Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
Bravos
She's gone in thirty seconds.
I gun the Harley the moment her taillight disappears around the first turn, but it's like chasing a ghost.
Her Kawasaki Ninja is built for speed—light, agile, made for exactly what she does.
Racing. Winning. Disappearing.
My Road King is built for distance and comfort, not this.
And she's a professional.
By the time I hit the main road, there's nothing.
No lights. No sound except my own engine and the wind tearing at my cut.
I lean into the first curve, pushing the bike harder than I should on roads I don't know.
The Harley protests—it's heavy, built for cruising, not racing—but I don't let up.
She went north. I'm sure of it. North toward the border, toward Los Coyotes territory.
Toward her death.
I ride for ten minutes before I have to admit it.
I lost her.
"Fuck!"
I pull over on the shoulder, gravel crunching under my tires, and kill the engine.
The silence is immediate and suffocating.
Just me and the dark and the empty Florida highway stretching in both directions like it goes on forever.
What the fuck am I doing?
I should turn around and go back to the compound.
I should tell Runes that Ivar's daughter just went on a suicide mission and let him handle it.
That's my job.
That's why I'm here—to negotiate an alliance, represent the Shotgun Saints, stay professional.
Not chase after women I barely know.
Women I slept with once.
Women who should mean nothing to me.
Yet, my hands are shaking on the handlebars.
I haven't felt this way in eighteen years.
Not since the fire.
Not since I stood outside my burning house at fifteen years old, held back by neighbors while my family burned alive inside.
My parents.
My two little sisters—seven and nine years old, their whole lives ahead of them.
I could hear them screaming.
I couldn't get to them.
I couldn't save them.
I learned something that night that I've never forgotten: caring about people just means more to lose when everything burns.
So, I stopped caring.
I became a Nomad.
I kept moving and never stayed anywhere long enough to build attachments, to let anyone matter.
It worked.
For eighteen years, it worked.
Until a blonde girl with dead eyes and a death wish looked at me across a bar and woke something I thought died with my sisters.
"Goddammit."
I pull out my phone.
There’s no signal out here—rural Florida is a cellular dead zone, but I don't need to call anyone yet.
I need to think.
Where would she go?
Los Coyotes territory.
That much is obvious, but where specifically?
They're not going to keep Ivar at their main base in Mexico.
Too far, too much risk moving him across international borders every time they want to send back pieces.
They'd want him somewhere closer.
Somewhere isolated where they could do their work without interference.
A safehouse.
I remember something that was mentioned— that Los Coyotes had operations on the Florida-Georgia border.
Rural area, isolated, perfect for the kind of shit they do.
That's where Ivar is.
That's where she's going.
I pull up the GPS on my phone.
No signal, but I downloaded offline maps before I left Texas.
Old habit from years of riding through places where cell towers don't exist.
The border is about two hours north.
If I'm right.
If I'm wrong, she's already dead and I'm chasing ghosts.
I start the bike and head out.
The ride feels endless.
Every mile, I'm arguing with myself.
Turn around. This isn't your fight. She made her choice. Let her deal with the consequences.
You're here for the alliance. For Phantom. For the Shotgun Saints.
Not for some girl who lied about her name and fucked you once.
But my hands keep the throttle twisted. My body keeps leaning into curves. And I keep riding north.
Past midnight.
Past exhaustion.
Past the point where rational thought exists.
My back aches from hours in the saddle—I rode ten hours from Texas yesterday, and now I've been riding for hours today.
My hands are numb, my ass is screaming, and I'm running on nothing but adrenaline and something I don't want to name.
Something that feels dangerously like caring.
The highway is empty.
Just me and the broken white line and the darkness pressing in from all sides.
I think about my sisters.
Emma and Claire.
Seven and nine when they died.
Would be twenty-five and twenty-seven now if they'd lived.
Would have lives, maybe families, maybe happiness.
Instead they're ash and memory and the reason I can't stay anywhere.
I was supposed to protect them.
That's what big brothers do.
But I wasn't home that night.
Was out with friends, being a stupid teenager, thinking I had all the time in the world.
Came back to flames and sirens and the smell of burning wood and burning flesh.
Never got to say goodbye.
Never got to save them.
The guilt's been with me for eighteen years.
A weight I carry everywhere, pressing down on my chest until some days it's hard to breathe.
Maybe that's why I can't turn around now.
Because Helle's someone's sister too.
Elfe's sister, and if I let her die when I could've stopped it—I push the bike faster.
I hit the border area around two AM.
It's exactly what I expected—rural, isolated, nothing but farms and woods and the occasional house set back from the road.
The kind of place where you can scream and nobody hears.
Perfect for a cartel safehouse.
The problem is finding it.
I pull into a gas station—the only one for miles, harsh fluorescent lights cutting through the darkness.
There's a signal here, finally.
Three missed calls from Runes.
Two from Fenrir.
One text from Elfe:
Please find her. Please.
I ignore the calls and pull up satellite maps, looking for properties that match what Los Coyotes would want.
Isolated but accessible. Big enough to hold prisoners and guards. Maintained but not obvious.
There.
Five miles west, off a dirt road.
Property listed as "abandoned farm" in county records, but the satellite images show recent tire tracks, maintained access roads, vehicles.
Someone's using it.
That has to be it.
I call Runes.
He answers on the first ring. "Where the fuck are you?"
"Florida-Georgia border. About five miles from where I think Los Coyotes are holding Ivar."
He’s silent at first, then grits out. "Explain. Now."
"Helle ran. She's planning to turn herself in—trade her life for her father's." I'm already back on the bike, engine rumbling to life. "I followed her. Lost her on the highway, but I figured out where she's going."
"And you didn't think to tell us this before you went rogue?"
"No time. She's fast, and she had a head start. But I need backup—now. I can't wait for you to get here, but I'm going to need help getting Ivar out."
I can hear him thinking, calculating odds and outcomes.
"Fenrir's already mobilizing a team," Runes says finally. "Damon's sending men too. We can be there in ninety minutes. Maybe less if we push it."
"She might not have ninety minutes."
"Then don't let them kill her before we get there." His voice is hard, but there's something underneath it. Fear. "But Bravos? You go in there alone against eight or ten cartel soldiers, you're probably dead too. So be smart. Be patient if you can."
"I'll try."
"And Bravos? Bring my niece home alive."
I hang up before he can say anything else.
Before he can order me to wait.
Because I know myself well enough to know I won't.
The property is exactly what I thought it would be.
Old farmhouse, faded white paint peeling in strips. A barn that's seen better decades. A few outbuildings that look like they're held together by rust and prayer.
All of it looks abandoned.
Except for the new chain-link fence surrounding the property.
The security cameras mounted on posts.
And the three vehicles parked near the barn—two trucks and an SUV, all black, all with Mexican plates.
Helle's Kawasaki is parked by the house, leaning on its kickstand like she just ran inside.
She's in there.
Right now.
With Los Coyotes.
I ditch my bike a quarter mile back, hidden in the trees where it won't be seen and approach on foot, moving quietly, using the darkness and the tree line for cover.
My Glock is in my hand.
Backup piece is ready on my ankle.
Knife in my boot.
I've got maybe forty rounds total between both weapons—not enough if there's an army inside, but it'll have to do.
The perimeter is quiet.
One guard by the front door, smoking a cigarette and looking bored.
Another near the barn, doing a lazy patrol with his rifle slung over his shoulder.
Sloppy security.
They're not expecting company.
That's going to work in my favor.
I circle around to the back of the house, staying low, staying quiet.
There's a window partially open—probably for ventilation in the Florida heat that doesn't quit even at night.
Through it, I hear voices.
Spanish, too fast and quiet for me to catch most of it.
Then her voice cuts through.
"I want to see my father. Now."
She sounds strong. Defiant. No fear in her voice.
But I heard the fear in the woods earlier. Saw the guilt eating her alive.
She's terrified.
Just really good at hiding it.
A man laughs—cruel, mocking. "You think you give orders here, little girl?"
"I think I'm the one you want. Not him. Let me see him, and we'll talk about terms."
"We talk now. Then maybe you see him. Maybe we cut off your hand too, send it to your mother. Would you like that? To match your father?"
I'm moving before the words finish.
Through the window—quick and quiet into a dark hallway that smells like mold and cigarette smoke, following the voices to a main room at the front of the house.
And there she is.
Standing in the center of maybe eight Los Coyotes members, all armed, all watching her like she's prey they're about to devour.
She's got her .380 in her hand, but it's down at her side. Not pointed at anyone.
Smart girl. Start shooting when you're outnumbered eight to one and you're dead before you hit the floor.