Blood on the Asphalt biker
The Iron Wolves were engaging the first wave of the National Death Dealers’ hit squad, and the sound of suppressed gunfire was a terrifying, metallic rain against the clubhouse's reinforced exterior.
Dax was at the heavy steel door of the garage, his silhouette framed by the flickering emergency lights. He held a tactical shotgun in one hand, his eyes scanning the monitors that lined the security hub. "They’re through the south gate, Mia. They’re not using bikes. They’ve got armored SUVs. These aren't just bikers; they’re professionals. Mercenaries."