21. Blade
BLADE
The room smells like bleach, sweat, and blood by the time Luise Salazar finally starts talking.
I sit across from him in the concrete interrogation room with my forearms resting loosely against my knees while Maddox leans against the wall near the drain in the floor.
The fluorescent light overhead flickers occasionally, throwing pale uneven shadows across Salazar’s face every few seconds.
He looked polished when Bishop and Viper dragged him out of Vegas three days ago.
Expensive watch. Tailored clothes. Perfect teeth.
Now he looks exhausted.
Good.
Salazar spits blood onto the concrete beside the chair before lifting his head again slowly. One eye is swollen nearly shut and there’s dried blood crusted along the side of his jaw where Maddox broke his nose earlier that morning.
“You people really are fucking animals.”
Maddox snorts quietly beside me. “That’s rich coming from Vegas.”
Salazar tries to laugh but immediately winces instead.
I study him calmly for another second before reaching for the folder beside me.
Bishop’s handwriting fills most of the pages now after three days of cross-checking phones, banking records, shipping manifests, burner accounts, and every digital footprint Salazar accidentally left behind.
“You work directly under Marquiese Denali,” I say evenly.
Salazar stays silent.
“Which means you’re either important enough to know what’s moving through Los Angeles this week,” I continue, “or important enough for Denali to notice when you disappear.”
That finally gets a reaction. A subtle one sure, but it’s there.
Maddox notices it too because his grin sharpens slightly before he pushes away from the wall. “There it is.”
Vegas has turned into a feeding ground since Vincenzo Gallo vanished and after everything with Tori, Joaquín, and the Wolves overall.
The biggest contender was originally Tori’s father.
But when that situation blew up, we hoped it would cripple them permanently.
Instead, Marquiese Denali, a distant Italian relative of the Gallos, stepped in and took over.
Salazar works under him. We’re not completely sure how close under, but we have guesses.
Unlike Gallo, Denali doesn’t pretend to be respectable. He isn’t old-money polished violence wrapped in tailored suits and charity dinners. He’s opportunistic brutality wearing expensive cologne, and men like that are unpredictable in ways that become dangerous quickly.
Salazar’s jaw tightens immediately. “Fuck you.”
“You wish you could,” Maddox says casually.
I flip another page in the folder while keeping my voice level. “Denali’s consolidating routes left behind after Gallo disappeared. He’s working with Bratva contacts now. Joquain too from what we can tell.”
Suddenly, Maddox crouches in front of Salazar, resting his forearms across his thighs while staring at him calmly. “Here’s the problem, Luise. You’re acting like this is still Vegas and somebody important’s coming for you.”
Salazar sneers weakly. “They are.”
“No,” Maddox promises with an eerie softness. “They’re really not.”
Silence stretches again. I finally close the folder before standing slowly. Salazar watches me carefully now, finally understanding that the conversation portion of this interrogation is ending.
“You know,” I say mildly, “I actually hate this part.”
Maddox looks offended. “I don’t.”
“I know.”
Salazar shifts slightly against the restraints. “Go fuck yourselves.”
Maddox sighs dramatically before glancing toward me. “See? This is why people think I’m the friendly one.”
An hour later Salazar is bloody and missing pieces I deemed unnecessary to survival. He gives us the shipment location. Another twenty minutes gets us routes.
By the time he finally breaks completely, there’s enough information bleeding across Bishop’s monitors upstairs to match the blood flowing onto our floor down here.
The clubhouse is thrown into action as we plan for what is coming next.
We have less than forty-eight hours before a weapons exchange tied into drug movement crosses inland Nevada routes, and every piece of intel points toward possible Bratva involvement alongside another potential connection to Joaquín.
Every day the situation grows bloodier, heavier, and more dangerous than the one before it.
I leave Maddox finishing cleanup downstairs while I head toward Stryker’s office with blood still drying across my knuckles.
The hallway outside the interrogation wing buzzes with movement despite the late hour.
Prospects haul boxes through corridors from earlier raids and some members sit gathered near the common room discussing next steps.
I ignore all of that and make my way to Stryker’s office.
Inside, the mood feels sharper. Maps cover the table now beside open laptops and printed shipping manifests.
Near the corner desk setup, Bishop types rapidly.
Viper leans back in one chair with a bruise darkening along the side of his jaw from Vegas while Trace, Ryder, and Mac crowd around the map table.
Too many organizations moving independently would already be a problem. The possibility they’re beginning to cooperate makes everything exponentially worse.
“So the shipment converges in Los Angeles.” Stryker stops talking, and they all look up at me as I close the door behind me. “Did he give any more information.”
“All he knows is that the shipment has weapons, drugs, and something ‘very precious’ to the Bratva.” I shrug. “He doesn’t know what the precious thing is. Not high enough clearance apparently.”
Stryker drags one hand down his beard slowly before nodding toward the maps. “Okay so regardless of what that thing is, we intercept in LA before it moves inland and disappears.”
“Flying’s a bad idea,” Bishop cuts in without looking up from the screens. “Too much digital tracking right now. Banking activity’s already throwing flags in three states.”
Viper grunts quietly. “Driving then.”
“Safer,” Bishop agrees.
Trace taps one location on the map. “We know arrival point?”
“Warehouse district near Vernon,” Bishop answers. “Partial confirmation from Salazar’s phone.”
Ryder exhales slowly. “That area is a fucking maze.”
“Which is why we go in with only a handful of you,” Stryker instructs firmly. “We need the team to go in quiet and fast. You know the bastards up there do not play. I doubt they know about the Bratva involvement. But either way, nobody starts a war in LA unless absolutely necessary.”
Viper huffs a laugh. “That instruction feels optimistic.”
“It’s still an instruction.”
The room settles into logistics after that as everyone starts working through vehicles, weapons, travel routes, and backup communication plans in case the lines go dark again.
I mostly listen while mentally organizing supplies already, running through medical kits, ammunition counts, burn bags, and emergency extraction routes if the shipment turns out larger than expected.
Eventually Stryker points toward me. “You’re lead on field triage.”
“Obviously.”
“Bishop handles tech.”
Bishop salutes lazily without looking up.
“Trace, Ryder, Mac with you.”
Viper straightens slightly. “I’m staying?”
“You and me stay here,” Stryker decides allowed. “Clubhouse is stretched thin already.”
Several of the men start standing almost immediately after that. Chairs scrape against concrete while conversations splinter into smaller groups handling separate preparations downstairs.
Bishop keeps muttering to himself while collecting laptops and burner phones off the table, and Mac argues with Trace about route timing all the way out the door. Within minutes the war room empties until only the three of us remain around the maps and scattered paperwork.
Stryker catches my eye briefly across the table before nodding once. “You heading to Nora’s before you pack?”
“I told her I’d warn her if I left town again.”
Viper immediately points at me. “See? Emotional accountability.”
“You’re unbearable.”
“Correct.”
Stryker waves us both off before leaning over the maps again. “Leave in six hours.”
The meeting breaks shortly afterward.
I shower first.
The hot water runs nearly scalding against my shoulders while diluted blood spirals down the drain beneath me. My knuckles ache faintly now that the adrenaline’s worn off, but not enough to matter. Outside the small bathroom attached to my pod room, the clubhouse remains active despite the hour.
A full building adjusting around too many people and not enough space.
By the time I finish dressing again, exhaustion settles deeper beneath my ribs than I initially realized. Black thermal shirt. Jeans. Damp hair pushed back from my face.
Then before I can overthink it, I grab my keys and head for Nora’s house The drive feels quieter than usual this late at night.
Black Rock mostly sleeps after ten except for scattered bars and truck routes cutting through the highway edges. Nora’s porch light glows softly by the time I pull into the driveway, warm against the dark property.
I knock once. A few seconds later the door opens, and every coherent thought in my head immediately scatters.
Nora blinks up at me sleepily from beneath loose blonde hair, wearing an oversized shirt that slips off one shoulder enough to expose pale skin beneath the porch light.
Bare legs. Bare feet. Soft exhaustion still visible across her face like she’d already settled in for the night before I interrupted it.
“Blade?”
My eyes flick back up to her face quickly. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You didn’t.” She glances behind me briefly before focusing back on me. “What are you doing here this late?”
“I have to leave town tonight.”
Her expression shifts immediately.
“For work?”
“Yeah.”
She steps back automatically. “Come inside.”