Chapter Twenty-Five
Justice
This part of Jacksonville, on the northern outskirts, feels like a place the world forgot.
Broken fences. Burned-out streetlights. The kind of neighborhood where every house looks like it’s been through a war and lost.
Creed rides point, the rest of us fanning out behind him. Engines snarl through the sticky Florida air, loud enough to rattle windows and make dogs bark in the distance. Gravel crunches under tires as we pull up in front of a sagging, single-story house that’s seen better decades.
Paint’s peeling, the porch leans to one side, and the yard’s a jungle of weeds swallowing a rusted-out Oldsmobile. A beer can glints on the front step.
We kill the engines, and the silence that follows is heavy.
Creed’s already off his bike, calm as death. He walks up the steps and knocks once, knuckles sharp against the rotten wood. Then he steps back down into the yard, hands loose at his sides, trying to project he’s not a man who could kill them and not lose a minute’s sleep.
For a few seconds, nothing. Then the door groans open and a man lumbers out. He’s overweight, his white shirt covered in brown stains, sweat soaking under his armpits. His jeans hang low, gut spilling over the belt. He stares at the row of bikes and spits into the dirt, then squints at Creed.
“What?”
Creed moves closer just one step, but it’s enough to steal the man’s air. He’s in his space, voice low and steady. “Maria.”
The man’s bravado flickers. His eyes slide over Creed to the line of brothers behind him, Reaper, Winchester, Highway, me, and eleven more. We’re a small army, and we take no prisoners.
He backs up a step, looks over his shoulder, and shouts, “Maria!”
A few seconds later, she appears.
Maria’s a mess — thin, pale skin stretched tight over sharp cheekbones. Greasy hair pulled into a ponytail, a cigarette burning between her fingers. The tank top she’s wearing hangs off one shoulder, revealing bruises that don’t look old. Eyes ringed in black liner, defiance fighting with fear.
Her gaze jumps from Creed to Reaper, to me, then down again. She knows who we are. Knows this isn’t a social call.
“Inside,” Creed says, and walks straight past her without waiting for an invitation. The man shuffles aside, muttering something under his breath.
We follow Creed in, the door shuts behind us, shutting out the sunlight and the world. The rest of the brothers stay outside, engines idling like wolves waiting at the door.
The smell hits first. Something of a cross between a wet dog and urine. The floorboards creak under our boots as we move through the cramped living room. A sagging couch. An ashtray overflowed onto the coffee table.
Creed stays standing, posture casual, but the calm in him is the kind that hides the storm.
“Maria,” he says evenly. “We need to talk about the Wheelers. And a ledger.”
She blinks, plays dumb. “Ledger? Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”
Reaper lets out a low chuckle that makes the hairs on my neck rise.
Creed’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “That so?”
He doesn’t have to say anything else. The tension in the room spikes. Creed tips his chin at Reaper.
Reaper grins, all teeth and menace, and draws his knife. The scrape of steel against leather is slow, deliberate, and fills the room.
Maria’s bravado cracks. “Wait! Wait—” She holds up her hands. “Don’t! Just let me get it.”
Creed doesn’t blink. “Justice’ll help you.”
She looks at all of us, and when I move, Maria smiles.
Her fingers tremble as she leads me down a narrow hallway. The air smells stronger of urine. I want to gag or cough but keep my features set in a scowl. The carpet squishes under my boots. We stop in a small room lined with warped bookshelves. A single lightbulb hums overhead, flickering.
She moves to a shelf and pulls out an old, large Bible, shaking as she opens it. Inside the hollowed-out pages is another spine, it’s the ledger, yellowed with age.
Her voice drops to a whisper. “You don’t have to tell them. Hector Sanchez would pay a fortune for this. You and me, we could split it. Be partners.”
The audacity makes something inside me snap.
A snarl rips from my throat. I step in close. “I already have a family, sweetheart.” She flinches when I rip the ledger from her hands. “And we don’t sell our family.”
When I turn back toward the hall, Jet’s face flashes in my head — her eyes, that laugh she tries to hide. My gut twists. Guilt sits like a stone in my chest, heavy and immovable.
Back in the living room, Creed and the others are still waiting. I hand him the ledger. “Got it.”
He takes it without a word, flips it open, scans a few pages. Whatever he sees there hardens his jaw. “Good work.”
We walk out as a unit, the floorboards groaning in relief under our boots. Outside, the fat man’s still there, red-faced and sweating. His eyes flick from us to the house.
As we mount our bikes, his voice carries after us. “Maria! What the hell are you doin’ in there?”
Engine’s roar to life, drowning him out.
The ride back to the compound is a blur of headlights and asphalt. Wind rips against my face, but it doesn’t clear my head. Jet’s gone because I let her go grocery shopping. Because I wanted her close to me.
Every mile feels like punishment.
When we stop, Creed pulls his phone from his cut, thumb scrolling fast. “Fingers,” he says when the line connects, voice low but clear. “Need a number for Hector Sanchez.”
A pause, then a lift of his brows. “You’ve got it already?”
Creed’s mouth curves in something that’s not a smile. “Good. Text me the number.”
It takes only a moment for the text message to appear in Creed’s mobile phone.
He hits call and then waits.
“Hector,” Creed says. Calm. Cold. “You’ve got something of mine. I’ve got something of yours. Let’s talk.”
The silence that follows hums like electricity. Reaper’s standing nearby, eyes gleaming. Winchester’s jaw works as if he’s grinding down his rage.
I stare out into the darkness. Jet’s out there somewhere, scared, alone and the fault’s mine.
Creed may be negotiating.
But me? I’m planning a war.