Chapter 15
CARTER
Bones is gone. That’s the first thing I notice when Divine’s morning update hits my cell. His cell phone is cold, his accounts are locked, and his bike’s not at the Royal Bastards compound.
Even Capone’s tech guy, Red, can’t find him, and that’s saying something. Red was recruited for the CIA or some shit when he was a teenager, but he didn’t want to do their dirty work, so instead, he did a stint in prison for a crime he didn’t commit.
This is not Bones running. He’s hunting, and the rest of us are already behind the trail.
The air inside the clubhouse feels heavier, like the walls know something’s about to give. Rebel is standing by the table, staring at the coordinates Divine just sent over. Her jaw’s locked, eyes dark.
“Vernon,” she says, her voice too calm to be anything but panic in disguise. “He’s heading straight for it.”
“Warehouse zone,” I confirm. “Old logistics yard off Alameda. The Vultures have been using it as a holding site for shipments. If he’s going there alone…”
“He won’t come back.” She looks at me, eyes sharp and shining. “You think he’s guilty.”
“I think he’s trying to make amends.”
Her jaw sets. “By dying?”
“Some men think that’s the only language left. He won’t come back if he is there alone.”
“Correction, none of you will, if you go in without backup. The chatter’s bad. The Vultures are pulling manpower from every borough. They’re gearing for something big.” Divine interrupts.
“Define big,” I say.
“Big as in forty-plus signatures. Trucks, drones, new ordnance. And guess what? The comms chatter uses the same encryption we pulled off that textile hub. Someone’s moving the money fast, and it’s coming from a banker tied to Emerge Auditing.”
Rebel looks at me. “You think Bones found out?”
I nod slowly. “Or worse, he’s walking right into it to fix what he thinks he broke.”
Silence stretches until the air feels thick. Outside, the Harlots’ engines rumble faintly as French, Raven, Calypso, and Sloane gear up for recon. Divine, Iris, and Allura are staying behind with us. Allura’s orders were clear. Sit tight until we verify the Vultures’ position.
But neither of us are good at sitting tight. I can feel it in the air between us, static, restless, thick with everything we’re not saying.
Rebel folds her arms, one hip cocked, that don’t bullshit me look she does better than anyone alive. “You’re going after him.”
I don’t answer right away. My hand’s already moving. Checking the mag, sliding a fresh clip into place with a clean, metallic click that says more than words ever could. The motion’s muscle memory, the kind you don’t waste unless you’ve already made a decision.
Divine curses under her breath. “I’m flagging the signal. It’s already hot. If you’re going to move, do it now.”
Rebel grabs her cut from the chair, fingers trembling but her voice steady. “Then we move.”
“Rebel.”
She cuts me a look that could slice bone. “Don’t even start. He’s family.”
“Family doesn’t make you bulletproof.”
“Neither does hiding.”
There’s no winning that argument. The woman’s fire wrapped in leather and grief. She’d run through the gates of hell barefoot if she thought someone she loved was on the other side.
I sling the pack onto my shoulder, run one last check on the sidearm, then glance at the map glowing faintly on Divine’s tablet. Vernon. The coordinates pulse red like a wound.
Rebel exhales slowly. “That’s a yes.”
“Already am,” I say.
Her jaw tightens. “I’m coming.”
“Not a good idea.”
“Neither was sleeping with me,” she fires back. “Didn’t stop you.”
That earns the smallest smirk out of me. “Fair point.”
I turn toward the door, half expecting her to block it. She doesn’t. She just watches me, arms crossed, eyes unreadable.
Then she says, quieter, “You think you’re protecting me.”
“I know I am.”
“No,” she says, stepping closer until her voice is low enough to burn. “You’re trying to protect what’s left of him. But Bones isn’t your penance, Bishop. And he sure as hell isn’t mine.”
That one hits harder than the loaded mag on my hip. I stare at her for a heartbeat longer than I should, then nod once. “Maybe not. But I’m still going.”
She smirks like she’s already ten moves ahead. “Then so am I.”
Rebel and I ride bar to bar down the freeway. The streets blur past in streaks of chrome and gray. Light rain slicks the asphalt, throwing back broken reflections of the city, headlights, ghosts, promises that died on contact.
By the time we hit the edge of Vernon, the air smells like ozone and gasoline. We park our bikes a mile back and head toward the warehouse on foot. The air stinks of rust, oil, and a setup. I can smell the trap before we see it.
Divine’s feed blinks red. Heat signatures: eight. Not friendly.
Divine’s feed overlays the map on my phone. Thermal blips moving in formation, converging around the warehouse cluster.
“Son of a bitch,” I mutter. “He’s already inside.”
Bones’ bike sits by the loading dock, keys still in the ignition. The fuel tank glints with bullet scars.
“Then we pull him out.”
“Rebel.”
“I said we pull him out, Bishop. I’m not leaving him there.”
“Then we move quietly.” My chest aches. The same loyalty that makes her unstoppable is the thing that’ll get her killed one day, and I hate that I love her for it.
And I’ll have to live with the fact that I love her for it.
Divine’s voice cuts in again, sharp as a blade. “Abort. I repeat, abort. The Vultures just switched signals. You’re heading into a kill box. They’ve got eyes on the yard and the rooftops. You go in, you won’t make it out.”
“Bones won’t make it out either,” Rebel fires back.
“Then you’d better get creative,” Divine snaps.
We creep along the wall, guns drawn, the world shrinking to heartbeat and breath. The door gives way to an empty corridor, a long, echoing tunnel lined with flickering lights. The kind of place men come to disappear.
We find Bones near the center, slumped against a steel drum, blood slick down his arm. He’s barely breathing.
“Bones!” Rebel drops beside him, voice breaking.
He opens one eye and offers her a faint grin. “Told you… to stay gone.”
She presses a hand to his wound. “And miss your dramatic suicide attempt? Not a chance.”
I sweep the corners. “Warehouse is compromised. We’ve got three minutes, tops.”
Bones coughs, spits blood. “They knew… I rerouted the funds. Used my signature… to bait her. They’re coming… for all of you.”
“Who?” I demand.
“Calloway Holdings,” he chokes. “Not me… the real one. Banker’s front. That’s where it starts.”
Rebel shakes her head, tears streaking through the grime. “You said you were protecting me.”
He nods weakly. “Still am.”
Sirens wail in the distance. Lights flash through the broken windows. Together, we lift Bones, and he hisses in pain. But he grits his teeth and keeps moving forward. Once we clear the warehouse, Bones points to a dumpster against a concrete wall.
“Put me over there.”
Rebel and I half-drag, half-carry him to the dumpster. The light rain is making everything slick. Bones’ blood-soaked hands are shaking as he pulls his cellphone out of his pocket.
“I’m good.” Bones says, waving his phone. “Backup’s coming.” He leans his head against the concrete wall and closes his eyes.
Engines roar in the distance, heading right for us. Divine’s voice cut through the comms. “You two need to get out now!”
I grab Rebel’s arm. “We have to go.”
She resists. “He’ll bleed out.”
“He’s already made peace with it.”
Bones catches my wrist, grip like iron, even half-dead. “You keep her breathing, Bishop. That’s your only damn job.”
Then he lets go.
The gunfire starts as we clear the alley. We run through rain and echoes, bullets chewing through concrete. I return fire, three quick bursts that drop the first two men through a hidden door. Rebel shoulders another aside, fury burning through fear.
By the time we reach the bikes, the warehouse is on fire, literally. Flames lick the broken rafters, painting the smog orange.
Rebel looks back once. “He was trying to save me.”
“Yeah,” I say, swinging onto my bike. “And now it’s our turn.”
We don’t talk for miles. Just engines and rain. By the time the city’s glow rises again, Bones’ voice is still in my head. Keep her breathing. The words pound like a heartbeat.
Rebel rides a few feet ahead, and every spray of water off her tires looks like smoke from a grave we dug too soon.
When we finally kill the engines outside Divine’s safehouse, she doesn’t move. Neither do I. She just stares at her reflection in a puddle until the rain distorts it.
“He knew he wasn’t coming back,” she says quietly.
“Yeah.”
She wipes her cheek with the back of her hand, smearing blood and rain. “Then why does it still feel like we left him?”
“Because we did.” That’s the truth neither of us will say again. We head inside without another word.
Two hours later, Divine’s safehouse looks like mission control for chaos. Monitors flicker with satellite feeds, encrypted logs, and the kind of numbers that make ordinary people pretend the world’s fair.
Divine types with fury. “Bones was right. Calloway Holdings is the core. They’re laundering through private investments of charity endowments, auctions, and one gala tonight hosted by their VP of financial compliance.”
“Where?” Rebel asks.
“Downtown. The Wilshire Regency Hotel.” Divine’s tone hardens. “Private ballroom on the twenty-third floor, networked to the executive suites by a service elevator. That’s your window.”
French whistles. “Well, sugar, you clean up better than most criminals I know.”
Rebel ignores her. “You think the banker’s files will prove the Vultures’ tie-in?”
“Not think,” Divine says. “Know. The access terminal’s in his suite. Physical entry only. No remote hacks.”
I exhale. “So we need badges, a cover, and an invitation.”
French grins. “Lucky for you, I know a guy who owes me for not leaking his sex tape.” She tosses two envelopes across the table. “Mr. and Mrs. Cavanaugh, investment consultants.”