The delivery takes place an hour outside of Melbourne on a rundown property that used to be a farm. I back the truck into the barn that looks like it could collapse from a small gust of wind and then jump out, psyching myself for anything that could happen.
“You’re on time for fucking once,” one of the guys waiting for us says to Ransom. There are five guys in total and I don’t like the look of any of them.
Ransom doesn’t bother responding. He’s on edge like I am, and keen to get this over with. “Let’s just do this and get the fuck out of here.”
The guy doesn’t like that—his features reveal just how much he dislikes Ransom’s response—but he proceeds to get the job done.
We’re almost finished checking the shipment when I discover they’ve short shipped us and have done it intentionally.
My head jerks up and I eye Ransom. “It’s short.”
His eyes flash with anger at the same time the five guys all pull their guns and aim them at us.
“Fuck,” Ransom says, pulling his gun and aiming it at the asshole who greeted him. “Why do you have to fuck shit up, Romero? This could have gone down a whole lot fucking easier if you’d just played nice.”
“It’s not fucking short,” Romero says, gun still pointing at me.
“Yeah,” I say as I aim my gun at him, “it is.”
Romero comes my way and my finger twitches on my trigger. I fucking knew shit was going to go down. “Show me,” he orders.
My mind races, trying to figure out his play here, so I show him what I’ve found while I stay hyper-aware of what’s going on around us. He inspects the box I found that has layers of fake guns under a few layers of the real deal.
“Fuck!” He spins around and stalks to his men, now aiming his gun at them. “Who the fuck is responsible for that?” He appears furious, but I can’t tell if it’s all for fucking show or not.
Fucking hell.
My arm is tense as fuck while I keep my gun locked on him. And although it’s a cold winter’s fucking day, I’m sweating.
We should not be here.
When he doesn’t receive an answer, Romero singles out one of the men and puts a bullet through his head. He then quickly aims the gun at each of his crew before demanding again, “Who did that?”
The problem with his gunfire is it sends a signal to our men outside that there’s a problem in here that requires them to rush in, ready to shoot before asking questions.
Ransom knows this as much as I do and shouts, “Stop!” Thank fuck his voice is a roar that gets everyone’s attention and stops our guys from turning this into a shoot-out.
He moves to where Romero stands. “I don’t give a fuck who did it,” he barks. “We’ll pay you for what you do have and then we’ll all get the hell out of here.” He presses the gun to Romero’s temple, his face filthy with anger. “Just know that if this shit ever happens again, you won’t be walking away. The only reason I’m allowing that today is the fact we need more from you next week.”
We finish the transaction and load the crates into the truck. Romero’s crew leaves before us, which is how I prefer it, and then I jump up into the truck ready to get these weapons to the property Storm uses to store weapons and then get the hell back to the clubhouse.
I follow two of our guys off the property while the other three take our back and we begin the drive back.
“Fucking hell,” Ransom says after we’ve been driving in silence for five minutes. “This shit never gets any fucking easier. Some days I wonder if I’ll actually get home to see my kid again.”
This is the most he’s ever said to me about his personal life. “Yeah, I feel you on that.”
“You’ve got a kid?”
“A three-year-old son. You?”
“A daughter. She’s seven.”
I’m only half listening to him because my attention is fixed on the bikes coming up behind us. Ten of the fuckers, all picking up speed like they’re on a mission.
“Fuck, we’ve got a problem,” I say as I sound the horn three times, which is the signal to our guys to sit the fuck up and prepare for battle.
Our men behind us speed up the side of the truck and pull in front of me at which point I slam on the brakes. Ransom grabs the rifles and passes me one as I brace myself for what’s about to happen. Noah flashes through my mind at the same time Zara does. It’s a fleeting moment of thought, though, because I have to keep focussed on the situation we’re dealing with.