Chapter Twenty
Bones
The air in the war room is thick with tension. Sharp, silent, dangerous.
Foster’s already got the monitors up when Spike walks in, phone to his ear and murder in his eyes.
We all shut up.
“Copy that,” Spike says into the phone, voice like steel. He hangs up, slides it into his cut, and turns toward us.
“That was Buckey,” he says, looking around the table. “His man made contact. Max has been spotted.”
Murmurs ripple across the room. I lean forward, hands twitching.
“Where?”
“Mexicali,” Spike says. “He’s working directly with Los Fantasmas. Word is, he’s been seen beside El Muerte himself.”
That hits like a bullet.
“Have we confirmed that Muerte and Luis are the same person?” I ask, just to be sure.
“Yep,” Foster nods. “He didn’t even try to hide that bit of info. Took me all of ten minutes to find out.”
“Buckey’s guy,” Spike says. “He’s deep under, posing as an electrician working cartel properties, couldn’t get too close without blowing his cover, but he saw Max. Says he looks rough. Bigger. Different.”
“Traitor kind of different?” Crusher asks.
“Or trapped kind of different?” Skip mutters.
“No time to sort that out,” Spike cuts in. “Because Buckey just got another message. They’ve left Mexico.”
He nods at Foster, who switches screens to a satellite image pulled from traffic cams.
“This was taken six hours ago on the interstate near Coachella,” Foster says, clicking through the grainy footage. “Two SUVs. Cartel plates. Tinted windows. Followed the route straight toward Palm Springs before the signal dropped.”
“Which means what exactly?” Tank asks, arms crossed tight.
Foster doesn’t answer.
Spike does.
“It means they’re here,” he growls. “Max and El Muerte. The big boss came to us.”
The room goes still.
Dead still.
“Buckey says he’s here to clean up Billy’s mess,” Spike continues. “Apparently the idiot was supposed to store the Fentanyl until it was needed. Not move it. Not sell it. Now Muerte wants to make sure no trails lead back to him. Probably thinks we’re just dumb bikers playing outlaw games.”
Spike looks up, eyes burning. “He doesn’t know who the hell he’s dealing with.”
“We take him out,” I say, voice low and sharp.
“Damn right, we do,” Spike nods. “Foster’s already pulling last known GPS pings. We’ve got a narrow window. I want boots on the ground now. ”
“What about the compound?” Tank asks. “If the cartel boss is in town…”
“Patch is on his way,” Spike says. “He and Knuckles will stay behind with the women. I’ve called in the South chapter to cover interior ground patrol.
The brothers from the East chapter that didn’t go help the Vipers will secure the perimeter.
Snipers on every corner. A fly won’t make it past the wall without losing a wing. ”
“Still feels thin,” Crusher mutters.
“It is,” Spike says. “But we don’t get another shot at this.”
I glance at Foster. “We sure it’s not bait?”
Foster shrugs, tapping keys. “It’s either bait... or a gift. Guess we’ll find out.”
“We need to stop and think for a second,” Skip says, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade. “Let’s say this intel’s good. Let’s say Muerte and the not-really-sure-if-hes-a-traitor-or-not is in Palm Springs to clean up Billy’s mess.”
We all turn toward him.
“Do we really want to be the ones to put a bullet in the Mexican cartel’s top dog?
Because if even an inkling of that gets back to them…
and it will…they won’t just retaliate. They’ll bury us.
We may be badasses, but Los Fantasmas has thousands of members across two countries. We’ve got two hundred. Total.”
No one says a word.
Because Skip’s not wrong.
And that’s what makes this whole damn thing so dangerous.
Skip’s words hang in the air like smoke. Heavy. Unavoidable.
Spike doesn’t argue.
He just nods once, jaw tight.
“Okay. We’ll wait. Watch. Learn. We won’t attack…yet,” he says. “Not until we know exactly what we’re walking into.”
“What’s the play then?” I ask.
“Foster finds us a location,” Spike says. “Once we’ve got it, we send the North chapter thirty minutes ahead. Quiet recon only. No contact. No movement unless I give the word.”
Crusher leans forward. “And if they confirm it’s him?”
Spike’s eyes darken. “Then we move. We won’t take him out, but we will send him a message. This is our fucking turf.”
Foster’s tapping like a madman, screens flashing as feeds scramble and load. None of which I understand.
“I’ve been chasing this signal for over an hour,” he mutters. “Thought it was a hardware glitch, but something’s off. The van’s carrying a signal jammer. Basic, but effective. It’s been scrambling pings every time they move into range of our towers.”
“What kind of jammer?” Skip asks, already frowning.
“Short-range,” Foster says. “Intermittent bursts…enough to keep me blind unless I cross-reference it with city surveillance cams.”
“You’re saying that van’s been close?” Spike demands.
Foster doesn’t answer.
He just goes still. Then curses under his breath.
“No. No, no, no…”
“What?” I bark, already halfway to my feet.
“They just popped up,” Foster says. “I ran a scan on every cam between the fucking border and here. I found them… five minutes out from the compound. And, by the looks of it, they’re heading right toward us.”
Silence.
The kind that crawls down your spine.
Then chaos.
“Phones, now!” Spike barks. “I want every chapter on alert. NOW. Knuckles, double up the guards. No one gets through the gate. Bones, pull Riley, Asher, Abby, and Sunny down below and lock it down then get to the gate. I’ll call Maverick and Patch.
Have them ready on the outside in case we need them.
Earpieces in. They may be ghosts but they just knocked on the devil’s front door. ”
I’m out of the war room door before Spike finishes his sentence, my boots pounding against concrete like a war drum.
“Knuckles!” I shout into the earpiece when I see only two guards at the gate. “Triple the guards at the gate first.”
“On it,” comes the reply, already breathless.
I veer hard toward the houses and of course, the women are out front.
Laughing.
Relaxed.
Unaware of the damn storm that’s barreling straight for us.
“Inside. Now.”
Two words. Sharp. Commanding.
Riley freezes mid-sip of her tea. Abby’s smile drops. Sunny… Sunny frowns, already reading something on my face.
“What’s going on?” Riley asks.
“No time,” I grit. “Take Asher and go below.”
Riley, knowing the possible dangers, picks up Asher from his swing, and they’re already moving, Abby right behind them. But Sunny lingers for a half-second too long.
“Jack,” she says, soft and serious.
I close the distance. My hand cups her jaw, thumb brushing her cheek like it might be the last time. “Go. Please.”
She nods, and I wait only long enough to see her disappear inside Spike’s house.
Back through the compound. Gun out. Heart a hammer in my chest.
I make it to the front gate just as the first SUV rolls into view.
Matte black.
Tinted windows.
A second one pulls up behind it.
The line of Shadows at the gate is solid. Guns raised. Jawlines carved from stone.
The first door opens.
Max steps out, hands raised, face unreadable.
A collective growl rises around me.
Guns tighten.
Breaths hold.
All guns swing toward Max the second he’s in view.
“Fucking traitor,” someone shouts.
The man doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Just stands there…expression flat, eyes empty, like he’s made of stone. He doesn’t look smug. Doesn’t look scared. He looks…hollow.
And somehow, that’s worse.
Before anyone can make a move, a figure rises from the roof of the second SUV.
“What the…” Tank starts.
“Is that a damn rocket launcher?” Crusher growls.
It is.
Sleek. Military grade. And aimed straight inside the compound.
At the houses behind us.
At the women.
At Sunny.
“That’ll level half the damn block,” Skip mutters.
Then the front SUV’s door swings open.
Muerte steps out like he owns the fucking world. Black suit. Silver rings. Gold tooth flashing when he smirks.
“Lower your weapons,” he calls, voice casual like we’re just chatting about the weather. “Or your precious little casas go boom.”
He lifts a finger and points toward the homes behind us.
None of us move.
“Muerte,” Spike says low, like naming the monster makes it more real. “What do you want?”
The cartel leader shrugs. “You think I came here to play? Lower your weapons, Presidente. Or I let mi nino press the button. He likes fire.”
There’s a beat.
Just one.
Then Spike snarls, “Lower them.”
Every Shadow hesitates…just for a second…then obeys.
Weapons drop.
Max doesn’t react. Doesn’t blink. Just stands there like he’s already dead inside.
And Muerte smiles.
“Gracias,” he says. “Now… let’s talk.”