23. Rebel
REBEL
The first three days after my capture and escape blur into sleep, stitches, and silence. Carter barely leaves my side.
The Clubhouse smells like antiseptic and oil, and the soft hum of Divine’s computers bleeds through the walls. Every time I wake, Carter is here. Either patching my shoulder, checking my pulse, or just watching me breathe, like if he looks away, I’ll vanish again.
On the second night, I find him half-dozing in the chair beside my bed, his head tipped back, jaw shadowed in exhaustion. The scar across his arm catches the lamplight. He looks like a man who’s been through hell and found a reason to crawl back out just for me.
“Carter,” I whisper.
His eyes open immediately. “You need something?”
“You. In the bed. You look worse than me.”
He hesitates. “You sure?”
“Get in here before I change my mind.”
He exhales, the sound almost a laugh, and slips under the blanket beside me. The warmth between us is quiet and unspoken. My hand finds his chest, fingers brushing the rough edge of a bandage. His heart beats steady under my palm. Proof that after everything, he’s still here.
We don’t talk at first. Just breathe.
Then, softly, he says, “You scared the hell out of me.”
“I scare everyone eventually.”
“Not like that.” He turns his head, eyes searching mine. “I thought I lost you, Rebel. That kind of fear… It’s worse than bleeding.”
Something in his voice cracks me open. I press my forehead to his shoulder. “I don’t do good with being saved.”
“I didn’t save you,” he murmurs. “You survived. I just caught the echo.”
The words hang between us, heavy and beautiful.
I tilt his face toward mine. “You’re too good at this.”
“Too good at what?”
“Making me feel things I’ve buried under bullets and ledgers.”
He smirks, soft and broken. “Guess I’ll keep digging.”
When he kisses me, it’s slow. It’s not about survival this time, but a promise. His hands are gentle, reverent, tracing along my scars like they’re scripture. The room fades away until it’s just us, the heartbeat between breaths, the taste of salt and safety.
When he pulls back, his voice goes low. “I love you, Rebel Slade.”
The words stop me cold. Not because I don’t feel them, but because I do. Because I’ve been afraid to.
“Say it again,” I whisper.
“I love you.”
I nod once, my throat tight. “Then you should know you’re stuck with me, because I love you too.”
His smile is small, real. “About damn time.”
We stay like that until dawn creeps across the blinds, turning the walls gold. For a few fragile hours, there’s peace.
But peace never lasts.
By the fourth day, I’m moving again. The bruises have turned from purple to yellow, and the ache in my ribs has dulled to something manageable. The clubhouse hums with movement. Guns cleaned, ammo loaded, engines tuned for war.
Bones showed up two nights ago, silent as a ghost. He didn’t say where he’d been, only that Syvannah’s safe at the Royal Bastards’ compound. Every instinct in me screams not to trust him, but Carter insists he’s earned a sliver of faith.
Still, I watch him from across the table now as Allura lays out the plan, my hand wrapped around a mug of coffee gone cold.
“Vultures have three major laundering hubs left,” Divine reports, tapping her screen. “One in East L.A., one outside Barstow, one in the basin. We hit all three. Same hour. No warning.”
Allura nods. “The goal isn’t just to burn them. It’s to take back what’s ours.”
Sloane grins, cracking her knuckles. “Always did like fireworks.”
“Just make sure the show counts,” Allura warns.
Bones leans back in his chair. “I’ve got blueprints on the Barstow site. It’s built like a fortress, but it’s vulnerable from underneath with drainage tunnels that lead straight to the vault room.”
“Funny how you know that,” I retort.
He meets my stare evenly. “Because I built the route when I was laundering for them. Thought you’d rather have intel than explanations.”
Carter’s hand slides to mine under the table, grounding me before I do something stupid.
Allura cuts in, voice like a blade. “We’ll use it. Raven, Sloane, and Bones, you take Barstow. French, Iris, and I will handle East L.A. Rebel, Carter, and Calypso, you’re with Divine on the basin hub. We strike at midnight.”
“Copy,” I answer, already tasting smoke.
The desert hums electric at midnight. Engines idle low, headlights off. The basin compound squats against the horizon, a maze of shipping containers and steel offices. Every light inside burns dirty yellow.
“Divine, you in position?” I whisper into comms.
“Copy. Cameras looped. Thirty seconds before the alarm notices.”
“Let’s make it count.”
Carter cuts through the lock with a silenced saw, and we slip inside. The air reeks of chemicals and cash. Racks of servers hum beside crates marked with false logos. I move straight to the central terminal. Divine’s code floods the screen.
“Got eyes,” she says. “You’ve got five minutes before their failsafe fries the data.”
“Plenty,” I mutter.
The files spill open like veins. Bank routes, shell corporations, names. And there, at the bottom, buried in encrypted text, a familiar tag: ASlade.
Alex’s signature.
My pulse stutters. “Carter.”
He’s beside me in a second. I point. “He found this first. That’s why they killed him.”
Carter’s eyes narrow. “You sure?”
“Positive. They buried his work inside their own files. He tried to expose them.”
Divine’s voice crackles. “Rebel, we’ve got incoming. You need to pull the plug.”
I yank the final hard drive from the port, heart hammering. The alarms scream to life. Red lights flood the room.
“Go!” Carter barks.
We sprint through the compound as the walls shake. Explosions ripple in the distance. Raven and Sloane are lighting up Barstow, French’s team torching East L.A. Flames climb the horizon, painting the night red.
Carter drags me behind an armored van just as another blast rocks the ground. The shockwave knocks us both flat. I clutch the hard drive to my chest.
“Tell me you got it,” he gasps.
“I got it.”
“Then let’s finish this.”
We reach the outer fence as gunfire erupts behind us. Bones’ voice cuts in over comms: “Barstow’s clear. Vault blown. Funds transferred. Allura’s orders are complete.”
I toss the drive to Divine through the van window. “Upload everything to federal servers. Let them choke on their own paper trail.”
Divine grins through the smoke. “Copy that.”
Carter grabs my hand. “What about the rest?”
I pull a Zippo from my pocket and strike it against the van’s steel. “We torch it.”
He doesn’t argue. Together we watch as the fire spreads, crawling across the stolen money, the servers, the lies. The flames roar high, devouring everything the Vultures built.
When it’s done, there’s nothing left but smoke and ruin. The comms crackle alive with cheers, ragged laughter, the kind that sounds like victory and grief all at once.
Allura’s voice cuts through it, steady. “All hubs destroyed. Every cent reclaimed or burned. The Vultures are done.”
Carter turns to me, soot streaking his cheek. “You did it.”
“No,” I say softly, looking at the fire. “Alex did. I just finished what he started.”
He pulls me close, pressing his forehead to mine. “He’d be proud.”
I nod, the ache in my chest sharp and hollow. “Let’s go home.”
As we walk back toward the bikes, the horizon glows behind us. Three fires burning in the dark, our vengeance written in smoke.
Justice served.
Vengeance complete.
But peace? Peace is still a ghost that doesn’t know my name.