The back gate, the one facing the tracks, shuddered and slowly opened, releasing motorcycles into the yard. Clay was first his bike always led. Behind him rode Jax, Tig, chibs etc. An even distance, no unnecessary maneuvering. You knew tonight wouldn’t be one of those quiet nights.

The mission hadn’t been fully planned. Just information about a suspicious warehouse on the outskirts of the county, supposedly abandoned, and according to the informant, an active transit point for Alvarez’s men. After the recent assassination of one of your men and the failed attempt to eliminate Clay, the club no longer had any doubts: war with the Mayans wasn’t a matter of if, but when. And since the enemy had made its first move, SAMCRO was going to make its second a stronger one.

Clay didn’t say much before you set off. Short orders, a stern tone, like always. He knew he didn’t have to explain much with this squad. Tig and Bobby had been with him long enough to understand when it was scouting and when it was more.

And you… Well. Clay wasn’t a fan of women in the field. But in the past months, when you’d been riding with them, when you’d never let them down for a second he hadn’t questioned you out loud. The warehouse was a few miles outside of downtown. An old warehouse, a concrete outline squeezed between a train station and a fallen factory. A skull of industry, long abandoned by the legal world.

The grounds were surrounded by a gravel lot and rusty chain link fencing. It was the kind of place no one would look, and when they did, they wouldn’t ask. As you dismounted your bikes, Clay gave Chibs a quick glance. He drew his gun without a word. Tig took up the rear, and you, keeping your hand close to your hip, moved along one wall, searching for the side door. The silence was thick. Dust and the smell of hot metal hung in the air. No birds, no crickets nothing.

The place looked dead, but it didn’t sound that way. Something smoldered there, hidden, left only moments before. The door to the side creaked as you pushed it open with your foot. Clay was the first, entering without hesitation. You, Jax, Chibs in the tight formation familiar to any California biker followed him. The interior was dim. Outside light filtered in through dirty skylights, casting long shadows on the floor. Shelves of empty crates, stacks of dusty pallets, single barrels with faded labels.

The warehouse was large larger than it looked from the outside. Clay said nothing. He walked between the rows, his nose almost to the ground, his hand sliding over the metal surfaces as if he could read the history of the place from them.

Finally, he stopped. “Look,” he said.

Chibs turned right, Tig headed toward the mezzanine. You kept to the left flank, your weapon ready. Every creak of a board, every movement of air drew attention. Between the crates lay cigarette butts fresh ones. Next to one of the barrels was a crumpled ammo box. Not full. Clay knelt down by one of the closed containers, his fingers sliding over the latch. He looked at you, then at Opie and Chibs.

“Open it,” he said calmly.

The lock gave way under the impact of the crowbar. Inside was nothing but dirty canvas and sand. But that wasn’t what mattered. What mattered was that someone had tried to hide something recently.

“This place has been used,” you said, running your hand along the inside edge of the crate. “And recently.”

Chibs came down the stairs, his boots hitting the floor with a dull thud. “Empty, but I found traces. Old gun boxes. Too well hidden to be a coincidence.” Clay looked up. He took a few steps forward, stopped in the middle of the warehouse. He watched his surroundings carefully, as if to memorize them.

“Someone was here,” he muttered. “And they’ll be back.” In that moment, you knew one thing: This wasn’t a random stop. This was a checkpoint. And you had just entered someone else’s territory.