Chapter 25 East
East
The air in the war room is thick enough to choke on.
It smells of stale coffee and the cold, metallic tang of an impending fight.
The full team is here: Malachi, Knox, Nash, James, Victor, me, and a handful of other trusted patched members.
Kyle stands near the door, his posture rigid, absorbing every word, his eyes fixed on the map.
The women—Darla, Candace, Ruby, Frankie, Sloane, and Maggie—stand near the back, a silent, resolute council of their own.
The room buzzes as the plan solidifies. My job is to lead a two-man team with Nash to breach the container while the others handle the perimeter. Simple. Except for the part where the success of the entire operation hinges on the women.
As the meeting breaks, a quiet, focused energy takes over the clubhouse. This is the transition from talk to action. The scent of gun oil replaces coffee as men gear up, the soft clicks of magazines and the rasp of leather the only sounds.
James and Knox approach Maggie and Sloane. “We need you two here,” Knox says, his voice low but firm. “If this goes sideways, those girls will need a medic and a safe place to land. Get a triage ready in the back.” Sloane just nods, her expression already shifting into professional focus.
Nash finds Ruby, his usual stoicism warring with a flicker of raw concern. “Ruby. Eyes on me,” he says, his voice tight. “This isn’t a brunch. No improvising. You stick to the plan.”
Ruby, for once, doesn’t have a snappy comeback.
She just reaches out and places a hand on his arm.
“Aw, you’re worried about me. That’s cute.
” Then her expression turns serious. “Don’t worry, Sergeant-at-Arms. I’m a professional chaos agent.
We’ve got this.” A small, reluctant smile touches Nash’s lips before he turns away.
I find Darla, my gut a knot of useless adrenaline. I hand her a small, discreet comms unit, my hand not as steady as I’d like.
“You, Ruby, Candace, and Frankie will be the diversion,” I say, my voice tight.
“The four of you will be in Ruby’s ridiculously expensive sports car.
Four rich girls, drunk and lost, arguing with the guards at the main access road.
Create a scene. The second you hear my signal, you get the hell out of there. No questions.”
Her eyes hold mine, fierce and determined. “We can do that.”
“I know you can.” I show her how to use the comms, my fingers brushing hers. The contact is a spark of heat that only fuels my anxiety. Then I make my mistake. I look past her, my eyes finding Frankie’s. “Frankie. She listens to you. Make sure she gets out the second I give the signal.”
Darla’s entire body goes rigid. A flash of pure fury crosses her face before she masters it, her expression turning to ice.
Seeing it is one thing, but I lack the time to fix it.
An order was just given about her to her best friend, which, in her world, is the one unforgivable sin.
She was just treated like a child who needed a babysitter.
The ride to the shipyard is a grim procession.
No one talks. The roar of our engines is a single unified snarl cutting through the quiet night.
Even though the air is cool, sweat prickles at the back of my neck under my cut.
My focus should be absolute, but my mind keeps replaying the look on Darla’s face.
Half a mile out, we cut our engines, the sudden silence deafening.
We coast the last stretch, our bikes moving like shadows, using the gentle downward slope of the road to our entry point.
The shipyard is a graveyard of steel, silent and vast under a moonless sky.
The air is thick with the smell of rust, salt, and diesel.
In the distance, the skeletal arms of cranes reach for the sky, and the only sounds are the creak of metal on metal and the soft lapping of water against the pier.
Rider’s voice is a calm whisper in my ear from his perch half a mile away. “Overwatch is set. I have eyes on all eight targets.”
Then, just as we’re moving into position, I see him. Standing on the gangplank of the cargo ship, bathed in the harsh glare of a floodlight. Donovan Castiel.
A guttural sound rips from my throat. He’s right there. Rider has a clean shot. I could give the order. End it. End a decade of pain for Malachi.
Before I can even form the thought, the container we’re targeting—the one marked with the Vassallo logo—is suddenly illuminated by a new set of floodlights from the ship.
Donovan’s not just leaving; he’s watching the load-out.
He’s surrounded by at least four more guards on the deck, all armed with automatic rifles. It’s a trap.
“Donovan’s on the gangplank,” I hiss into my comms. “He’s bait. We’re meant to make a move. The girls are being sacrificed to draw us out. We hold. We stick to the mission. Get the girls. We don’t engage him.”
Letting him go, letting him stand there preening and untouched, tastes like acid in my throat. But he’s insulated himself with our objective. He knows we won’t risk the crossfire. Smart bastard.
“Diversion team, what’s your status?” Nash’s voice on the comms is a bucket of ice water.
A beat of static. Then Ruby’s voice, a little breathless. “Uh, East… we have a slight change of plans. Darla’s idea.”
My blood runs cold. I try to raise her on the comms, but there’s only silence.
Before I can process, all hell breaks loose as the perimeter teams engage. “We stick to the plan,” Nash growls, already moving toward the container.
I follow, my focus shattered. We breach the container. It’s a nightmare. A dozen terrified girls huddled in the dark, their eyes wide with terror. We move them out in a fast, efficient extraction. “James, bring the transport van to the south gate. We’re coming out.”
Then Rider’s voice screams in my ear. “East! We have a runner! One of the traffickers broke loose, heading for the east perimeter fence!”
My head snaps in that direction. And my world stops.
Through a gap in the containers, I see him. A large, desperate man sprinting for the fence line. And I see them. Crouched behind a stack of rusted barrels, not a half-mile away from the firefight. Darla, Ruby, Candace, and Frankie. They didn’t go to the main gate. They came here. For a better view.
Pure, white-hot terror whites out my vision. The trafficker is running straight at them.
I’m moving before I can think, breaking formation, every instinct screaming to get to her. “East, hold your position!” Nash roars in my ear, but I don’t hear him.
Then, a single, sharp crack echoes from Rider’s sniper nest. The trafficker stumbles and collapses, not twenty yards from where they’re hiding.
Over the comms, Kyle’s voice cuts in, steady. “Target is down. Moving to confirm.” A second later, his voice is back. “Confirmed. Threat neutralized. East perimeter is secure.”
The threat is gone. My legs feel like they’re going to give out. The mission is a success, but my relief is so overwhelming that it curdles instantly into pure rage.
I stalk over to the south gate, where James and Kyle are already loading the last of the rescued, shell-shocked girls into the back of a black transport van. I do a quick final sweep. All threats are neutralized. All assets are secure.
Then I turn. My gaze finds Darla, standing by Ruby’s car, her face pale, her eyes wide with the aftershock of what she just witnessed. The other girls have the good sense to hang back.
“Get on the bike,” I say in a dangerously quiet voice. “Wait for me.”
I turn and stalk away, needing a minute before I say something I’ll regret. I find Malachi. We exchange a single grim nod. The mission was a success. Donovan got away. The war is far from over.
Finally, I go back to where she’s waiting. My helmet is still in my hand, but the fury is a living thing, coiling in my gut, so hot I can barely breathe. I stalk right up to her, getting in her space until she has to tilt her head back to look at me.
“What the hell were you doing here?” I snarl, my voice a low, vicious thing I don’t recognize.
She flinches, but her chin comes up. “You treated me like a child who needed a babysitter.”
“So you decided to prove me right by acting like one?” I roar, my fury a physical force.
“You disobeyed a direct order, Darla. This isn’t a game.
You didn’t just put yourself at risk. You endangered all of them,” I say, my gesture encompassing the other girls, whose expressions have turned grim as they watch. “You think this is a game?”
“East, I—”
“No,” I cut her off. A part of me knows I provoked this, that I pushed her into this rebellion by undermining her. But the terror of almost losing her is a fire so hot it burns away all logic. “I gave you one job. One. And you ignored it because you were pissed off.”
I don’t wait for her to answer. The conversation is over. I turn my back on her, stalk to my bike, and swing my leg over. I shove my helmet on, my movements jerky with contained violence.
She follows, her silence a simmering counterpoint to my fury. As she swings her leg over the bike behind me, her eyes meet Frankie’s over my shoulder. I see a flicker of something pass between them—apology, defiance, a shared, silent language I can’t read.
Without waiting, I twist the throttle and the Harley roars to life, tearing out of the shipyard like a bat out of hell. Hard and fast, the ride is a blur, with the wind whipping at us and the engine a scream that matches the one in my head. The ride is a blur of streetlights and anger.