Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
Bravos
I wake up alone.
Not a surprise—I felt her leave sometime around three AM.
The bed shifted, cool air rushed in where her body had been pressed against mine, and then the quiet sound of her gathering clothes in the dark.
I didn't stop her.
Didn't ask her to stay.
That's not what last night was about.
Except—
I stare at the ceiling of my temporary room at the Raiders of Valhalla compound, watching early morning light filter through the blackout curtains, and try to convince myself that's true.
That last night was just another hookup with another woman I'd never see again.
But my chest feels tight in a way it hasn't in eighteen years.
Not since the fire.
Not since I learned that feeling anything—wanting anything—just means more to lose when it burns.
"Fuck," I mutter, swinging my legs out of bed.
The room's too quiet. Too still. The kind of silence that lets memories creep in through the cracks.
Her hands in my hair.
The way she kissed like she was trying to forget something.
How her dead eyes came alive when I touched her, mirroring something in me that I thought died with my family.
I shake it off.
Shower. Dress. Check my weapons—Glock on my hip, backup on my ankle, knife in my boot.
The ritual is grounding. Familiar.
This is who I am. A Nomad. A negotiator. Someone who doesn't stay.
Someone who definitely doesn't get tangled up with women whose real names he doesn't even know.
Hell.
That's all she gave me.
A nickname, a fake identity, probably one of many.
Smart girl.
I should follow her lead.
Forget last night happened.
Focus on why I'm here.
The alliance. Los Coyotes. Keeping my club safe.
Not the way she felt under my hands. Not the sound she made when—
Stop.
I grab my cut, shrug it on. The leather settles familiar across my shoulders, the Shotgun Saints patches a reminder of who I represent.
The meeting's at ten which means I've got an hour to get my head straight.
The clubhouse is already buzzing when I head downstairs.
Members moving with purpose, phones ringing, the kind of controlled chaos that happens before important shit goes down.
I catch pieces of conversation as I pass—weapons inventory, perimeter checks, someone arguing about the best route to wherever Los Coyotes are holding their prisoners.
The chapel is on the main floor, down the hall from the main room.
Heavy oak door, reinforced. Norse carvings all over it, that Viking aesthetic they've built their identity around. Runes and ravens and warrior shit.
Inside, it's surprisingly professional.
Long table, leather chairs, flags on the wall—American, Florida, the Raiders of Valhalla patch blown up to poster size. A projector screen at one end, clearly used for presentations.
Their table is carved with Nordic symbols as well. I heard Magnus carves wood, so likely he designed this piece.
These boys run tight.
Runes is already there, talking quietly with Fenrir, the VP.
Silver hair, sharp eyes, the kind of guy who's seen everything and survived it all.
A third man sits at the far end.
Younger than Runes and Fenrir, maybe late forties, with the build of someone who's spent serious time in prison.
Covered in ink, scarred knuckles, dead eyes that match mine.
Damon. Reapers Rejects MC, Las Vegas charter.
"Bravos." Runes nods at me. "Coffee's there if you want it. We're waiting on a few more people, then we'll start."
I pour myself a cup—black, strong enough to strip paint—and take a seat halfway down the table.
Neutral territory. Not presuming to sit at the head, but not relegating myself to the foot either.
Damon eyes me across the table. "Heard good things about you. Phantom's got a reputation for choosing his people well."
"Phantom's got a reputation for a lot of things," I say evenly.
Damon's mouth quirks. "That he does. Especially with Runes here."
Runes's jaw tightens, but he doesn't take the bait. "Ancient history. We're here for Los Coyotes, not to rehash old shit."
"Agreed," I say.
The door opens again.
A woman enters—late forties, beautiful in that way that says she was stunning twenty years ago and time hasn't changed that much.
Dark hair starting to silver, lines around her eyes that speak to worry more than age.
She's carrying herself with the kind of exhausted grace that comes from holding it together by sheer force of will.
Behind her, two younger women.
One dark-haired, built lean and hard, with eyes that assess the room automatically.
The other—
Blonde curls. Deep brown eyes. Racing leathers replaced by jeans and a tank top, but I'd know her anywhere.
Hell.
My hand tightens on my coffee cup.
What the fuck is she doing here?
"Everyone, this is Starla," Runes says, gesturing to the older woman. "Ivar's ol' lady. And these are his daughters—Elfe and Helle."
Daughters.
The word hits like a fist to the gut.
Hell—Helle—is Ivar's daughter.
Raiders of Valhalla royalty.
The Road Captain's youngest.
And I fucked her in the alley and in my room last night while she made sounds that—
Stop. Focus.
Helle won't look at me.
She's staring at the table, at the wall, anywhere but where I'm sitting.
Her jaw is tight, hands clenched at her sides.
She knows this is bad.
Knows exactly how complicated this just got.
"Helle's here because she has information that might help us," Runes continues. "A few years back, she dated a Los Coyotes prospect. Andrés Medina."
Everything clicks into place.
The guilt in her eyes.
The way she said "you have no idea" when I called her trouble.
The dead look that matches mine.
She didn't just date a cartel member.
She was the leak.
The one who unknowingly fed information to Los Coyotes that nearly destroyed her family.
No wonder she ran. No wonder she's been hiding in Texas under a fake name, racing bikes like she's got a death wish.
"Los Coyotes took Ivar because they believe he killed Andrés," Fenrir says, taking over the briefing. "Retaliation for the intel gathering operation. They want justice—someone to pay for their dead prospect. Until they get it, they'll keep torturing Ivar. Keep sending us threats."
Starla flinches at that. Elfe puts a hand on her mother's shoulder.
Helle still won't look up.
"Our options are limited," Runes says. "We can try to negotiate—offer them something else, someone else, anything to get Ivar back alive. Or we can go to war. Hit them hard enough they have to release him or risk losing everything."
"War's expensive," Damon says. "In men and money. But I didn't come here to negotiate with terrorists. I came here to plan how we're going to eradicate these motherfuckers once and for all."
"Agreed," Fenrir says. "But we need intelligence first. We need to know where they're holding him, how many men, what kind of security."
"That's where Helle comes in." Runes looks at her. "Tell them what you told us. About Andrés."
She finally looks up.
Her eyes are haunted. Guilty.
And when they land on me for half a second before skittering away, I see something else.
Fear.
"I dated him for three months," she says quietly. "Met him in sociology class at FSU. He said his name was Andrew. Andrew Martin. Said he was from Miami, studying business. We went on dates. Normal stuff—movies, restaurants, study sessions."
Her voice is flat. Reciting facts like they're happening to someone else.
"I didn't know he was Los Coyotes. Didn't know he was using me. He asked questions—casual ones, I thought. About my family, about the club, about... things." She swallows hard. "I answered them. Because I trusted him. Because I thought he loved me."
The room is silent.
"He was gathering intel," she continued. "About shipments, about the cabin, about club operations. Using everything I told him. When Vanir traced the leak back to me, when Dad found out..." She trails off. "I left. That night. Went away and I haven't been back until now."
"The question is," Fenrir says, "what do you remember about him? Where he lived, who he mentioned, habits, anything that might tell us about Los Coyotes operations?"
Helle closes her eyes briefly. "He lived off campus. A house on Gaines Street, shared it with two other guys. He mentioned family in Juarez. A cousin who worked in 'import-export'—I didn't think anything of it at the time. He drove a black Ford F-150, always had cash, never used cards."
She's rattling off details like she's memorized them.
Like she's thought about this every day for three years.
"He got phone calls at weird hours. Always stepped away to take them, spoke Spanish. I picked up a few words—'producto,' 'envío,' 'el jefe.' Product, shipment, the boss." She opens her eyes. "He mentioned Sharp once. Said he was going to Texas for a business opportunity."
I tense.
Sharp. Where the Shotgun Saints are based.
"Did he say what kind of business?" Runes asks.
"No. But he was gone for two weeks. Came back with more money than usual." She looks at her mother. "That was right before everything fell apart. Right before Vanir figured out I was the leak."
So Andrés was scoping out Shotgun Saints territory three years ago.
This runs deeper than I thought.
"Anything else?" Damon asks. "Friends, contacts, anything?"
"Once I walked in while he was on the phone. He switched to English quick, but I heard a name—Sebastián. And the way he said it, there was fear in his voice. Real fear. I asked who it was and he said 'nobody, just work stuff.' I didn't push it."
She looks uncomfortable. "I looked up the name later, after everything fell apart. After I knew what he really was. Sebastián Salazar. El Azote. The Scourge." She shivers slightly. "Andrés was scared of him even back then."
"Fuck," Damon mutters. "So Andrés knew Sebastián was coming. Was probably reporting to him even then."
"Which means Sebastián's been planning this takeover for years," Fenrir says. "Miguel wasn't even sick yet, and Sebastián was already positioning himself."
The pieces are falling into place.