Chapter Nineteen
Justice
Gunfire devours the morning. Smoke rolls through the yard, thick with the smell of gunpowder. Shouts echo as bullets tear into the clubhouse.
A truck explodes near the gate, throwing dirt and debris across the compound. Creed barks orders, his voice cutting through the chaos while brothers scramble to cover the perimeter. Every instinct screams one thing: keep them out.
The Rivet Knights flood the treeline where our back gate should be. Shots crack, engines roar, the ground vibrates beneath heavy boots.
Creed ducks behind a tree, Glock raised, eyes scanning for a target. He fires, nods at me, and we move ahead, sticking to cover where we can.
A sudden concussion shakes the air, the front gate folds inward, twisted and smoking. Metal shrieks as a black SUV rolls through the wreckage, tires grinding over gravel.
Not bikes.
Not their style.
The door opens. Out steps Hector Sanchez, calm as ever, suit jacket untouched by the carnage. Two Rivet Knights flank him, weapons drawn.
Creed curses under his breath. “Fucker.”
We’re pinned down. Can’t go back, can’t go forward.
Sanchez strolls across the open yard like he owns the place. “Royal Bastards!” he calls, voice smooth and smug. “Hell of a morning for a visit.”
Creed rises halfway from cover, weapon aimed. “You send men to my gate, you don’t get conversation, you get bodies.”
A lazy smile touches Hector’s mouth. “No need for theatrics. I came for what’s mine.”
“Nothing here belongs to you,” I shout back.
“Always the loyal soldier,” Hector says, turning toward the sound of my voice. “Didn’t realize you’d developed a taste for damaged goods.”
Creed and I exchange a confused look. I shrug.
Creed shakes his head. “We don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Hector raises his voice, grin widening. “Jet! Get your ass out here before we burn this place to the ground!”
“Why Jet?” Creed demands as a bullet hits the tree he’s hiding behind.
“Business,” Hector replies easily. “The Rivet Knights understand leverage. She’s leverage.”
“Not anymore.” My gun’s raised.
The shot tears through the air, slamming into his shoulder. The smirk dies. Then the world detonates, Rivet Knights firing, brothers returning fire, bullets slicing through smoke.
Hector dives behind the SUV as the yard erupts again. Metal screams. Engines rev. The war is back in full swing.
Another round hammers into the clubhouse wall. Splinters and brick dust explode around us. Instinct takes over as we drop low, moving behind whatever cover we can find.
Gunfire in the trees suddenly goes silent. I glance up just as a Reaper strolls from the smoke, bloodied, a gun in one hand and a knife in the other. Jogging further behind him is Winchester.
“Hey, Prez,” Reaper says, dark eyes wild. “I went hunting.”
Winchester shakes his head. “He’s a fucking psycho… but I’m glad he’s our psycho.”
With the threat in the trees cleared, we sprint for the yard just in time to see the black SUV fishtail through the open gate, tires screaming, gravel spitting. The two Rivet Knights inside unload a few last rounds before disappearing down the road.
Creed fires after them until the gun clicks empty, fury boiling off him in waves.
“Where the fuck was everyone?” he roars, spinning toward the brothers. “Who the hell was watching the goddamn gate? And where is my woman!”
Silence. The kind that stings.
Smoke drifts through the ruined fence. A few of the guys glance at each other, no one is brave enough to answer.
“Son of a bitch got away!” Creed yells, voice raw. “You all see that? Hector Sanchez just walked into our yard, shot up our house, and drove out like he owned the place!”
No one moves. The rage in Creed’s voice is enough to strip paint.
I glance toward the clubhouse, Jet’s shadow in the doorway, watching. My gut twists.
This isn’t over. Not by a long shot.