2

The old warehouse had seen better days. Its original brick exterior was weathered, with patches of faded paint and rust visible around the large metal doors. A tall fence surrounded the property, reinforced with steel bars and topped with coils of barbed wire. Security cameras were positioned at strategic points, monitoring the entrance and the grounds beyond it.

A large metal sign hung above the main entrance.

IRON VIPERS MC.

Beneath the lettering was the image of a coiled snake, its fangs bared and its tongue extended. The emblem had become familiar throughout Blackridge, appearing on leather vests, motorcycles, jackets and the occasional newspaper photograph and online articles reporting trouble involving the club.

Inside, the main hall had been transformed into a spacious clubhouse, complete with a long wooden bar, leather couches, pool tables and several large television screens mounted against the walls. A collection of framed photographs covered one section, displaying generations of Iron Vipers members, old motorcycles and moments from the club’s history.

A staircase at the far end led to the upper floor, where the president’s office, meeting room and private quarters were located. Beyond the main hall were the kitchen, a small dining area and several rooms used by members who lived on the property.

The garage occupied a separate section of the warehouse. It was one of the busiest areas, particularly during the afternoon, when members returned from errands or worked on their motorcycles. The smell of engine oil and metal filled the space, mixing with the sound of tools, running engines and the occasional burst of laughter. Several motorcycles stood in neat rows, their polished surfaces reflecting the overhead lights. A few men worked beneath the raised hood of a truck, while another sat on a low stool, wiping grease from his hands with an old cloth.

At the centre of the garage stood a tall, broad-shouldered man wearing a black sleeveless shirt and dark jeans. Tattoos covered both arms, extending over his shoulders and disappearing beneath the fabric. His dark hair was slightly longer on top, pushed back from his forehead, and a neatly trimmed beard framed his strong jaw.

Ryder ‘King’ Kane was thirty-seven years old, and there was little about him that suggested he was a man accustomed to being challenged. He stood beside a motorcycle, examining the engine while one of the younger members explained something about a damaged component.

“How long has it been making that noise?” Ryder asked.

“Since yesterday.”

“And you thought leaving it until today was a good idea?”

The younger man shifted his weight. “I thought it was nothing serious.”

Ryder straightened, wiping his hands with a cloth. “Well, you thought wrong.”

He didn't raise his voice, but the younger man immediately looked uncomfortable.

Ryder glanced at the motorcycle again. “Get the replacement part from the storage room. And don’t put it back on the road until you’ve checked everything.”

“Got it, Prez.” The young man hurried away.

A low chuckle came from behind Ryder. “You’re going to give the kid a heart attack one of these days.”

Mason Reed approached with a bottle of water in one hand. Known around the club as Graves, he was the Iron Vipers’ vice president and one of the few men who had known Ryder long enough to speak to him without worrying about his reaction. At thirty-nine, Mason was a solidly built man with closely cropped hair, a short beard and a calm expression that rarely revealed what he was thinking.

Ryder tossed the cloth onto the workbench. “Then maybe he’ll remember to check his bike before riding it.”

“Or maybe he’ll start avoiding the garage whenever you’re around.”

“That would be his problem.”

Mason smiled and took a drink from his bottle. The two men had been friends for years. Their relationship had survived the usual arguments, dangerous situations and disagreements that came with running an organisation like the Iron Vipers. Mason understood Ryder’s temperament better than most, and he had learned when to challenge him and when to leave him alone.

A loud voice interrupted them. “Graves, there’s a situation at the front gate.”

Blake Turner strolled into the garage, carrying a set of keys and wearing the familiar grin that had earned him the nickname Rogue. At thirty-two, he was one of the club’s most outspoken members, a man who seemed incapable of taking anything seriously for more than five minutes.

Mason gave him a flat look. “What situation?”

“Delivery truck. The driver says he has the wrong address, but he’s been sitting outside for fifteen minutes.”

“Then tell him to leave.”

“I did. Apparently, he needs someone to sign for the package.”

Ryder reached for a clean towel. “What package?”

Blake shrugged. “Didn’t ask. I’m not the delivery department.”

“Go find out.” Ryder ordered him. 

“Yes, boss.” He turned towards the main hall, still grinning.

Ryder watched him disappear before returning his attention back to the motorcycle. The Iron Vipers was a large organisation, and keeping the club running required more than a commanding voice and a reputation that made people think twice before crossing him. There were legitimate businesses to oversee, members to manage, accounts to maintain and territory to protect. Every decision carried consequences, and a mistake could cost more than money.

Ryder had learned that lesson long before he became president. His father, William Kane, had been one of the founding members of the Iron Vipers. He had led the club for years, building its reputation and establishing the brotherhood that Ryder now commanded. When William died eight years ago, the presidency passed to his son.

Ryder had been younger then, but he had never been uncertain about what needed to be done. He had taken control, strengthened the organisation and made it clear that anyone who threatened the Iron Vipers would have to answer to him. Under his leadership, the club had grown more influential, its operations expanding beyond Blackridge. The members had become more disciplined, the business interests more established and the clubhouse more secure. The warehouse had become the centre of it all, and Ryder had no intention of allowing anyone to take it away.