Thirty seconds later, the Steel Saw Chapter descended from the darkness on both sides of the junction simultaneously. It wasn't a loud, chaotic brawl. It was executed with the organized efficiency of men who had rehearsed violence as a fine art.
The outer flankers were isolated and disarmed before they could even shout. The second elevated watcher was ripped from his perch. Down on the asphalt, the men near the SUVs suddenly realized that the meticulously planned trap they had set had become a cage for them instead.
Panic rippled through the mercenary ranks as heavy motorcycle boots hit the pavement and cold steel pressed against the backs of their necks. Within sixty seconds, fourteen armed men were disarmed and forced to their knees in the gravel.
Riker walked down the embankment, his boots crunching loudly in the dead silence of the night. He bypassed the terrified hired guns and walked straight to the lead SUV.
Silas Vance was pinned against the hood by two bikers, his tactical gear stripped, his face bruised from a brief, futile struggle. Vance glared at Riker, trying to maintain the facade of a professional operator.
"You have no idea what you're interfering with, Cross," Vance spat, blood pooling in the corner of his mouth. "You're a biker gang. You're out of your league."
Riker didn't yell. He didn't posture. He simply reached into his cut, pulled out a zip-tie, and secured Vance's wrists behind his back.