WAR MOBILIZATION

​POV: Jarrah

​The rain over the Calaby docks didn't fall; it drove sideways, lashed by a cold, bitter gale blowing in off Port Phillip Bay.

​I stood on the raised wooden gantry above Shipping Container Yard 4, leaning against the rusty iron railing, staring down at the gathering storm below me.

​Down on the oil-stained concrete, beneath the towering orange floodlights, the underworld of Victoria was assembling.

​There were over three hundred men packed into the yard. Every crew captain from the western suburbs, every heavy-enforcer unit from the northern corridors, every lieutenant who had ever bled for the Calaby name was there. Parked in tight, aggressive rows were fifty vehicles: armored SUVs, modified heavy pickup trucks, blacked-out troop carriers, and two massive steel-plated construction Breachers outfitted with heavy iron plows on their front grills.

​The noise was deafening: engines idling in a deep, guttural roar, the sharp clink of high-caliber magazines being slapped into automatic rifles, and the low, tense murmur of dangerous men waiting for a war to start.

​"Jarrah."

​I didn't turn around. I knew the voice. It was Rory, my second-in-command, his face pale beneath his scar, holding an encrypted radio in his gloved hand.

​"The syndicate bosses from the East side just arrived," Rory called out over the roar of the wind. "Vane and his crew. They’re nervous, boss. They’re saying attacking the Kilsyth estate is suicide. They’re saying the political fallout with the authorities will destroy every shipping route in the state."

​I turned slowly.

​I wasn't wearing my usual leather jacket. I had pulled on my heavy tactical vest over a dark hoodie, the iron grip of my customized Kimber .45 heavy against my ribs. I looked at Rory, and whatever he saw in my eyes made him take an involuntary step backward.

​I hadn't slept in twenty-four hours. My throat felt like it was coated in ash, and the blood pounding behind my eyes roared like an ocean. They had taken her. Alastair’s men had intercepted her transport at the harbor perimeter and dragged her into the dark.

​They thought they had taken a hostage. They didn't realize they had just set off a bomb.

​I walked down the metal stairs, my heavy boots clanking against the steel grid, until I reached the raised wooden platform in front of the crowd.

​The moment my boots hit the wood, a dead silence swept across the three hundred men in the yard. The idling engines seemed to drop an octave. Every eye hardened killers, career smugglers, ruthless mercenaries turned upward to face me.

​I didn't use a megaphone. I didn't need one. My voice carried across the wet tarmac like thunder.

​"For ten years," I began, my voice dark and ragged, "we played by their rules. We stayed in the docks. We let the high-society bastards up on the Kilsyth hill pretend they run this state while we did the dirty work in the mud."

​I stepped to the edge of the platform, scanning the sea of upturned faces. I saw Vane standing near the front, his hands tucked nervously into his expensive coat.

​"Tonight, the old rules are dead," I roared, slamming my fist onto the wooden rail. "Alastair Kilsyth took something that belongs to this family. He thinks his money, his lineage, and his fifty-foot iron gates make him untouchable. He thinks we are street rats who will bow down and negotiate!"

​A low rumble of anger rippled through the crowd. Men began raising their weapons into the air.

​"We are not negotiating!" I shouted, drawing the heavy pistol from my chest holster and holding it high above my head, the dark metal glinting under the glare of the floodlights. "Tonight, Melbourne belongs to Calaby! We are marching on Kilsyth estate! We will breach their perimeter, we will put every guard who stands in our way into the dirt, and we will tear that estate down to its foundations!"

​Vane stepped forward, his voice tight with panic. "Jarrah! Think about the territory! If we burn Kilsyth, the whole syndicate network collapses!"

​I leaped down from the platform, landing heavily on the wet concrete right in front of Vane. I grabbed him by the lapels of his coat and slammed him back against the hood of an armored SUV, leaning in until my nose was an inch from his.

​"I don't give a fuck about territory," I growled, my voice dropping into a lethal, terrifying whisper that chilled every man standing nearby. "I don't give a fuck about the shipping routes, the money, or the syndicate network. I am not going to Kilsyth for a kingdom."

​I let go of his coat and looked back at the hundreds of armed men watching me in stunned silence.

​"I am going for my Queen," I declared, the word echoing off the shipping containers like a battle cry. "And if Kilsyth stands between me and Malia, then tonight... Kilsyth falls to hell!"

​A deafening roar erupted from the crowd. Automatic weapons were racked in unison, air horns blasted through the rain, and three hundred men scrambled toward their vehicles.

​I turned back to Rory, my face set like granite. "The lead column moves in five minutes. Put me in the lead Breacher."

​"Jarrah, that's the front line," Rory protested, grabbing my arm. "If they have heavy-caliber turrets on those walls, the lead vehicle takes the entire hit!"

​I shook his hand off, my jaw locked tight. "Then I'll be the first one through the wall."