Even the air feels heavier when Capone steps in, cigarette tucked behind his ear, Danyella’s scent still clinging to his cut. He shuts the door, the soft click pulling every eye to him. Capone doesn’t wait for quiet, it falls on its own.
“Red pulled the feed,” he says, lighting the cigarette, voice steady and low. “Same truck. Hellhound tags, moving north fast.” He exhales, smoke curling through the dim light. “Lattimer’s not hiding anymore.”
The room goes still.
Trigger breaks the silence first. “That son of a bitch wants a war.”
“We knew this was coming,” Torch mutters. “Question is, does he have the stones to hit us head-on or just keep picking off our shipments?”
“Either way,” Derange says, voice low, “he’s making a statement.”
Capone nods. “Yeah. And I want to know who’s signing it.”
Red swivels his laptop toward us, a map of the south border glowing red. “The truck was spotted near San Ysidro. Moved fast, then vanished off the grid ten miles north. No checkpoints, no drone hits after that.”
Blayze crosses his arms tighter. “Means someone’s clearing a route for him. Military precision.”
“Cartel?” Torch asks.
“Too clean,” Dagger says. “Cartel likes chaos. This feels…organized.”
My stomach knots, the Hellhound mark flashing in my mind, fresh paint still sticky under my glove.
“Could be mercs,” Aftermath offers. “Private hires. Lattimer’s got deep pockets.”
“Maybe,” Capone says. “Or maybe he’s buying loyalty from ghosts.” His gaze flicks to me for half a second, too quick for the others to catch. “Tiny, you led recon. What did you see that you didn’t say?”
Every pair of eyes lands on me. Heat creeps up my neck. The silence stretches until I can hear the hum of Red’s laptop fan. “Warehouse was tagged,” I say finally. “Hellhound insignia. Fresh paint.”
Blayze’s brows lift. “Hellhounds? Thought they were long gone.”
“So did I,” I say.
“Could be some rogue crew copying the mark,” Dagger suggests quickly.
“Could be,” I echo, throat dry.
Capone studies me too long, reading every lie like scripture. “You sure?”
“Pretty sure.” The lie tastes like iron.
Capone exhales smoke through his nose, slow and deliberate. “Alright. We don’t jump shadows. Trigger, tighten supply lines. Torch, prep transport backup. Dagger, check the ridge routes south, find out how the truck ghosted us. Red, cross-check drone feeds from last night and pull satellite sweeps. Blayze, coordinate with our Vegas charter. I want ears in both directions. Derange, and Aftermath, you two work with Tiny. If Lattimer’s moving product, I want to know where the road ends.”
“Copy that,” Aftermath says.
Bones leans forward, voice sharp. “And when we find him?”
Capone grinds his cigarette out in the ashtray, gaze sweeping the table. “Then we remind him why you don’t carve a Hound’s mark on our city.”
A murmur of grim agreement ripples through the room. Brotherhood.
Trigger cracks his knuckles. “Guess we’re not getting our beach day after all.”
Torch grins, humor dark. “You ever been to the beach with us? It’s still a war zone, just with sand.”
Dagger laughs. “And less clothing.”
“That’s supposed to be a bad thing?” Bones asks, deadpan.