Chapter Ten: The Trap

The next evening arrived with a blood-red sunset that painted the industrial district in shades of violence. Raven sat in her car across from the Saints' warehouse on Industrial Boulevard, watching the carefully choreographed dance of deception unfold. The building looked exactly as it should—lightly guarded, with only two visible sentries and minimal security lighting. To the untrained eye, it appeared vulnerable, an easy target for a well-coordinated assault.

But Raven knew better. She'd spent the afternoon with Jax and his war council, going over every detail of the trap they were setting. The warehouse wasn't full of valuable pharmaceuticals—it was packed with armed Saints hidden in strategic positions, waiting for the Diamondbacks to walk into their carefully prepared kill zone.

Her phone buzzed with a text from Venom: Report.

She typed back quickly: Two guards visible, one at main entrance, one on loading dock. No roving patrols observed in last hour. Minimal lighting on north side. Looks like easy access.

The lies came easily now, each one bringing her deeper into the web of deception that surrounded both organizations. She was supposed to be helping the Diamondbacks plan their attack, but instead she was feeding them information designed to get them killed.

Signal booster?

Planted on telephone pole, north side. Activated and ready.

That part was true. She'd placed Venom's device exactly where he'd requested, but not before Jax's technical expert Ghost had examined it thoroughly. The signal booster would work as advertised, but it would also transmit on frequencies that the Saints could monitor. Every communication the Diamondbacks made during their assault would be intercepted and analyzed.

Excellent. Withdraw to safe distance. Operation begins at midnight.

Raven checked her watch—11:15 PM. In forty-five minutes, the two most dangerous motorcycle clubs on the West Coast would go to war, and she would be responsible for every drop of blood spilled. The weight of that responsibility sat heavy on her shoulders as she drove to the observation point Jax had designated, a parking garage six blocks away that offered a clear view of the warehouse district.

She wasn't alone. Ghost materialized from the shadows as she parked, his pale face grim in the fluorescent lighting. Behind him, she could see the shapes of other Saints positioned throughout the garage, all armed with high-powered rifles and radio equipment.

"You did good," Ghost said quietly, settling beside her at the concrete barrier that served as their observation post. "The intel you provided gave us everything we needed to set this up."

"How many of them are coming?" Raven asked, though she dreaded the answer.

"Venom's bringing at least twenty men, maybe more. They've got vehicles positioned at three different approach routes, plus snipers on the surrounding buildings." Ghost's expression was cold, professional. "It's going to be a bloodbath."

"And if something goes wrong? If they figure out it's a trap?"

"Then we make sure none of them leave alive to tell about it," Ghost replied with chilling matter-of-factness. "This ends tonight, one way or another."

At 11:58 PM, the first Diamondback vehicles appeared on the access road leading to the warehouse. Raven watched through binoculars as armed men poured out of black SUVs and motorcycles, moving with military precision toward their target. She recognized several faces from the intelligence files—Snake, Rattler, and at least three other enforcers whose names she'd memorized during her weeks of preparation.

"Where's Venom?" she asked, scanning the assault team.

"Smart leaders don't lead from the front," Ghost observed. "He's probably miles away, waiting for confirmation that the job's done."

The Diamondbacks split into three groups, just as Ghost had predicted. The main assault team approached the front entrance, while two smaller groups moved to flank the building from the north and south. They moved with confidence, believing they had the element of surprise.

At exactly midnight, Snake's voice crackled over the radio frequency the Saints were monitoring: "All teams in position. Breach in thirty seconds."

Raven held her breath as the seconds ticked by. She could see muzzle flashes from the warehouse windows—Saints firing warning shots to make the deception look real. The Diamondbacks responded with overwhelming force, peppering the building with automatic weapons fire as they charged the entrances.

"Now," Ghost whispered into his radio.

The night exploded into chaos. Floodlights blazed to life around the warehouse, turning the area into a killing field. Saints emerged from concealed positions, catching the Diamondbacks in a deadly crossfire. The sound of gunfire was deafening, punctuated by shouts and screams as men fought and died in the industrial wasteland.

Raven watched in horror as the trap closed with brutal efficiency. The Diamondbacks, expecting to face minimal resistance, found themselves surrounded and outgunned. Bodies fell on both sides, but the Saints had the advantage of preparation and position.

"Jesus," she whispered, watching Snake try to rally his men for a fighting retreat. "It's a massacre."

"It's justice," Ghost corrected. "For Tommy Savage, for Diesel's daughter, for every innocent person the Diamondbacks have destroyed."

The battle lasted less than ten minutes. When the smoke cleared, the warehouse district was littered with bodies and burning vehicles. The surviving Diamondbacks—maybe six or seven men—fled into the night, leaving their dead behind. The Saints had lost three men, but they'd dealt a crippling blow to their enemies.

"Phase one complete," Ghost reported into his radio. "Warehouse secure. Casualty report coming in."

As the Saints began collecting their wounded and counting their dead, Raven felt a mixture of triumph and revulsion. They'd won a decisive victory, but the cost in human life was staggering. She'd helped orchestrate the deaths of more than a dozen men, and while she told herself they were killers who deserved their fate, the weight of it still pressed down on her.

Her phone rang. Venom.

"Report," his voice was tight with barely controlled rage.

"It was a trap," Raven said, letting shock and fear color her voice. "The Saints were waiting for us. They cut down the assault team like they knew we were coming."

"Impossible. The intelligence was solid."

"I don't know what happened," she lied. "I saw the guards, I planted the signal booster exactly where you said. But they were ready. They had men positioned all around the building."

A long silence on the other end, then Venom's voice, cold as death: "Where are you now?"

"Safe house on the east side. Snake told me to run when the shooting started."

"Stay there. Don't move, don't contact anyone. I'll send someone to pick you up."

The line went dead, leaving Raven staring at her phone in growing panic. Venom suspected something—she could hear it in his voice. The careful balance she'd maintained between the two organizations was beginning to collapse.

"We need to move," Ghost said, apparently reading her expression. "If Venom's sending people to collect you, this location isn't safe anymore."

As they gathered their equipment and prepared to evacuate, Raven couldn't shake the feeling that tonight's victory had come at a price that went beyond the body count. The war between the Saints and Diamondbacks was far from over, and her position as a double agent was becoming increasingly precarious.

But for now, they'd struck a blow that would echo through the criminal underworld for years to come. The Diamondbacks had learned that crossing the Savage Saints carried a price paid in blood.