Page 49 of Razor
I closed my eyes for one brief moment, centered myself, and whispered a silent promise to both Dante and Razor: "I will not fail.I will not break."
Then I readied myself for the fight of my life.
Razor
I leaned into the curve, the Harley responding like an extension of my body as I cut through evening traffic.The burner phone in my pocket had buzzed three times in the last hour with updates from the safehouse—all clear so far.Socket had the security feeds running, Pierce was on stairwell duty, and Ophelia was safe with Dante in the office suite I'd personally secured.Everything was going according to plan, which only heightened my unease.In my experience, perfect plans were like perfect crimes—they existed only in theory, never in execution.Something always went sideways.I just hadn't figured out what yet.
The club meeting had run longer than expected.Mustang questioning the resources allocated to "one brother's family matter," as he'd put it.The old bastard still didn't understand what we were up against.Didn't want to understand.But with Ace backing me, we'd secured enough club support to maintain the operation while I checked on our weapons cache in the industrial district.Standard protocol during heightened security situations—verify all assets, eliminate vulnerabilities.
My phone vibrated against my hip—not the periodic check-in pattern, but an urgent, continuous buzz.I pulled to the curb, yanking it from my pocket.The screen flashed red with an automated alert: SECURITY BREACH - ARMORY.
"Fuck."I gunned the engine, cutting a sharp U-turn across traffic, ignoring the blaring horns in my wake.The armory was our fallback position, housing the club's emergency weapons stash and cash reserves.Nobody should have known its location outside the senior brothers.
I pushed the bike to its limits, weaving between cars with inches to spare, my mind calculating possibilities, probabilities.Socket had secured the safehouse personally—triple-layer encryption on the security system, backup generators, signal jammers to block any unauthorized devices.Ophelia was safer there than anywhere else.I had to trust the setup, trust my brothers.
The armory entrance appeared ahead—an innocuous storage unit in a long row of identical doors.Even from fifty yards away, I could see something was wrong.The reinforced steel door hung askew on its hinges, the heavy-duty lock mechanism lying in pieces on the ground.
I slowed the bike, approaching with caution, gun already drawn.No vehicles in sight, no movement.Either they'd already gone or this was a trap.I cut the engine, letting momentum carry me the final stretch in silence.
The damage to the door wasn't from explosives or power tools.This was precision work—the kind that required specialized knowledge of our security systems.I slipped inside, clearing corners with practiced efficiency, though the emptiness inside told me what I'd find.Gone—the weapons crates, the emergency cash, the documents.All of it.
My burner phone rang.Socket's emergency line.
"Talk to me," I barked.
"Shop's on fire."Socket's voice came through tense, the background filled with noise."Somebody torched the custom Softail we were building for Martinelli.Professional job, accelerant through the roof vents, targeted just the bike."
My mind raced, connecting dots.The armory breach.The bike.Both precision hits against high-value club assets.Both requiring insider knowledge.This wasn't random.
"The safehouse?Ophelia?"I demanded, already moving back to my motorcycle.
"All clear last check-in.Pierce reported no activity on the perimeter."Socket paused, coughing through what I assumed was smoke."But Razor—this feels coordinated."
"Keep the security feeds running.I'm on my way back to them now."I hung up, dialing Fury's number next.No answer.Tried Loch.Nothing.Screwball.Dead air.
I reached for the emergency all-call radio frequency we'd established.Static blasted through the earpiece, but beneath it—barely audible—a voice.Not one of my brothers.Measured, professional, reciting legal language.
"...petitioner seeks immediate emergency custody of minor child Dante Weathers on grounds of imminent danger due to mother's association with known criminal elements..."
Ice flooded my veins.That was from Ophelia's parents' custody petition.The exact wording.Someone was broadcasting it on our secure frequency—a message meant specifically for me.
I tried switching channels, cycling through our backup frequencies.All jammed.All broadcasting the same voice reciting different sections of the petition.
My knuckles whitened around the handlebars as I pushed the Harley to its limits, weaving through traffic with reckless precision.The calculator in my brain ran the numbers, analyzed the pattern.
Armory breach.
Shop fire.
Communications jammed.
Each attack precisely targeted to consume club resources, divide our attention.And now the custody petition being broadcast on our secure channels—a message that they knew exactly who we were, what we were doing, and what mattered most to me.
This wasn't about club assets at all.This was about drawing me away from the safehouse.
I hit the speed dial for Ophelia's secure phone.No connection.Tried the safehouse landline.Dead.
Fear—an emotion I'd trained myself to channel rather than submit to—crystallized into cold rage.I'd left her with Socket and Pierce, with security systems and protocols.But if they'd penetrated our communications, compromised our secure channels...
