Page 122 of Jagger's Remorse
"Maybe?"
"Equipment's acting up. Could be interference from the machinery."
Another red flag. But we're committed now.
"Thirty seconds."
I chamber a round, feel the familiar calm settle over me.
This is what I know, what I'm good at.
Not the politics, not the emotional shit—just simple, clean violence.
"Breach, breach, breach!"
We flow through the warehouse like death itself, coordinated and lethal.
The door guards go down without a sound, Poncho's knife work beautiful.
Inside, it's wrong.
All wrong.
No resistance.
No shouting.
Just three guards who go down without barely a fight, like they were expecting us.
"This is too easy," Hammer mutters, checking corners with his shotgun raised.
He's right.
The product is there—all three hundred kilos plus some extra.
Stacked neat as you please, like they wanted us to find it.
Wrapped in plastic, marked with Sinaloa stamps, arranged like a fucking display.
"Boss," Mouse calls from across the warehouse. "Youneedto see this."
He's standing over a desk covered in papers.
Documents. Photos.
My stomach drops before I even reach him.
Surveillance shots of the club.
Guard schedules. Patrol routes. Detailed notes about how our security protocols are operated.
Everything they'd need to plan the attack on our party.
"Fuck," Poncho breathes, looking over my shoulder. "This is inside information."
"Someone's been feeding them intel," I confirm, rifling through more papers. "Recent stuff too. This schedule is from last week."
"A rat," Hammer spits. "We've got a fuckin’ rat."
