Fifty heavy, custom-built Cruiser motorcycles.
They rode in a perfect, aggressive V-formation, the massive V-Twin engines screaming in unison, shaking the very air in my lungs. The men riding them were giants. Massive, heavily bearded, scarred veterans in black leather, wearing the exact same Black Dragon patch sewn over their hearts. These were not street thugs. They were an army. My army.
They swarmed the pier, a tidal wave of chrome and black leather. They didn't slow down, and they didn't ask questions. They violently circled the immediate area, cutting off every possible exit, trapping the enforcer and his Ferrari inside a suffocating ring of roaring engines.
The young man was paralyzed. His expensive wrench slipped from his trembling fingers, hitting the wet concrete with a pathetic, ringing clatter. He backed up against the side of the Ferrari, his chest heaving, his eyes darting frantically across the impenetrable wall of fifty massive, angry men.
The Ghost of the Port had returned. And he had brought hell with him.
CHAPTER 4
The fifty motorcycles simultaneously cut their engines. The sudden silence that fell over the pier was heavier and far more terrifying than the roaring had been. The only sound left was the distant crying of the ocean and the frantic, shallow hyperventilation of the enforcer pressed against the door of the Ferrari.
None of the bikers dismounted. They just sat on their massive machines, staring at the young man with cold, dead eyes.
A sleek, black heavily armored SUV pulled slowly through the corridor of motorcycles. It rolled to a stop just a few yards away from where I knelt on the asphalt. The driver’s side door opened, and a man stepped out.
He was in his late forties, wearing a tailored gray topcoat and a silk tie. His hair was impeccably groomed, and his posture radiated authority. This was Marcus Thorne. The new "Boss" of the city. The man who thought he had claimed the throne while the old king slept.
Marcus slammed the SUV door, his face flushed with irritation. He clearly had no idea what was happening. He had probably just arrived to inspect his illicit cargo, only to find his path blocked by half a hundred hostile bikers.
“What the hell is going on here?” Marcus barked, his voice echoing loudly in the quiet. He strode forward, pointing an angry finger at the wall of leather-clad giants. “Who the hell do you people think you are? Do you have any idea whose port this is?”
The bikers didn’t move. They didn’t even blink.
Marcus turned his frustration toward his enforcer. “Julian! What is this? Why is this trash on my pier? I told you to secure the package and prep the container!”
Julian couldn’t speak. The arrogant young enforcer was physically shaking, his mouth opening and closing without producing a sound. He raised a trembling hand, pointing a finger past Marcus, toward the wet asphalt behind him.
Marcus frowned, his brow furrowing in confusion. He slowly turned around.
He saw my ruined motorcycle smashed against the container. He saw the little girl crying behind the locked glass of the Ferrari. And then, he looked down at me.
I was slowly pushing myself to my feet. The pain in my leg was blinding, and I had to lean heavily against the corrugated steel container to keep myself upright. My torn jacket hung loosely from my arms, exposing the entirety of my back to the cold morning air.