Chapter 10
CARTER
The Royal Harlots clubhouse doesn’t sleep, it just changes rhythm. By the time the meeting breaks, it’s past midnight, and the air tastes like smoke and gunpowder. The compound hums with restrained power. Engines cooling, boots echoing down steel corridors, women laughing low to shake off tension.
I should stay. Rest. Pretend the world can wait till morning.
But I can’t shake Rebel’s face when she said textile plant. It’s the same look Alex had the night we ran our last op. Jaw set, fire in his eyes, already halfway to hell.
So instead, I rode out after the meeting, before anyone could ask where I was going.
The fire in Rebel’s eyes looked exactly like the way Alex did the night we ran our last op.
It jerked me back like a hook in the ribs.
I needed to see him before I walked into whatever Rebel’s about to start.
I’ve seen what that look costs, and I don’t plan to bury another Slade.
The road unwinds under me like an open scar. Downtown fades into industrial gray, the streetlights thinning until it’s just me, fog, and the faint hum of the city breathing behind me.
The cemetery sits where the concrete ends. Half hidden behind a chain-link fence, eaten by weeds and time. It’s quiet out here. The kind of quiet that presses down until you start hearing what you’ve tried to forget.
I cut the engine and walk the last hundred feet. Gravel crunches under my boots. Same lot. Same silence.
Her tire tracks are still faint in the mud. There’s a cracked coffee lid near the marker, half-buried in dirt, rain-warped, pale from the sun. She must’ve left it the last time she came. The thought hits harder than it should.
Alex’s grave isn’t really a grave. It’s just a shallow dirt patch with a rusted metal tag that says: A. SLADE – CLASSIFIED.
The kind of burial you give ghosts no one claims, but I claimed him anyway. I paid a mortuary worker to bury him off the books. And I made sure Rebel and Bones found this place.
I set all of this up so Rebel and Bones thought they found it by chance. Something I could control, because I couldn’t control Alex’s outcome the night he was gunned down by the cartel at the Royal Bastards clubhouse.
I kneel, my knees sinking into damp soil, as fog curls low around the marker. The cemetery is quiet in the way only forgotten places are, with no flowers, no headstone, no name carved deep enough to last.
“Hey, brother,” I whisper. My voice comes out rough, quieter than the wind. “She found me. Just like you said she would.”
Nothing answers except the groan of the fence in the wind and the whisper of grass bending under dew.
“She’s got your fire,” I add. “Your temper, too. Walks like she owns the earth and dares anyone to take it from her.” A humorless breath leaves me. “She’s also got your talent for finding trouble.”
I pull the dog tag from my pocket, the second in the pair. The other hangs around Rebel’s neck. Twin ghosts. I press it into the dirt beside the marker, fingers leaving smudges.
“I should’ve stopped it,” I say finally. “All of it. You, the op, the deal… maybe you’d still be breathing, and she wouldn’t be dragging your name through every dead end in L.A.”
The silence that follows feels like judgment. I deserve it.
I stare at the grave until the fog starts to thin. “You deserved better than this. I’ll make sure she gets it. One way or another.”
The steady rain dripping around me brings back a memory I relive every time I close my eyes.
Four years ago
Rain slicked the Royal Bastards MC clubhouse roof until it gleamed like gunmetal.
Alex crouched beside me, rifle braced against a vent pipe, eyes scanning the yard below.
From up here, we could see everything, the long stretch of concrete drive, the chain-link perimeter, the glow of the Royal Bastards' skull sign burning through the rain.
Alex has been a prospect for the RBMC for six months now.
He tried to keep our friendship separated from the club, but sometimes it was hard.
Like now, Alex received some intel on a shipment and needed my assistance without the club knowing about me.
So, here we are, sitting on the rooftop, out of sight of the cameras so I can watch Alex’s back.
“They’ll come through the south gate, if they come at all,” Alex says, breath fogging. “Cartel’s too proud to sneak.”
“Then we hold the line,” I respond, adjusting my scope.
Alex smirked. “You sound like her.”
“Your sister?”
“Yeah. Always thinks she can stare a storm into backing down.” Before I could answer, headlights exploded through the rain.
A white cargo van roared out of the dark, engine screaming, and slammed straight into the gates. Metal twisted. The klaxon alarms cut loose. Then came the gunfire, automatic, deafening. Bullets ricocheted off the clubhouse facade, sparking against the roof edge.
“Down!” I barked. We dropped flat as rounds chewed through the parapet.
“They found us,” Alex growled, chambering a fresh round. “Vultures or Cartel, doesn’t matter.”
He leaned over the ledge and fired, clean and practiced. Two men went down before the rest scattered behind the van. I covered the blind side, returning bursts into muzzle flashes. Rain hissed around us, hot brass bouncing off our boots.
Then the second wave hit. Gunmen fanning through the breach, one shouldering a grenade launcher.
“Back!” I yelled, grabbing Alex’s cut.
The grenade struck the roof edge and blew apart the vent. The blast lifted us both off our feet. Smoke, fire, ringing ears. I hit hard, rolled, vision swimming.
When I found him again, he was still on his knees, trying to reload. Blood darkened the patch on his chest, red blooming through the crown insignia.
“Alex!”
He pressed a shaking hand over the wound. “Get… the drive… inside…”
“Forget the drive!”
He shook his head, jaw clenched. “Tell Vic… I tried.”
The next volley ripped the air, and he went down before I could reach him.
I fired until the magazine ran dry, then dragged him behind the vent shaft as the RBMC’s reinforcements stormed the yard. Capone’s shotgun roared below, Torch shouting for medics, but by the time they reached the roof, I was gone.
I left through the maintenance hatch with blood on my hands and his dog tag in my pocket.
No one ever knew I’d been there.
They buried a brother.
I buried a promise.
The wind picks up, and rain starts. A slow, deliberate drizzle that slicks the headstone and burns cold against my skin.
Gravel crunches behind me. Instinct pulls me halfway upright before the voice follows.
“Didn’t figure you for the sentimental type.”
I turn.
Bones.
The Royal Bastards’ patch member looms at the edge of the fence line, leather cut open at the throat, smoke curling from the cigarette between his fingers. He looks carved out of the same bad habits as me.
“Didn’t figure you for the visiting type,” I shoot back.
He steps closer, boots grinding over wet gravel. “Word travels. Rebel’s been asking questions. Digging in graves that don’t like to be disturbed.”
“Not her fight,” I mutter.
“Looks like you made it hers.” His eyes drop to the marker. “He saved your ass that night, didn’t he?” I don’t answer. “Thought so,” Bones goes on. “You’ve been carrying that guilt like a dog carries a bone, chewing it down to splinters.”
I step forward. “You think you knew him? You saw the patches and the parties. You didn’t see the fallout. The nightmares. The things he wouldn’t even tell her.”
Bones’ tone hardens. “You still think this is about guilt? You don’t get to make his death your penance. We all lost something that night.”
“Yeah,” I snap. “Some of us lost him in our arms.”
His jaw flexes. “And some of us had to pick up the pieces of what he left behind.”
That’s all it takes. The air fractures. His fist comes first, a quick jab across my jaw. I return it, hard enough to make him stumble. Then it’s fists, breath, rain, and regret.
We trade blows like confessions. Bloody, wordless, half forgiveness, half fury.
I taste blood. He spits a tooth into the mud and laughs, low and raw. “You still hit like a soldier.”
“You still talk too much.” He catches me once in the ribs. I counter to his gut. Both of us breathe like we’ve been waiting years to hit something that can hit back.
Then it burns out, the way real fights do. No victory, just exhaustion.
Bones wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “The Vultures are back in L.A., Bishop. They’re running new products through charity fronts, using your old logistics routes.”
“I know.”
He nods toward the grave. “And if they’re back, that means the people who buried him are watching her. Rebel’s in deeper than she realizes.”
“I’ll keep her clear.”
He snorts. “You’ll try. She’s her brother’s sister. You can’t leash a wildfire.”
He turns to go but pauses, eyes glancing toward the dog tag pressed in the mud. “Tell her I said nothing. She wouldn’t believe I was warning her anyway.”
“Bones.” He looks back. “Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me, Bishop. Just keep her breathing.” Then he’s gone, swallowed by fog and silence.
I stand a moment longer, rain sliding down my neck. The grave looks smaller now, the world quieter. I wipe my mouth, taste blood and dirt, and head for my bike.
I’m halfway to my bike when the burner in my pocket buzzes. Unknown number. Figures.
DIVINE: You planning on taking the long, broody route, or are you just allergic to letting people know where you are?
I stare at the message, rain dripping from my jacket.
ME: How’d you get this number?
DIVINE: You left your firewall open for three seconds last night. I’m faster than God.
ME: Is that supposed to make me feel better?
DIVINE: No. It’s supposed to make you move your ass.
ME: Why?
DIVINE: Textile plant. South Central. Relay’s live again. Rebel’s already en route.
ME: You tracking me too?
DIVINE: Please. You’re easier to follow than a government tax form.
ME: You always this charming?
DIVINE: Only with men who bleed near my servers. Now go earn that brooding complex.
I huff out something that isn’t quite a laugh. My ribs ache from Bones’ right hook, but adrenaline burns it away. I slide the phone into my pocket, swing a leg over the bike, and fire the engine. If Rebel’s already on site, I’m not letting her walk into that place alone.
South Central’s skyline rises like a bruise. Old warehouses stitched together with new wire and cheap security lights. The textile plant waits at the edge of the district, rebuilt over its own bones.
By the time I roll up, the Harlots are already moving like shadows. I meet up with Iris, and she hands me an ear comm. I take it without question. Divine’s voice crackles through the comms.
“Perimeter’s clean. Two guards east, one on the catwalk. You’ve got four minutes before the patrol loops back.”
“Copy,” I whisper.
Rebel crouches by the fence, black jeans and braid pulled tight, eyes sharp behind the glow of her tablet. She looks every inch the problem I should’ve walked away from.
“You’re late,” she mutters without looking up.
“Stopped by to pay my respects.”
Her head tilts slightly. “That a euphemism?”
“Graveyard.”
Her movements falter for a breath. “Alex’s?”
“Yeah.”
Something flickers in her expression, quick and unguarded. “He’d like that,” she says softly, then pushes through the fence.
We slip into the yard. The plant hums faintly, sodium lights washing the cracked pavement in gold. Conveyor belts idle inside like sleeping snakes.
“Divine,” Rebel hisses. “You sure this feed’s clear?”
“Clear enough for me to risk your pretty faces,” Divine replies. “Now quit flirting and move.”
I almost laugh. We push deeper. The air smells of dust and chemicals. Crates line the floor, stamped with the faded insignia of Slade Logistics. The irony’s a knife in the ribs.
Rebel pries one open, blade flashing. Inside are burlap sacks marked grain. She cuts one. White powder spills out in a slow, silty drift.
“Not flour,” I say. “Precursor. Synthetic opiate base.”
“They’re using my brother’s company to move poison,” she growls, slamming the lid down. The sound echoes too loudly.
“Rebel…” The lights flicker above before I can finish my sentence. Motion sensors kick on. Shit.
“Heads up,” Divine hisses. “Three heat signatures inbound. You’ve got thirty seconds.”
Rebel draws her pistol. “We take them?”
“No. We vanish.” I grab her wrist, drag her toward a half-collapsed maintenance tunnel. We slip inside just as boots hit the floor behind us.
I press her against the wall, hand braced close beside her head. Rebel’s heartbeat jumps against my chest.
“You always pick the loud exits,” I whisper.
“Shut up,” she breathes, but she doesn’t move away, and my dick takes notice. Now is not the time to get an erection.
The guards pass, their flashlights slicing through the shadows. We don’t move until silence returns.
Then she looks at me with wide, furious eyes. “What aren’t you telling me, Bishop?”
I hesitate, the truth crawling up my throat. “There was someone else there the night Alex died. Someone was feeding the Vultures intel.”
Her breath catches. “You know who?”
“Not yet,” I lie.
Her gaze lingers, suspicion sharp, but she lets it go. “Then we find out. Together.”
“Together,” I echo, knowing that word’s gonna burn later.
We move through the tunnel and emerge behind the plant, the city’s hum waiting like a held breath. Sirens moan somewhere distant.
“Bad news,” Divine’s voice cuts in. “You just tripped an exterior cam. Ten hostiles inbound.”
Rebel grins. It’s wild, beautiful, and reckless. “Guess subtlety’s over.”
“Guess so.”
We take positions behind a stack of pallets, guns drawn. The first headlights slice through the dark, beams catching the dust like falling stars.
Rebel exhales beside me, fingers flexing around her grip.
“You ready?” she asks.
“Never,” I say. “That’s how I know it’s time.”
She smirks. “You really are a pessimist.”
“I’m a realist.”
“That’s just pessimism with better PR.” I laugh under my breath, and it feels foreign, almost human.
The engines roar closer. We rise together, side by side, two soldiers waiting for the storm to break. And for the first time since Alex Slade died, I’m not just surviving.
I’m fighting for something that matters.