Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
Bravos
I answer on the second ring.
"About fuckin’ time," he says instead of hello. "You been in Florida three days and I've heard from you once. Starting to think Los Coyotes got you too."
"I'm fine. Been busy."
"Busy doing what? You're there to negotiate an alliance, not play hero." There's a pause, the sound of a lighter clicking. Phantom taking a drag off a cigarette. "Heard through the grapevine that Ivar's back. That true?"
"Yeah. We got him out last night."
"We?"
Fuck. "Raiders mounted a rescue. I went along. Provided support."
"Support." Phantom doesn't sound convinced. "That what we're calling it?"
I step further away from the bar, out the front door of Bubba's into the parking lot.
It's quiet out here, just the sound of insects and distant highway traffic.
The sky is starting to darken, about time for sunset.
"You want the report or you want to give me shit?" I ask.
"Both. But report first."
I fill him in.
The alliance is solid—Runes, Damon from Reapers Rejects, and me representing Shotgun Saints.
We've agreed to coordinate operations against Los Coyotes.
Share intelligence, pool resources, hit them simultaneously across multiple territories.
"They took Ivar to send a message," I explain. "Tortured him for weeks. Cut off his hand and sent it to his family. They wanted to prove that Sebastián's Los Coyotes are more brutal than Miguel's ever were."
"So we send a message back."
"That's the plan. Runes and Damon are working on targets. Supply routes, distribution centers, key personnel. We hit them all at once, hard enough they can't recover easily."
"Timeline?"
"Week, maybe two. Need solid intel first. Can't afford to miss."
Phantom's quiet for a moment, thinking. "You think it'll work? Three clubs that don't particularly like each other, coordinating across state lines?"
"I think it has to work. Because if it doesn't, Los Coyotes pick us off one by one until there's nothing left."
"Fair point." Another drag on his cigarette. "And Ivar? How bad?"
"Bad. Lost his left hand, multiple burns and lacerations, severe infection. But he's right-handed, and the doc says he'll live. Recovery's going to take months."
Phantom sighs. "Could've been worse."
"Yeah. It was heading that way."
"How'd you get him out?"
Here's where it gets complicated.
"Raid on a Los Coyotes safehouse near the Georgia border. Eight cartel soldiers. All dead. Ivar was alive, barely. We extracted him and burned the place."
"Eight dead." Phantom whistles low. "That's a lot of bodies for a rescue mission. How many men did you take?"
"Just me and—" I stop. Recalibrate. "Initial breach was just me. Backup arrived during extraction."
"You went in alone? Against eight armed cartel soldiers?" Phantom's voice sharpens. "The fuck were you thinking?"
"I was thinking that waiting might mean Ivar dies. So I didn't wait."
"And you just happened to survive eight-on-one odds."
"I wasn't alone the whole time. Ivar's daughter was there."
Silence.
Phantom laughs, but not in the type of way where you know someone’s finding something amusing. "Let me guess. The one who was the leak three years ago."
"Yeah." The word comes out harder than I intend. "She rode into that safehouse alone trying to trade herself for her father. She fought like she'd been doing it her whole life. She saved his life."
"Uh-huh." Phantom's tone shifts. "And you were there because...?"
"Because I followed her. She was going to get herself killed, and I—" I stop. I don't know how to finish that sentence.
"You what? Decided to play white knight?"
"Decided I couldn't watch someone die when I could stop it."
"Bravos." Phantom's voice is careful now. Probing. "Are you getting involved with this girl?"
"I'm doing my job. Maintaining the alliance. Making sure—"
"That's not what I asked."
I lean against the wall, close my eyes. "It's complicated."
"It's always complicated. That's why we don't do it." He pauses. "You know what you are, right? You're a Nomad. You don't stay places. You don't build attachments. That's not judgment—that's just who you are. Who you've been for eighteen years."
"I know what I am."
"Do you? Because from where I'm sitting, it sounds like you're forgetting." Another pause. "She pretty?"
"What?"
"The girl. She pretty? That why you're losing your head?"
"I'm not losing my head."
"Then come home. Alliance is set. You've done what you came to do. Let Runes handle the rest."
I should agree, should say yeah, I'll be back in a few days, a week tops.
Instead I say something totally different. "I need to see this through. Make sure the coordinated strikes actually happen. Can't do that from Texas."
"You can do it from a phone. That's what phones are for."
"Phantom—"
"You like her." It's not a question. "This girl—Ivar's daughter—you like her. And that's why you're not coming home."
I don't answer. Can't.
"Bravos, listen to me. I've known you since you prospected. I know what the fire did to you. I know why you're a Nomad." His voice gentles slightly. "But you can't outrun grief forever. Eventually you have to stop moving and deal with it."
"I've dealt with it."
"No. You've avoided it. There's a difference.
" He sighs. "Look. I'm not telling you what to do with your personal life.
You're a grown man. But I am telling you that you represent Shotgun Saints.
And if you're getting involved with someone connected to another club—especially one where the Prez and I have bad blood—it complicates things. "
"I understand."
"I hope you do. Because I like you, Bravos. You're solid. Reliable. But I can't have a Nomad who's not actually nomadic anymore. If you're going to stay somewhere, then you need to prospect for that club. Not ours."
The words hit like a punch to the gut.
He's right and I know he's right.
But the thought of leaving Shotgun Saints—the only family I've had since the fire—feels wrong too.
"I'll handle it," I say finally. "Keep things professional. Focus on the alliance."
"Good." Phantom doesn't sound convinced. "Keep me updated. And Bravos? Whatever you're feeling—think hard before you act on it. Because once you cross that line, you can't uncross it."
"Yeah. I know."
He hangs up.
I stand there in the parking lot watching the sky lighten,
Phantom's words echoing in my head.
You're a Nomad. That means you come home.
If you're going to stay somewhere, prospect for that club. Not ours.
You can't outrun grief forever.
Fuck.
When I go back inside, Helle's still at the bar.
She's ordered another beer—and one for me, sitting next to her half-empty bottle.
"Figured you'd need it," she says when I sit down. "That looked intense."
"How'd you know it was intense?"
"The way you walked out. Like you were heading to an execution." She takes a drink. "Your Prez?"
"Yeah."
"What'd he want?"
"Update on the alliance. Timeline for retaliation. The usual business." I pick up the beer she ordered, take a long drink. It's cold and perfect. "Asked if I was getting involved with someone I shouldn't be."
Her eyebrows raise. "And what'd you say?"
"That I'm keeping things professional."
"Are you?"
I look at her. Really look at her.
Blonde hair still damp from her shower, curling around her face.
Eyes that aren't quite as dead as they were when I met her.
Bruises blooming on her knuckles, her arms, evidence of what we survived together.
"No," I admit. "I'm really not."
A smile tugs at her mouth. "Good. Because I'm not either."
We sit there for a moment, that admission hanging between us.
Njal appears from the back, wiping down glasses. "You two need anything else? Because I'm about to get off."
"We're good," Helle says. "Thanks, Njal."
"No problem." He starts cleaning up, saying good-bye to a couple of the regulars.
"Walk with me?" Helle asks, standing up.
"Yeah. Okay."
We leave Bubba's together, stepping out into the night.
The compound is quiet—most members are either eating a late dinner, or still inside the clubhouse dealing with the aftermath of last night.
Helle starts walking toward the back of the property, toward the tree line.
"Where are we going?" I ask.
"Nowhere. Everywhere. Just—away from people for a minute." She glances back at me. "That okay?"
"Yeah. It's okay."
We walk in silence for a while, following a path that's barely visible in the dim light.
The woods smell like pine and earth and Florida humidity.
Different from Texas, but not bad.
"Are you going back?" I ask. "To Texas?"
"Eventually. Yeah."
"When?"
"When Dad's stable. When I know he's going to be okay." She stops, turns to face me. "Why?"
"Just wondering. Trying to figure out where you've been for three years. You said Texas, but that's a big state."
"Austin area, mostly. Some smaller towns when I was racing." She starts walking again, and I fall into step beside her. "Work at a dive bar called Cactus Jack's. Shitty tips, but it paid the rent."
I stop walking.
"Cactus Jack's?"
"Yeah. You know it?"
"Know it?" I laugh—actually laugh. "That place is maybe forty-five minutes from Sharp. I've been there. Stopped in for a beer on my way through Austin probably half a dozen times over the years."
Her eyes widen. "You're kidding."
"No. It's got that stupid neon sign that flickers, right? And a pool table in the back that's not quite level?"
"That's the one." She's staring at me like she's trying to reconcile something. "We could've met. Before all this. Could've just been two strangers at a bar."
"Yeah. We could've."
"Would you have noticed me?"
"Probably. You're hard not to notice."
"That's not an answer."
I think about it. "Yeah. I would've noticed you. Would've probably thought you looked like trouble and stayed away."
"And now?"
"Now I know you're trouble and I still can't stay away."
She smiles—genuine, reaching her eyes. "We were forty-five minutes apart for three years and never knew it."
"Guess the universe wanted us to meet here instead."