. Calls himself Whitmore. Works for some defense contractor, or maybe intelligence. I don’t know. But he’s the one calling the shots. Burner… Burner is his eyes and ears.”

“Burner,” I mused. Ray Martinez. The loudmouth. “I had my guy run him. His service record has holes, Drake.”

“Holes?”

“Dates that don’t match. Units that were decommissioned before he claimed to serve in them. He’s a ghost, but not the good kind. He’s a handler.”

Drake’s face darkened. “He’s my second in command. My brother.”

“Is he?” I grabbed a tablet off the desk and slid it toward him. Ghost had been busy while we talked. “Look at the bank transfers. Your club is scraping by, taking pocket change from grandmothers. Burner has an offshore account in the Caymans with six figures moving through it every month.”

Drake stared at the screen. The betrayal hit him harder than a bullet. He didn’t scream. He went quiet. Deadly quiet. It was the silence of a man who had just realized the enemy was inside the wire.

“Tonight,” Drake said, standing up. “Whitmore is meeting Burner at the Old Mill. There’s a shipment moving. They told us to stay clear, said it was ‘sensitive cargo.’ But if Burner is playing us…”

“Then we crash the party,” I finished.

The alliance was fragile, held together by spit and desperation.

We spent the afternoon turning the auto shop into a Forward Operating Base. My team, the “Old Ghosts” as we jokingly called ourselves, integrated with Drake’s most loyal bikers. It was a strange sight—bearded operators in tactical flannel checking weapons alongside leather-clad bikers with brass knuckles.

But the tension was thick. Every time a wrench dropped, hands went to holsters.

I was checking the load-out on my Sig P226 when Sarah walked in. She looked out of place in the sea of testosterone and weaponry, but her chin was up. She had guts.

“Mr. Wilson,” she said, ignoring the stares of the men around her. “I remembered something.”

“Sarah, you should be at home.”

“I’m safer here than out there,” she argued. “Listen to me. The man you asked about? The patient? His name was Rodriguez. He came into the ER three nights ago. Beaten bad. Broken ribs, orbital fracture. He wouldn’t let us call the cops.”

“Veterans often don’t,” I said softly.

“It wasn’t just that. He was delirious from the pain meds. He kept mumbling about ‘Project Echo.’ He said, ‘They aren’t guns. They’re sickness.’ And then he checked himself out against medical advice the moment two men in suits showed up at the nurses’ station asking for him.”

“Project Echo,” I repeated. The name meant nothing to me, but the look on Ghost’s face across the room told me it meant something to him.

Ghost walked over. He was our intel specialist, a man who could find a needle in a haystack made of needles. “Echo,” he muttered. “There was a whisper about that on the dark web chatter last month. Experimental biological containment. Suppose to be defunct.”

“Biological?” Drake asked, stepping into the circle. “We’ve been guarding trucks full of germs?”

“Or the delivery systems,” Ghost corrected. “If Rodriguez saw something he wasn’t supposed to…”

“He’s a loose end,” I realized. “And if Burner and Whitmore are meeting tonight, they might be cleaning house.”

My phone buzzed. It was a text from a burner number. Rodriguez location confirmed. Old underground prohibition tunnels near the mill. He’s hiding.

“We move,” I ordered. “Now.”

The Old Mill was a skeletal remains of Newport’s industrial past—brick walls crumbling into the river, windows like empty eye sockets. It was the perfect place for a clandestine meeting, or an execution.

We split the force. Drake and his loyalists took the perimeter. My team took the direct approach. Silent. Lethal.

I moved through the tall grass, the smell of river mud and rotting wood filling my nose. Night vision goggles turned the world into a grainy green phosphor dream.

“Target in sight,” Dave whispered over the comms. “Three limos. Black SUVs. And… Jesus, Mike, is that a refrigerated truck?”

I peered through my monocular. In the center of the mill’s courtyard, beneath the flickering light of a single halogen bulb, stood Burner. He was laughing with a man in a suit—Whitmore. They were standing next to a massive shipping container on a flatbed. The container hummed. Refrigeration units.

“Drake,” I whispered into my mic. “You seeing this?”

“I see him,” Drake’s voice was a growl. “I see the traitor.”

“Hold your fire. We need to know what’s in the box.”

We crept closer. I could hear their voices now, carried on the wind.

“…worried about the mechanic?” Whitmore was asking, lighting a cigarette. He looked bored. Aristocratic.

“Wilson?” Burner scoffed. “He’s a dinosaur. He thinks he’s saving the neighborhood. I’ll handle him. Once the shipment is on the freighter, we can burn his shop down with him inside. Make it look like a meth lab explosion.”

My grip tightened on my rifle.

“And the leak?” Whitmore asked. “The kid? Rodriguez?”

“My boys are flushing the tunnels now,” Burner said casually. “He won’t see sunrise.”

That was the signal.

“Ghost, Dave—get to the tunnels. Find Rodriguez. Get him out. Drake, on me. We take the courtyard.”

“Copy.”

I stood up from the grass. No more hiding.

“Hey, Burner!” I shouted.

The sound was electric. Burner spun around, hand going for his gun. The security detail in suits raised MP5s.

“Drop it!” Drake roared, stepping out from the shadows on the opposite side. He had a shotgun leveled at his former brother. “It’s over, Ray.”

For a second, confusion reigned. The security team didn’t know who to shoot. Burner looked from me to Drake, his face twisting into a mask of hate.

“You brought him here?” Burner screamed at Drake. “You brought an outsider to our business?”

“It’s not our business, Ray!” Drake yelled back, stepping into the light. “Trafficking weapons? Biological agents? We took an oath!”

“The oath doesn’t pay the rent!” Burner snapped. “Wake up, Drake! The country used us up and spit us out. Whitmore here? He pays in gold. He respects strength.”

“He’s using you,” I said, walking forward, my weapon raised but not firing. “Just like he used the rest of them. You’re just a disposable asset, Ray. A ‘cut-out.’ When this goes south, who do you think takes the fall? The guy in the Italian suit, or the biker with the record?”

Whitmore chuckled. He actually chuckled. He flicked his cigarette onto the wet pavement.

“Very dramatic,” Whitmore said. “But unfortunately, accurate. You see, gentlemen, Mr. Martinez here has served his purpose.”

Whitmore raised his hand.

From the shadows of the mill, red lasers snapped on. But they weren’t aiming at me. They were aiming at Burner.

Burner froze. He looked at the dots dancing on his leather vest. He looked at Whitmore. “Boss?”

“Loose ends, Ray,” Whitmore smiled. “You let Rodriguez escape. You let Wilson investigate. You’re a liability.”

The betrayal was absolute. Burner had sold his soul for a seat at the table, only to find out he was on the menu.

“Take them all down,” Whitmore ordered his mercenaries. “Leave no witnesses.”

The firefight was chaotic and brutal.

Whitmore’s private security were professionals, but we were angry.

I dove behind a pile of rusted I-beams as bullets sparked off the metal. “Drake! Flank left!”

Drake didn’t hesitate. He moved with the grace of the Marine he used to be, rolling under fire and blasting with his shotgun.

I popped up, double-tapping a mercenary on the catwalk. He fell, his weapon clattering to the concrete.

“Dave, status on Rodriguez!” I yelled into the comms.

“We got him!” Dave’s voice came back breathless, accompanied by the sound of splashing water. “We’re in the tunnels. He’s hurt bad, Mike. And he’s got files. Hard copies. He stole the manifests before he ran.”

“Get him to the extraction point!”

In the courtyard, the battle was turning. Burner, realizing he was dead either way, had gone berserk. He was firing wildly at Whitmore’s men, screaming obscenities. It was a three-way war.

I saw Whitmore moving toward the armored SUV. He was escaping.

“Not tonight,” I growled.

I broke cover, sprinting across the open ground. Bullets whipped past my head—angry hornets. I didn’t flinch. I focused on the tires.

Bang. Bang.

The front tires of the SUV blew out. The vehicle swerved and slammed into a brick pillar.

Whitmore stumbled out, dazed, clutching a briefcase. He looked up to see the barrel of my rifle two inches from his nose.

“Going somewhere?” I panted.

Before I could secure him, a grenade landed ten feet away.

“Move!”

I tackled Drake, who was nearby, shoving him into a depression in the ground. The explosion rocked the earth, showering us with dirt and shrapnel.

When the dust cleared, Whitmore was gone. Another SUV had picked him up under the cover of the smoke.

But we had the courtyard. We had the truck.

And we had Burner.

He was lying near the container, bleeding from a gut shot. His breathing was wet and ragged. Drake walked over to him, looking down with an expression of infinite sadness.

“Ray,” Drake whispered.

Burner coughed, blood bubbling on his lips. “It… it’s bigger than you think, Drake. The truck… it’s not weapons. It’s… vectors.”

“Vectors?” I asked, kneeling beside him. “What do you mean?”

“Mosquitoes,” Burner wheezed. “Genetically modified… carriers. Project Echo… it spreads. They’re shipping it to… to…”

His eyes glazed over. The life rattled out of him before he could finish.

Drake stood up, silence settling over the mill. The sirens were wailing in the distance—real police this time, or maybe more of Whitmore’s cleaners.

“We need to leave,” I said, grabbing Drake’s shoulder. “Now.”

“He was my brother,” Drake said, his voice breaking.

“He made his choice. Now you have to make yours. Help me stop this, Drake. Help me finish it.”

Drake looked at the dead man, then at the shipping container humming with its deadly cargo. He looked at me, and the conflict in his eyes hardened into resolve.

“Let’s go,” Drake said. “I know where Whitmore’s fallback is. I saw the maps in Ray’s safe.”

We retreated into the night, leaving the carnage behind. We had Rodriguez. We had the intel. But the enemy knew who we were now. The skirmish was over.

The war had just begun.

PART 3

The safehouse was a hunting cabin deep in the Maine woods, off the grid and smelling of pine resin and old woodsmoke. It was the only place we could go. The police scanners were screaming about a “gang war” at the Old Mill. They were calling us domestic terrorists. Whitmore controlled the narrative.

Inside, the atmosphere was grim. Rodriguez was on the couch, Sarah patching up his ribs with efficient, steady hands. Dave and Ghost were going through the files Rodriguez had stolen, their faces illuminated by the blue light of laptops.

Drake stood by the window, watching the treeline. He hadn’t spoken since we left Burner’s body on the concrete.

“It’s worse than we thought,” Ghost said, breaking the silence. He turned his laptop around. “Project Echo isn’t just about selling weapons. It’s a field test. They’re releasing the vectors—the mosquitoes Burner talked about—in targeted zones to test transmission rates. They’re using small towns as petri dishes.”

“Newport?” Sarah asked, her voice trembling.

“It’s on the list,” Ghost confirmed. “Phase 1 distribution scheduled for… tomorrow night. At the harbor.”

I looked at the map on the screen. “They’re loading the canisters onto a private yacht. The Aurora. It leaves at midnight.”

“If that ship leaves the harbor,” I said, “they can release those things anywhere on the East Coast. We can’t let it leave.”

“We’re outnumbered, Mike,” Dave said, cleaning his rifle. “Whitmore has a private army. We have four guys, a nurse, and a motorcycle club that just lost its VP.”

I looked at Drake. He turned from the window. His eyes were dry, but they burned with a cold, hard fire.

“Not just a motorcycle club,” Drake said. “I made some calls. The other chapters… they heard what happened to Ray. They heard he sold us out. They’re not coming for money. They’re coming for payback.”

“How many?” I asked.

“Enough.”

The Newport Harbor was a fortress. High fences, floodlights, armed patrols. Whitmore wasn’t taking chances.

The Aurora sat at the end of Pier 4, gleaming white and innocent under the moonlight. But we knew better. Workers were loading silver crates onto the deck—the canisters.

We were positioned on the rooftops of the warehouses overlooking the pier. The wind coming off the Atlantic was cold, biting through my jacket.

“Teams in position,” Ghost whispered in my ear.

“Copy,” I replied. “On my mark.”

I looked through my scope. Whitmore was there, standing on the deck of the yacht, holding a champagne glass. He looked untouchable. He thought he had won. He thought veterans were broken toys he could play with and then discard.

He was about to learn a lesson about broken things: they have sharp edges.

“Mark,” I said.

The first explosion wasn’t lethal—it was a distraction. A fuel tank on the far side of the harbor erupted, sending a fireball into the sky. The guards turned, shouting, running toward the blaze.

“Go!”

The roar of engines filled the night. But this time, it wasn’t just five bikes.

Fifty motorcycles roared out from the darkness of the container yard. Riders from three states, flying the Razors colors, surged onto the pier. They weren’t riding in formation. They were a chaotic, unstoppable wave of steel and righteous anger.

They smashed through the gate, scattering the guards.

“Suppressing fire!” I ordered.

My team opened up from the rooftops. Controlled, precise shots took out the lights, plunging the pier into semi-darkness. We targeted the mercenaries’ weapons, their tires, the ground at their feet. We weren’t there to massacre; we were there to dominate.

Drake was on the lead bike. He drove straight onto the pier, weaving through gunfire like a man possessed. He ditched the bike at full speed, letting it slide into a group of guards, bowling them over like pins.

He rolled to his feet, shotgun in hand, and charged the gangway of the yacht.

“Cover him!” I yelled, shifting my aim. I picked off a sniper on the yacht’s bridge.

I rappelled down the side of the warehouse, landing hard on the asphalt. I sprinted toward the ship, my team flanking me. The noise was deafening—gunfire, engines, shouting, the crackle of fire.

We hit the deck of the Aurora just as the engines started to turn. They were trying to cast off.

“Bridge!” I shouted to Dave. “Kill the engines!”

I moved toward the stern, where Whitmore was trying to coordinate a defense. He saw me coming. His eyes went wide. He dropped his champagne glass. It shattered—a tiny, insignificant sound in the chaos.

He pulled a pistol, a shiny, gold-plated thing that looked more like jewelry than a weapon. He fired wildly.

I didn’t even slow down. I dodged left, feeling the wind of the bullet, and slammed into him. We went down hard on the teak deck.

He was younger than me, maybe stronger in the gym, but he hadn’t fought for his life in the mud. I twisted his wrist, feeling the bone snap. He screamed. The gun skittered away.

I hauled him up by his lapels and slammed him against the railing. Below us, the dark water churned.

“Call it off!” I roared in his face. “Shut it down!”

“You can’t stop it!” Whitmore spat, blood on his teeth. “The contracts are signed! The vectors are already—”

“The vectors are dead,” a voice said.

Drake stepped out from the cargo hold below. He was covered in soot, bleeding from a cut on his forehead, but he was smiling. In his hand, he held a remote detonator.

“I rigged the cooling units,” Drake said. “Temperature is rising fast. Those bugs are cooking as we speak.”

Whitmore’s face went pale. “You… you idiot! Do you know how much money that was? Do you know who I work for?”

“I don’t care,” Drake said.

Drake looked at me. “Do it, Mike.”

I looked at Whitmore. I could kill him. It would be easy. The world would be cleaner. But then I’d be what he thought I was—just a killer.

I punched him instead. A short, brutal right hook that turned his lights out instantly. He slumped to the deck.

“Tie him up,” I said, breathing hard. “And call the FBI. The real FBI. We have the files, we have the man, and we have fifty witnesses.”

The sunrise the next morning was different. It felt cleaner.

The harbor was a crime scene, swarming with federal agents. But this time, they were arresting the guys in suits. Rodriguez’s files had been enough to trigger a massive internal investigation. Project Echo was exposed. The story was already breaking on CNN.

I stood by the railing, watching the Aurora being towed away as evidence.

Drake walked up to me. He had his arm in a sling, but he stood taller than I’d ever seen him.

“You okay?” I asked.

“Better than I’ve been in ten years,” he said. He looked at the group of bikers sitting on the dock, sharing cigarettes with my team. The hostility was gone. There was respect there now. A shared scar.

“What happens to the Razors now?” I asked.

Drake looked at his men. “We’re done with the rackets. Done with the intimidation. I talked to the boys. We’re thinking… security. Legitimate security. Escorts for convoys. Maybe even search and rescue. We have the skills.”

“You do,” I nodded. “And you have a reference. If you need one.”

Drake extended his hand. It was a warrior’s handshake—firm, calloused. “Thank you, Mike. You didn’t just save the town. You saved us.”

“We saved each other,” I said.

Sarah walked up, looking exhausted but happy. “My car is making a funny noise again,” she smiled.

I laughed. It was the first time I’d laughed in years. A real laugh. “Bring it in Monday. On the house.”

I walked back to my truck. As I drove away, I looked in the rearview mirror. I saw the harbor, the bikers, the town of Newport. It was just a quiet little place on the map. But it was my place.

The world is full of monsters. Some wear leather vests, some wear Italian suits. But as long as there are men willing to stand between the monsters and the innocent, there’s hope.

I’m Mike Wilson. I’m a mechanic. And I’m retired.

But I’m never off duty.