The SUV rolled slowly into the compound.
Titan eased off the accelerator as the massive steel gates slammed shut behind them with a deep metallic boom. Floodlights snapped on overhead, washing the yard in harsh white light.
The darkness vanished.
Rows of motorcycles stretched across the cracked asphalt, parked in disciplined lines beneath the lights. Chrome and black steel gleamed under the floodlights.
Men stepped out of the warehouse as the SUV rolled to a stop.
Leather vests.
Boots.
Weapons.
But they didn't move like bikers.
They moved with quiet efficiency.
Ghost coasted to a stop ahead of the SUV and killed the engine. Riot rolled up behind them, blocking the gate.
Security.
The compound had already reacted to their arrival.
Titan shifted the vehicle into park.
"Elena," he said calmly.
"Get ready."
She barely heard him.
Her focus stayed locked on the man bleeding out across the back seat.
Raptor's skin had turned pale beneath the floodlights spilling through the windows.
His breathing was shallow.
Uneven.
"Stay with me," she murmured, pressing fresh gauze into the wound.
Raptor groaned faintly.
Titan opened the driver's door.
Cold night air rushed inside.
Boots hit asphalt.
"Saint!" Riot called across the yard.
A tall man with broad shoulders and short red hair broke into a run toward the SUV. A medical bag bounced against his side as he closed the distance.
"What happened?" he asked as he reached the passenger door.
"Gunshot," Titan said.
"Collapsed lung."
Saint's eyes shifted immediately to the back seat.
He saw the doctor kneeling over the wounded rider.
"You needle his chest?" he asked.
"Yes."
"With what?"
"A tire inflator needle."
Saint blinked.
Then a slow grin crept across his face.
"Nice work, Doc."
He yanked open the rear door.
"Let's move him."
Riot stepped forward and carefully lifted Raptor from the back seat. Even with his massive frame, he moved with deliberate care.
Raptor groaned as pain ripped through him.
Saint slipped an arm under his shoulders to stabilize him.
"Easy," he muttered.
The doctor grabbed her trauma bag and followed.
"Where's your medical room?" she demanded.
Saint jerked his head toward the warehouse.
"Inside."
They moved quickly.
The garage doors were already open.
The moment she stepped inside, the smell hit her.
Motor oil.
Hot metal.
Rubber.
The warehouse was massive.
Workbenches stretched across the concrete floor. Tool racks lined the walls. Several motorcycles sat half-disassembled beneath hanging lights.
But it wasn't the machines that caught her attention.
It was the men.
There were at least twenty of them moving through the garage.
Some wore leather vests.
Others wore plain black shirts.
Several carried weapons.
But none of them shouted.
None of them panicked.
They moved like a trained unit clearing space for a casualty evacuation.
Two men shoved a heavy tool cart aside.
Another kicked open a steel door at the far end of the garage.
"Medical!" Saint called.
They carried Raptor through the doorway.
She followed—and stopped short.
The room beyond looked nothing like the rest of the building.
Bright surgical lights flooded the space.
Clean white walls.
Metal cabinets lined with medical supplies.
An operating table stood in the center of the room.
She stared.
"You've got to be kidding me."
Saint glanced back.
"You want to admire the setup," he said, "or save your patient?"
She snapped back into motion.
"Lay him down."
Riot lowered Raptor onto the table.
She moved to his side immediately and peeled back the soaked bandage.
Fresh blood welled from the torn tissue near his ribs.
"Damn," she muttered.
Saint was already pulling on gloves.
"Internal bleed?" he asked.
"Probably."
Saint nodded once.
"Then we move fast."
He grabbed trauma shears and cut away the rest of Raptor's shirt.
Bruising had already begun spreading across the biker's chest.
She quickly prepared an IV line from the cabinet beside her.
"You've got decent equipment," she said.
Saint shrugged.
"We keep our people alive."
They worked side by side without another word.
The monitor flickered on.
Raptor's pulse appeared on the screen.
Weak.
Unstable.
Saint checked the reading.
"Pressure's dropping."
"I see it."
She inserted the IV and opened the fluids.
Behind them the door opened.
Titan stepped into the room.
He leaned against the wall near the entrance, arms folded as he watched them work.
Even standing still, he carried authority.
Outside the room she could still hear engines idling in the garage and the quiet movement of men across the concrete floor.
Organized.
Disciplined.
Her hands continued moving automatically.
But her mind raced.
Cartel ambush.
Military precision.
A biker compound with a surgical room.
None of it made sense.
She looked up.
Her eyes met Titan's.
"Who the hell are you people?"
Titan didn't answer immediately.
The monitor beside the table beeped steadily.
Saint tightened the pressure bandage.
Titan finally pushed away from the wall.
He walked slowly toward the table.
His eyes flicked briefly to Raptor.
Then back to her.
His voice was calm.
"We're men who were trained to fight wars."
She frowned.
"But the war ended."
Titan's expression didn't change.
"No," he said quietly.
"They just stopped paying us."