Chapter 20 #2
Carter glances in the rearview mirror, scanning the road behind us. “No tails. Divine’s ghosting our GPS, but I’d bet money they’re still tracking something.”
“Then they can track smoke,” I mutter. “We’ll burn the trail when we leave.”
The farmhouse rises from the desert like a memory. Torch and Knight stand by the fence line, armed and alert. Capone’s leaning on his Harley, phone to his ear, cigarette in his other hand. He hangs up as we pull in.
“Took you long enough,” he says, flicking the smoke into the dirt. “Everything good?”
I open the back door, adjusting Levi’s weight in my arms. “Yeah. He’s good. Tired.”
Capone looks at the boy, and his usual scowl fades to something gentler. “He’s got Alex’s eyes.”
“Don’t I know it,” I murmur.
He nods once toward the porch. “Calypso’s inside. Farris too. The place is locked down tight. Bastards will run guard in shifts until you say otherwise.”
Inside, the farmhouse hums with quiet chaos.
The women from the tunnels are spread across the front room, settling on worn couches and patched quilts.
Calypso’s perched on the edge of a chair, pale but steady, Annabelle asleep in her lap.
Farris kneels beside her, checking her pulse while keeping an eye on the window.
Calypso spots us first. Her face softens into something fragile and real. “Is that him?”
“Levi,” I say softly. “Alex’s boy.”
Her eyes shine. “He’s beautiful.”
Levi blinks awake, peering around, small fingers tightening in my shirt. “Where are we?”
“Safehouse,” I tell him. “These are friends.”
Farris rises, extending a hand. “Hey, champ. You like animals?”
Levi nods shyly. Farris grins. “Good. We’ve got a barn full of ’em out back. Goats, chickens, even an old mule named Roscoe who hates everyone equally.”
That earns the first real smile from Levi, small but bright. I hand him over carefully, and Farris leads him toward the door, promising a grand tour.
Calypso watches them go, then looks up at me. “He’s the spitting image of Alex.”
I nod, jaw tight. “Yeah. Hurts like hell to see it.”
“You’re doing right by him,” she says. “That’s what matters.”
Carter returns from outside, voice clipped. “Perimeter’s clear. Capone’s men are rotating watch in pairs. Knight and Torch on first shift.”
“Good,” I reply, glancing toward the window where dusk bleeds into a dull orange haze. “We’ll leave once the night settles. Allura needs us back.”
Calypso frowns. “You sure? You could stay the night.”
“Can’t.” I glance toward the sleeping women. “They need a calm I can’t give. My fight’s back in L.A.”
She nods, understanding. “Then go raise hell.”
Outside, the night hums alive. Capone walks us to the SUV, helmet dangling from his fingers. “We’ll hold the line here. Any Vulture truck that crosses this fence won’t make it to sunrise.”
“I’m counting on that,” I say, gripping his forearm. “Keep them safe.”
He smirks. “Always do. Give Allura my best, and tell her to save me a seat at the next bloodbath.”
Carter chuckles low. “You got it.”
As Calypso, Carter and I pull away, our headlights cut across the open land, and I glance back at the farmhouse. Torch’s silhouette stands guard near the gate, cigarette ember pulsing like a heartbeat. Farris lingers on the porch, Annabelle now awake, tiny arms waving as we disappear into the dark.
By the time we roll back through the Harlots’ gates, the desert’s given way to nightfall. The Royal Bastards remain at the farmhouse, standing guard over the evacuees. The sky above L.A. glows the color of steel, and the air smells like burnt rubber and a storm that never comes.
The clubhouse hums low and grim. Divine’s code still flashes across the upper windows, ghost-light spilling through the blinds. Inside, boots echo against the concrete. Everyone looks tired, wired, ready.
Allura’s waiting by the table when we walk in, hands flat, expression carved from stone. The copper rim of the table gleams under the overhead light like blood under glass.
“Church,” she says. Her voice doesn’t rise. It doesn’t need to. “Now.”
The room fills fast. Boots, cuts, tension thick enough to chew. The copper-etched table gleams beneath the hanging light, every name around it catching the glow like scripture. Proof of who we are and what we’ve survived.
Allura stands at her seat, shoulders squared, black eyeliner sharp as a blade. “Lock the doors,” she orders. Raven and Sloane move instantly. The heavy thud of steel meeting frame seals us in.
French slides into her seat beside me, still half-dressed in a tank and grease-streaked jeans, eyes wild but alive.
Divine takes the opposite side, tablet under one arm, exhaustion carved deep into her face.
Calypso and Farris made it back just after us.
She’s pale but upright, Annabelle asleep in the office down the hall.
Allura waits until the room settles, then speaks.
“We lost the accounts. Every shell, every offshore tie, every cent. Divine and Carter stopped the infiltration, but the damage is done.” Her gaze cuts through us like smoke.
“They didn’t just take our money, they took our name. They came for our purpose.”
Divine sets her tablet on the table, screensaver pulsing like a heartbeat. “I traced part of the signal before it died. It came from south of the border. Same subnet the Vultures used before they merged with the Cartel’s comm line. This wasn’t random, it was coordinated.”
Sloane mutters a curse. “So the Cartel’s back in bed with them.”
“Not just back,” Divine answers grimly. “They’re building something bigger. Moving people, weapons, and digital currency through shell charities, including the ones we fund.”
French drums her nails against the table. “So they used us as a front. Nice.”
“Not for long,” Raven says, voice low. “We burn them down.”
Allura nods. “That’s why we’re here. We’ve got two options. Fight or flee.” No one breathes. No one blinks.
Then French laughs, low and dangerous. “You already know the answer, Prez.”
Allura looks around the table. “Vote’s on the floor. Fight or flee. Hands up for fight.”
Every hand rises. Mine’s first.
Allura’s mouth lifts at one corner. “Unanimous. We fight.”
Sloane cracks her knuckles. “Finally, something that makes sense.”
Calypso leans forward, voice quiet but lethal. “Then let’s make it hurt.”
Allura nods. “We’ll need intel, we’ll need resources, and we’ll need leverage.
Divine’s running dark servers to rebuild our system, Raven’s setting up new drop points, and the Royal Bastards are holding the evacuees at the farmhouse.
” She pauses, gaze hardening. “But to draw them out, we need bait.”
The word drops like a blade. I know before anyone says it. “I’ll do it.”
Carter stiffens beside me. “Like hell you will.”
I meet his stare head-on. “They want me. They’ve got a price on my head. That makes me leverage. We can use it.”
“Allura,” Carter growls. “You can’t let her walk into a trap.”
Allura’s voice is steady. “She’s not walking in blind. She’ll have coverage.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Carter snaps. “She’s the target.”
I rise to my feet, palms braced on the table. “Exactly. You can’t fight shadows if you don’t give them something to chase. We let them see me. Let them think they’ve won, then we gut their operation from the inside out.”
French whistles low. “Girl’s got fire and suicide in equal measure.”
Sloane leans forward, eyes sharp. “You don’t get to die today,” she warns. “You hear me? You go in, you get what we need, and you come back breathing.”
“Copy that,” I say, voice steadier than it feels.
Sloane smirks faintly. “Good. ’Cause if you don’t, I’m bringing you back just to kill you myself.”
Laughter ripples around the table, short, bitter, real. It’s the sound of women sharpening their edges.
Allura straightens. “We go full lockdown tonight. French, Raven, you’re on recon. Divine, keep the lines clean. Sloane, prep the safe routes in and out of the city. Calypso, Farris, monitor the farmhouse and stay ready to move the evacuees if shit shifts.”
Carter stands, hands planted on the table, voice low but firm. “I’m going with her.”
Allura arches a brow. “That’s not up for…”
“It is,” he cuts in. “You need a second gun. Someone who knows how they think. Someone who can shoot straight if it goes to hell.”
Allura studies him for a long beat. “You sure you’re not in this for something else, soldier?”
His jaw tightens. “Maybe I am. Doesn’t change the fact that I’m the best shot you’ve got.”
Allura finally nods. “Fine. You’re her shadow. You don’t step out from it, not once.”
He glances at me, eyes dark, intent. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Sloane leans back, a hint of a grin breaking through the steel. “Looks like we’ve got our bait and her bodyguard. Let’s make sure it’s worth the blood.”
Allura lifts her chin. “Then it’s settled. The Royal Harlots are going to war.”
The words settle like a vow. No music. No roar of engines. Just the hum of purpose winding through the room, sharp and holy.
We all rise. Jackets creak. Boots scrape. The scent of leather, gun oil, and determination fills the air. The table between us gleams with reflected firelight from the candles Allura lights one by one. Ritual, remembrance, promise.
She sets the final match down. “For the ones we lost,” she murmurs. “And for the ones they’ll never take.”
Sloane’s hand finds mine under the table, squeezes once. French’s smirk fades into something fierce. Calypso exhales, a small prayer under her breath. Carter watches me like I’m already halfway gone.
“Tomorrow,” Allura says, voice low and steady, “we take back everything they stole.”
I nod once, leather creaking at my shoulders. “And we make ’em choke on the ashes.”
Outside, the desert hums with heat and the low thrum of waiting engines.
War’s coming. And this time, we don’t brace for fire. We light it.