Page 58 of Tick Tock, Boom!

"Here comes the life of the party," Macabre muttered sarcastically under his breath.

“Trouble at the docks,” he said. “Scorpions are fucking with the crates again.”

Just like that, our evening plans changed. I was on my feet in seconds. We’d been expecting a shipment tonight. They were gun parts Knuckles had sourced through some black-market contacts. The Scorpions had been sniffing around the docks for weeks, trying to push in on our territory.

I pushed off the table and gave out orders. “Riddick, grab the Enforcers. Knuckles, gear check, make sure everyone's got what they need. Powertrain, you're running point. We ride now. No delays.”

* * *

The docks were always cold,no matter the season. Fog rolled in off the water, covering the pavement, making it impossible to see a foot in front of us. Floodlights buzzed above us, casting long shadows over shipping containers and rusted fences.

We rolled in quietly, cutting the engines just before the first crates came into view. Knuckles had eyes on his shipment, eyes scanning every shadow.

“They’ve been tampered with,” he muttered. “That container was sealed tight when I left it.”

We dismounted fast and spread out. The sound of weapons being unholstered echoed in the night, licks, metallic snaps, the tension as we readied for a fight. I motioned for Powertrain to take the right flank and sent Riddick and the Enforcers to circle around left. Knuckles and I stuck to the center, advancing slowly and staying low between the rows of containers. The air was thick, heavy with salt and gun oil, the scent of something fouler lingering just beneath. And then that’s when I saw him.

Croak.

The Bloody Scorpions’ errand boy, and a sadistic piece of shit. He was all arrogance and a fiend for blood. He called himself Croak because he liked to choke the life out of his enemies. Said it made death more intimate. We had run-ins with him before, and it never turned out good. He was a wildcard, which meant we were always on alert.

He leaned against the side of a container, spinning a butterfly knife in one hand, smirking as we approached.

“Well, well,” he drawled. “Look who came to play.”

I stepped forward, boots crunching gravel with every slow step.

“Step off our shit, Croak. You know this dock ain’t yours.”

He grinned wider. “Didn’t see your name on it.”

“You really want to start some shit right now?” I asked, hand already near the grip of my gun.

“Only if you lead,” he sneered, lips curling around the blade of his knife like he already tasted blood.

I took a slow step forward, letting the steel of my gaze cut through the fog. "Be careful what you wish for."

And then, just like that, shit exploded. Gunfire erupted, the crack of bullets splitting the air like thunder, echoing off metal containers. Sparks flew as rounds pinged off steel. Someone yelled out behind me and darkness and gun smoke engulfed my vision.

Knuckles fired from behind a forklift, barking orders. Powertrain ducked behind a crate, unloading round after round with that custom piece of his. I caught a glimpse of Croak diving behind a container, laughing like a man who truly enjoyed shedding blood.

“Motherfucker!” I roared, flanking left. My boots slipped in a puddle of seawater, but I kept moving, gun up, eyes peeled.

That’s when I saw the muzzle flash. Pain punched into my side, hot and searing. I went down on one knee, vision going sideways as blood bloomed warm across my ribs.

“Tick!” Knuckles was already there, yanking me behind cover.

“Still breathing,” I gritted out. “Not done yet.”

Metal sparked. Glass shattered. The roar of gunfire echoed across the water. I ducked behind a container, fired off three rounds, clipped one of the Scorpions in the shoulder. Knuckles laid down cover fire, barking orders, while Powertrain flanked the far side. I moved quick, aa little too quick, and that’s when the shot hit me. Pain ran up my side, hot and fast. I staggered back and fell hard, teeth clenched as the pain continued.

“Tick!” Macabre was at my side this time, dragging me out and pressing down on the wound.

“Fuck… I’m fine,” I growled.

“No, you’re not, you stubborn ass. You're gonna bleed out,” he snapped, already dialing a number.

I knew who he was calling. We had a contact at the private clinic down in the city. A doc who owed us for keeping his little operation off the radar. Bulldog had arranged the deal years ago. The Doc knew not to ask questions. Just qork quick, fast stitches. Discretion is what we wanted.

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