THIRD PERSON POV
The warehouse had never felt so quiet. Not because it was empty but because nobody wanted to be the first person to speak.
Five motorcycles stood outside beneath the gray morning sky and every one of them carried fresh scratches from the previous night's disaster. Inside, the men who had returned from Lawson Customs looked worse than their machines. One sat with his arm secured in a sling and another leaned heavily on a crutch after surgery to remove the bullet from his leg while two more wore bruises that painted half their faces purple.
Victor Kane stood at the far end of the warehouse beside a scarred wooden table, his hands resting flat against the surface while he studied every man in front of him.
Nobody met his eyes and that alone irritated him. Failure happened
