Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
Aero
The smell of burning diesel and sulfur still clings to my clothes when we roll into the safe zone. A cabin on the edge of the Pines. It’s off the grid, no cameras, no nosey neighbors. Jameson had given me the location when I formed the chapter but we’ve never had a reason to use it until now.
The small cabin sits half swallowed by the Pines.
Its paint stripped down to a weathered gray, the roof sagging, a rotting porch wrapped around the front.
A single bulb flickers beside the door like it’s not sure if it should bother.
It doesn’t matter. We need cover, not comfort and this place is forgotten enough to give us both.
There’s one way in and one way out. No street lamps.
No traffic. Just woods thick enough to muffle screams and bury secrets.
It’s the kind of place you stash shit you don’t want found…
guns, bodies. And right now, it’s where we hole up, waiting for the storm we just kicked up to find us or pass us by.
We park the bikes in a patch of dead brush beside the cabin. No unnecessary chatter. Just the dull thunk of boots on the forest floor and the heavy breath of men coming down off the high of survival.
Hashtag hops off his bike, phone already in hand. “Security cams won’t be a problem. I looped the last four hours. No one saw us go in. No one saw us come out.”
“You sure?” I ask, watching his eyes.
He nods, “Unless someone had a damn drone, we’re invisible.”
“Good.” At least that’s one less thing I have to worry about.
Tires crunch over gravel. The lead van skids a little on the damp earth beneath its tires. The second slowly creeps to a stop behind the other. The prospects driving them have done a hell of a job earning their patches the past few days and when things settle down I’ll make sure they know it.
I signal for them to kill the engines and sit tight while we make our rounds before getting the women out.
Pike kicks open the warped door with his boot and gives a dry chuckle. “Home sweet fuckin’ home.”
Grizzly follows, his shotgun resting against his shoulder like an extension of his body. Surge and Backdraft split off, their Glocks raised, eyes sweeping corners for movement.
My gun is tucked at my side but my hand is ready to retrieve it if this place has been compromised. God only knows how long it’s been since it’s been used last.
Inside, it’s worse. It’s not sterile. Hell, it’s not even clean. It smells like mold and mouse shit. But it’s four walls and a roof. It’s warm, and it’s safe, and right now, that’s all we can offer.
I sweep through the house, eyes flicking over broken furniture, the boarded windows, the weak hinges on the back door. It’s not secure, but it’s isolated. We’ll hold long enough for Quinn to get here.
Rancor’s hulking frame nearly brushes the ceiling beams as he checks the windows and doors.
Hashtag scans the space for anything off, wires, cameras, disturbed flooring. “No traps, no surveillance. We’re good.”
“Cabin’s clear,” Surge informs me.
“Good. Let’s get the girls inside.” I say, exhaling slowly. “Gently.”
Crank yanks open the back doors of the van. The women are still in the back, quiet as ghosts, huddled together in the dark. Some won’t meet our eyes. Others stare through us like we’re another kind of monster. I don’t blame them. I’d stare too.
Padre is already helping one of the girls steady herself on shaky legs.
One by one, we help them out of the van, staying quiet, and cautious. No sudden moves. No barking orders. Just open hands and calm voices.
We lead them in, one slow step at a time, guiding the girls into the cramped living room.
The old couch sags under the weight as three of them settle in, another folding down onto the worn rug like her legs gave out.
The guys hang back, towering and still, their presence too large for a space this tight, so I motion them out with a sharp nod. Leaving only Padre and Tango behind.
I pace outside, trying to burn the restlessness out of my legs. A cigarette hangs from my lips, the tip flaring red as I take a long drag and blow the smoke out slowly, trying to steady the rage humming through my chest.
Inside, the girls are settling. If you can call shaking and crying settling. One of them hasn’t said a word. Another won’t stop whispering prayers in a language I don’t speak.
“They look dehydrated. One’s got a busted wrist,” Surge states, lighting a cigarette with a flick of his zippo, the flame briefly illuminating the strain around his eyes.
“We need more than gauze and Gatorade.” Grizzly adds, exhaling a stream of smoke as he leans against the porch railing, boots planted wide and steady.
“No shit,” I murmur, dragging a hand over my face. It comes away black with soot.
I watch Rancor and Pike get to work unloading crates while the prospects take orders from Backdraft and Crank dragging them down to the root cellar. Tango is standing guard on the porch with a sawed-off balanced on the ledge. Every man’s tense. We know this isn’t over.
Hashtag’s on the front porch, holding his phone up to the sky scanning signal strength like he’s willing it to grow. “Got one bar,” he mutters. “Enough to ping Quinn. She’s about forty out.”
“Good,” I say, stepping beside him. Quinn will know how to help them. She deals in vengeance and mercy, and she’s got an entire club of gentle but hard-ass women to back her up.
“We stay dark until she rolls in. Eyes open.”
I take one last drag from my cigarette, letting the smoke sit in my lungs before I exhale slowly. Then I flick the butt into the dirt and grind it out under my boot.
With smoke still trailing from my nostrils, I head back inside. The women are still huddled together, eyes wide, shell-shocked. A few of them keep glancing at the door like they expect someone to drag them back out of it.
Padre is crouched beside the one I can’t understand, speaking in Spanish, his words gentle. His voice is low, his eyes soft with compassion even if his face is carved from stone. She’s giving him a fragile smile in return. It damn near undoes me.
This isn’t what we came for but they are the only thing that matters now.
I let out a breath and Padre stands, walking across the room toward me.
“She said they were moved three times before tonight,” he tells me. “What they’ve been through is a real horror show.”
“How long?” I ask.
“Weeks, maybe. She’s fuzzy.”
“Damn.” I rub my tired hands down my face when I hear soft movement behind us.
I turn slowly, not wanting to spook her. She’s maybe twenty, rail-thin, bruises ringing her wrists like cuffs. Wide eyes, too big for her face. Her lip trembles and she points at our cuts.
Her voice barely makes it out. “You’re one of them.”
My stomach knots. “One of who?”
Her chin jerks, a tiny motion. “The ones with the scorpion patches.” She swallows hard, and her voice cracks.
My chest goes tight. Heat licks up my spine in a slow, icy burn that comes before rage. I glance down at my cut, then meet her gaze again.
“We’re not them.” I keep my voice low, “Our patches don’t stand for what theirs do.”
She takes a step back, fingers trembling. “They said no one would help us. That if we tried to run, they’d feed us to the river.”
Behind me, Padre shifts, quiet, but alert. Listening.
I shake my head and edge closer to her, slow enough not to rattle her. “They lied. You’re not going back to them. I swear that to all of you right now.”
She just stares like she wants to believe me but hasn’t seen proof of men like us yet.
I tap the patch over my heart. “You see this? Royal Bastards MC, Atlantic City. We don’t sell women. We don’t hurt them. We protect them.”
She bites her lip so hard it bleeds. “What happens now?”
“We keep you safe,” I say, voice firm. “And when Quinn gets here, you’ll go with her and the Royal Harlots. They’re good people. Women who’ve been through hell and came back swinging.”
A flicker of something, hope maybe, flares in her eyes. That seems to be enough to settle her for now. She turns back toward the other women and sits back down.
“I’ll be outside waiting for Quinn.” I tell Padre. The less of us in here with them, the better it’ll be for them until they learn they can trust us.
With my fists clenched tight, I step back outside. The air bites deeper out here in the Pines. Just the whisper of wind threading through the trees like it’s whispering secrets to the dark. I let the cabin door click shut behind me and lean against the railing, the wood rough beneath my palms.
The others are holding it together, but I can feel the weight pressing down on me. I tilt my head back and stare at the sky. No stars tonight. Just a low, cloud-thick ceiling.
This was supposed to be simple, grab the guns, make the drop, fund the casino project.
In and out. But there was nothing simple about finding trafficked women hidden behind crates of military-grade hardware.
Nothing easy about seeing terror in their eyes, knowing the patch on my back looks too much like the ones that hurt them.
Bloody Scorpions. Sick bastards.
I rake a hand down my face, the calluses scraping over my tight jaw. The Bloody Scorpions are gonna feel tonight. We hit them where it hurts. We have their guns, and the women. Which means they will come looking.
Lacey’s face flashes behind my eyes. That fire in her, that smart-ass mouth, those eyes that see too damn deep into me. I claimed her on instinct, my soul recognized hers the second we met. And now I’ve painted a target on her back. One she didn’t ask for. One I’m not sure I can keep her safe from.
I close my eyes and exhale, low and rough. Then I hear the crunch of gravel crunching beneath tires. I open my eyes to see three minivans roll into the clearing like a damn PTA meeting showed up. Neutral colors, clean, unassuming. Perfect camouflage for what these women really are.
The Royal Harlots are here.
The first van jerks to a stop, dust curling around the tires.
The driver’s door swings open, and out steps worn leather boots, laced high.
Then long legs covered by jeans and a black tank top.
Quinn’s cut rides her shoulders with authority.
Her President patch visible from here. She’s got that don’t-fuck-with-me energy radiating off her like a fuse waiting to catch.
Quinn stops in front of me, her hands on her hips, scanning the cabin like she’s assessing the battlefield. “What are we looking at?”
“Four women,” I say, voice low. “Found them in a damn shipping container. They’re banged up. Bruises, rope burns. All of them scared as hell.”
Her jaw tightens. “I won’t ask how you found them. We brought supplies. One of my girls is a medic, we’ll get them looked at, fed, and go from there.”
I nod. Quinn’s already moving past me, headed for the door. I fall into step beside her. She lifts her hand and gives a sharp whistle of two quick bursts, commanding and sharp. The sound cuts through the stillness like a blade.
Doors open behind us. Followed by the thud of van doors, the shuffle of boots, and the quiet murmur of voices as the Royal Harlots move in.