We sprint across the lot toward the clubhouse. Brothers flood the hallway, grabbing cuts, weapons, boots, rage. Church slams shut behind us, sealing the war room.
Capone stands at the head of the table, eyes cold, jaw set like stone. “What do we know?”
I drop the report hard and fast. “Footprints by the south gate. Drag marks. Van tracks. Two, maybe three men. She’s drugged. Taken.”
Capone’s eyes go lethal. “Find her.”
Before any of us can speak, Red’s radio crackles violently from the tech room. “Prez? Tiny? We… I… shit. Hold on, I just got a call. You’re gonna want this.”
Capone storms out of the Church like he’s been summoned by the devil himself. I’m right on his heels. He stomps into Red’s communication room, making the poor guy jump, and his face burns bright red. “Put it on loud.”
Red nods and patches it through.
A voice bursts from the speaker like sunshine with a fistfight attached. “Aloha, motherfuckers!” Aloiki’s booming voice carries across the room.
Thank God.
“Capone, howzit!” Aloiki sings, voice dripping charm and mischief. “Heard your garage exploded, your shipments vanished, and now your wahine has been scooped like a Costco sample. That accurate?”
Aftermath groans. “How the fuck does he always know everything?”
Red shrugs, his face turning red again. “Island magic.”
Aloiki’s voice sharpens playfully. “RED! I’m bringing you coffee. REAL coffee. Not that burnt dirt you L.A. haoles pretend is drinkable.”
Red clutches the desk like he might cry. “He loves me.”
Capone cuts in. “Aloiki, you bringing bodies?”
“Brother,” Aloiki purrs, “I brought the Twins.”
Torch freezes. Trigger mutters, “Oh, double fuck.”
Everyone knows that Thing One and Thing Two are chaos wrapped in matching cuts, and nobody can tell them apart.
Aloiki adds, “Landing in fifteen, yeah? Keep the gate open. And hide your girls if they get easily distracted. My boys like to flirt.” The line dies.
Capone drags a hand down his face. “Hawaii’s coming. God help us all.”
Fifteen minutes later, a low rumble builds outside. Three custom Long Beach–built bikes that Aloiki had commissioned because, in his words, “No way I fly across the ocean jus’ fo’ ride some rental haole junk.”
The gate opens, and they roll inside. Aloiki’s shirt is half-open, tattoos glowing under the lot lights, grinning like he’s about to bless or ruin our lives. Hard to say which.
Behind him, Thing One and Thing Two are riding identical builds, each holding a giant slice of watermelon like psychopaths on vacation.
They skid to a synchronized, show-off stop.
Aloiki hops off and tosses a bag of sealed Kona coffee at Red. “HEA, Brah! Fresh roast. The kind you cry for. Better than your Costco swill.”
Red hugs it. “I’d marry you.”
Aloiki winks. “Shoots, but I'm too much man for you, Red.”
The Twins dismount in eerie unison. Thing One tosses Thing Two his watermelon rind, or did Thing Two toss it to Thing One? It doesn’t fucking matter. I shake my head in confusion.
“Custom bikes,” one says.
“Perfect for breaking bones,” the other finishes with a grin.