MITCH VALENTINE
I tug the radio from the loop in my belt and speak into it with a low voice. “Is everyone in position?”
I’m crouched behind a rusted blue shipping container, a bullet-proof vest strapped tight to my torso and black Ray-Bans in place to cover my eyes from the early morning glare. The sun is beginning its ascent and casts a warm orange and pink glow across the horizon. I notice none of it as I scan the building layout in my hand one last time, mentally checking off each team’s position as they report in.
Once done, I fold the sheet of paper and tuck it into the back pocket of my jeans. Nerves stretched taut with tension, I raise the radio to my lips, ready to give the go head when the growl of an engine rips through the eerie stillness. I cock my ears. The noise isn’t that of passing traffic. Instead, it’s getting closer until the thunderous roar is all I can hear.
“Goddammit,” I bark tersely and get on the radio. “Hold position.”
This sting is the biggest operation Sydney City Police have undertaken in years and one fool’s inattention at the Dockside gates has the potential to bring the whole thing crashing down around our ears. I’ll have their badge for this.
Leading this operation is a huge break for me. Teams from both the homicide and narcotics division have joined forces to put these criminals out of action for good, and I’m the one in charge. After almost two years of covert intelligence and undercover work to build evidence on every known member, this will be the biggest notch on my belt as detective for the Sydney LLC.
Fury grinds my jaw as I palm my gun and shift to the corner of the shipping container. I peer around the side and every drop of blood in my body turns to ice.
Dust kicks up as the Dodge Charger slides to a halt at the warehouse entrance, my goddamn little sister at the wheel. She looks like Fright Night dressed all in black with dark liner smeared beneath her eyes.
“Mitch,” comes the voice of Tate Donavon from behind me. Tate is my partner, has been since the beginning, but I’ve got lead on this operation and despite him doing his best to keep his resentment under wraps, it emanates from his skin with tense body language and terse words. “I’ve got Kelly Daniels on the line.”
I speak without taking my eyes from Mackenzie ‘Death Wish’ Valentine. “I don’t have time for girly catch-ups right now.”
“He says it’s urgent. To do with Mac.”
I snatch my phone from his hand. “Speak.”
Kelly doesn’t waste time. “Mac is coming your way.”
How he knows Mac was headed this way, or that he even knows my current location, is beyond me right now, but there’s no time for questions. “No shit, Sherlock,” I snarl, my fingers tightening on the phone. “We’re at Dockside Wharf and I’m staring right at her, so your warning can go suck a bag of dicks.”
“Go get fucked, Valentine.”
“I don’t have time to trade petty insults. Casey was supposed to have her on lockdown at the party.”
“He did but Grace was sick so he uh …”
“He uh what?”
“He passed that particular duty to me before they went to bed so he could take care of his woman.”
Fuck. My. Life. “Really?” My voice is so snide my eyes water. “Then you’re fired.”
“That slippery bitch was hell-bent on chasing down Jake and tried to steal my fuckin’ Harley,” Kelly cries into the phone as if his whole world had almost ended. “And that’s not all of it. I have worse news and even shittier news,” he goes on to mutter unhappily.
“What?”
“She knows the King Street Boys have him. That’s why she’s there.”
My fist curls so tight around the phone I hear the device crack. “How does she know that?” I hiss, furious. We know they have him. He agreed to be bait in return for immunity against past crimes. We have the entire Dockside surrounded right this second, and my little sister is about to get caught in the crossfire.
This means Operation Strike is about to go down in a blaze of career-ending flames. “What’s the shittier news?” I dare to ask, wondering how it can possibly get worse than this.
“Luke and Jake were tight. Like brothers,” he says, imparting useless information that I already know. “Luke knows they have him because his older brother Leander knows. And you know what that means.”
It takes less than a second to connect the dots. “Bingo,” I mutter, referring to the leader of the Sentinels.
“Not just Bingo. The whole fuckin’ MC is coming. They’re armed and they’re fuckin’ riled.”
My eyes drift close for one single, heart-pounding moment. I’ve got the King Street Boys on one side, the Sentinels bearing down on the other, and half of the Sydney police force bunkered down in wait. War is coming and it’s going to be a bloody shit show.
My eyes fly open, lighting on Mac as she pushes open the driver’s side door of the beautiful Dodge Charger. “Tell the Sentinels to stand down!”
Kelly’s voice is grim. “It’s too late for that.”
There’s nothing left to say. I hang up the phone and tuck it in my back pocket.
“Valentine,” comes the voice of Tate from behind me again. I turn my head. He’s holding out his radio. My own has been buzzing while on the phone. “It’s Inspector Burns.”
Inspector Keith Burns. My boss.
“I don’t have time for another conversation. I need to get my sister out of there.”
“That’s the thing,” he butts in urgently. “You can’t.”
“What do you mean I can’t,” I bark, snatching the radio. I speak into it as Mac puts one booted foot on the ground. Then the other. She does it with purpose, her chest rising as she breathes in and stands. “Burns.”
“You need to let her go,” he orders me. “Snatching her out in the open will blow your cover and years’ worth of work.”
“Sir,” I hiss, my voice low, my rage unleashing as Mac steps forward and swings the car door closed behind her. How in the hell did she get her hands on Jake’s car? We knew the King Street Boys were following him. He was supposed to pull over, pocket the keys, and lift the hood as if suffering engine trouble. Intel told us they planned on snatching him last night, right before a huge shipment of drugs was due to arrive in the docks this morning. Our plan had been to give them the best opportunity possible to do so, helping us narrow down their exact location, and then lay in wait.
We have this operation fine-tuned to the minutest detail, including Plan B’s for every possible scenario. Except we aren’t prepared for Mackenzie Valentine and a goddamn war. “That is my little sister out there.”
“It’s too late, Mitch. You have to let her go. She can handle herself.”
“Sir—”
“Let. Her. Go.”
“I can’t let her walk in there!”
“Goddammit, Valentine!” he shouts, setting my eardrums ringing. “I’m not asking you. That’s a goddamn order, and if you defy me I’ll demote you to traffic duty for rest of your godforsaken career!”
I ignore his threat. My sister’s life is bigger than this. “The Sentinels are bearing down.”
“What the!” he shouts. “How far out are they?”
KELLY DANIELS
Mitch is beyond pissed, and I can’t blame him. We know about their Operation Strike. We’ve known for months. And we honest to god planned to stay out of it. We’ve been wanting to put the King Street Boys out of action for years, but having the Sydney police do it for us is just the cherry on our cupcake. Except they got Jake involved. And now Mac. And that is not okay.
Mitch hangs up on me. I shove my phone into the pocket of my jeans and look sideways to Luke. We’re stopped at a red light, both of us seated on our bikes and helmets in our laps. “She’s already there.”
His curse is loud and pained. “Fuck!”
The crescendo of what sounds like a thousand Harleys roar from behind us. We both turn. The Sentinels, my brothers in arms, are building. Bikes are coming in from the left and right to form a giant convoy of retribution as they thunder down the street toward us.
I get on the phone for one last, quick phone call.
Casey answers with “What the hell is going on?”
“War,” I answer, my voice terse. “And Mac is caught right in the middle of it.”
TRAVIS VALENTINE
I wake to the buzzing ringtone of my phone, and our giant Rhodesian Ridgeback, Rufus, licking my face. “What the …” I push him away with a sluggish hand. He returns. “Stop it.”
“It’s because you’ve got a chocolate handprint on your cheek,” Quinn mumbles from beside me, her face smushed into the pillow.
“How the—”
“Sam,” she answers before I can even finish the question, referring to our foster son. He should be tucked up in bed at this early hour but with consciousness now thrust upon me, I can hear cartoons from the living room. He’s up and clearly has the blessed sense not to come in and wake us. God, I love that kid.
I swipe a hand across my cheek. It comes away with smears of chocolate and dog slobber. “Oh gross.”
“Don’t you dare,” Quinn warns as I go to wipe my palm across the sheets. Her face remains smushed into the pillow.
“How did you even—”
“Because I’m a mother now. We see everything.”
My phone blares on as Rufus comes at me again, tongue lolling and big eyes wounded because I’m repeatedly shoving him away. Chocolate is bad for dogs, right? But he’s hardly going to drop dead at my feet after a few licks. I eye him carefully, holding his massive head back as that giant tongue comes for my face. He doesn’t look ill.
Quinn rolls over, her big brown eyes blinking open, cheeks flushed a deep pink, and the imprint of our bedsheets lining half her face. Her white-blonde hair is a fluffy cloud of fairy floss around her head after she curled it for the party last night with something that resembled a giant stainless steel dildo.
“Are you gonna get that?” she mumbles.
“Ugh.” My eyes slide to the mammoth clock on the wall. It’s a round marble affair that required both Casey and I to lift in place. It’s secured with serious bolts, but I still eye it every morning with trepidation. The little hand points to the five and the big hand is on the twelve. Who the hell is calling me at five a.m.? On a Sunday no less. My one sleep-in of the week.
“It’s not going to fall.”
How does she even know I’m glaring at the clock? “It will. One day it’s going to come crashing down at the same time Sam walks past and it will crush every bone in his little body.”
“It’s not that heavy.” She rolls over, used to my anxiety when it comes to our soon-to-be adopted son. I can’t fathom how parents can remain calm when their kid is one step away from being snatched or falling down one of those giant sinkholes that Grace keeps talking about. They are just that vulnerable. Anything could happen. Parenting requires constant vigilance. Whenever I lose sight of Sam for a single moment, a freaky panic overtakes me. Does it ever get easier?
“It would only dent his head or something,” Quinn adds.
My phone has not stopped its incessant ringing. I reach for it. “We should make him wear a helmet.”
“You’re being ridiculous.”
The screen shows it’s Casey Daniels, my best mate. “I’m not,” I argue as I hit the answer key and put the phone to my ear. “What’s up?” I ask him as Rufus comes at me again, undeterred. With only one hand free, I can’t hold him off and he gets another lick in.
“Get in the car,” Casey replies, his voice grim and leeching urgency. “I’ll explain as you drive.”
I don’t hesitate.
GRACE PATERSON
I tug my legs through the pair of skinny jeans I left on the bedroom floor in the early hours of the morning. Last night’s party had left me with only enough energy to slide them off and leave them crumpled in the corner before I crawled into bed. I do the zipper and snatch my phone from the bedside table. There’s no time to lament on how the denim gapes at my butt cheeks. Cancer kicked me to the kerb. I beat it back and won, but there’s still a long road ahead. And that includes food. So much food we’re going to run out of room in Casey’s loft to store it all. My former model management agency would love the look I’m rocking right now, which disgusts me. Emaciated is always the new black and it’s not healthy. I’m longing to build some muscle on my frame and a nice round booty.
I scroll my phone contacts in a panicked motion. Names roll down the screen so fast I have to scroll back up. Who do I call first? There’s no time to think about it. I pick and dial.
My brother Henry answers within seconds and my stomach drops with guilt. He’s been like this ever since he heard about my diagnosis—hovering like a mother hen, accessible within a moment’s notice, attending appointments, blending me kale smoothies that have me retching more than the chemotherapy does. After all those years of travelling for work, it warms me to have this close relationship with my brother again. It just sucks huge hairy nipples that I had to get sick for it to happen.
“Everything okay?” he asks, sounding equal parts anxious and husky with sleep.
I don’t wish to cause him any alarm because I’m not an alarmist, but if there is ever a time to become one it’s now. “Mac is pregnant,” I blurt out, adding gossipmonger to my rapidly expanding repertoire of negative personality traits. “And you know that Jake is gone but Mac took off after him. Kelly called Casey and he was talking so loud I overheard the whole thing. Jake has been abducted and Mac is caught up in it somehow and something about Operation Strike and a shit show. I don’t know!” I cry, throwing my free hand up in the hair with agitation as I pace. I should be looking for shoes to put on my feet, but I’m so frazzled I don’t think I even know what shoes are. “Something is going down, Henry Bear. I don’t know what it is, but I’m scared.”
“Holy shit.”
“Right?” I continue pacing on legs made of jelly. Mitsy snaps at my ankles and I do an abrupt turn to throw her off course. The psychotic white ball of fluff that barely resembles a dog wants breakfast, and I don’t have time for her demands right now.
“Abducted by who?”
“The King Street Boys,” I answer, having no idea who these assholes are.
“Holy shit,” he mutters again, his voice all-knowing. Clearly he’s well-informed on who they are. “Does Evie and Quinn know any of this?”
“I don’t know!” I cry, throwing my hand up again before slapping it down on my thigh.
“Alright. I’ll call them. Just sit tight and stay calm, Gracie Bean. I’m on my way, okay?”
Mitsy resumes snapping at my heels while I pace. Her jaw locks on the back of my ankle. I jerk my leg around to free it, but she must have a tooth snagged in the denim of my jeans. She skids across the sleek timber flooring, taking a long line of thread with her. The entire hem begins to unravel as she scrambles to her feet and runs off, panicked at being hooked. “Goddammit!” I shriek. I’m still attached and the thread pulls so tight around my angle it cuts off circulation.
“I said stay calm,” Henry enunciates into the phone.
“I am calm,” I growl as I reach down to yank the thread free.
“It’s not good for your health to—”
“Just shut your face and get here.”