Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Bravos
Have been for fifteen minutes, watching Helle, memorizing the way she looks peaceful and safe in my bed.
Storing it away for whatever comes next.
She stirs when the alarm sounds, blinks awake in the darkness.
"It's time," I say.
"I know."
We get dressed in silence.
Jeans, boots, black t-shirt, my cut.
She helps me strap on my shoulder holster, checks that my Glock is loaded even though I checked it three times last night.
"Come back to me," she whispers.
"I promise."
One last kiss, long and deep and full of everything we can't say.
Then I'm walking out into the predawn darkness where twenty-seven men wait to tear down this fucking cartel.
The compound is quiet except for the rumble of engines being checked one last time.
Shotgun Saints—fifteen of us including Phantom, Shadow, and me.
Raiders—seven including Runes, Kraken, and Fenrir.
Reapers Rejects—five including Damon and Dixon.
Twenty-seven men about to ride into hell.
Phantom gives the signal and engines roar to life.
I look back once.
Helle's standing on the clubhouse porch, arms wrapped around herself, watching.
Then we're riding.
The ride takes two hours.
South toward San Antonio, then west on back roads that get progressively more rural.
No traffic at this hour.
Just us and the darkness and the weight of what we're about to do.
We stop a mile from the target and kill the engines.
Approach on foot the rest of the way.
Phantom pulls out binoculars, scans the compound as the sky starts to lighten.
Dawn is maybe thirty minutes away.
"Four guards visible," he says quietly. "Two at the front gate, one on the warehouse roof, one patrolling the perimeter."
"More inside," Damon adds. "Always are."
"How many do you think?" Runes asks.
"Thirty, maybe forty. Hard to say."
We do final weapons check.
I've got my Glock and a backup on my ankle.
AR-15 strapped across my back.
Two extra magazines.
A knife in my boot that I hope I don't need.
Around me, men are doing the same.
Loading, checking, preparing.
Shadow catches my eye and grins like we're about to do something fun instead of something that'll give us nightmares for years.
"You ready for this?" he asks.
"No, but let's do it anyway."
Phantom gathers us close. "You all know the plan.
Shotgun Saints takes the main house—that's where Sebastián will be.
Raiders, you cut off the back routes. Reapers, you hit the warehouse and secondary buildings.
No one gets out. No prisoners. No mercy.
" His voice is hard. "These fuckers tortured Ivar for weeks.
They've been terrorizing our territories for months. Today we end them. Understood?"
There are murmurs of agreement from everyone.
"All right. Radio silence from here on. Hand signals only. We move in five minutes."
I check my phone one last time and text Helle:
Love you. See you soon.
We all move, three groups splitting off in different directions, moving fast and quiet through the predawn gray.
The compound is surrounded by chain-link fence—eight feet tall, topped with barbed wire.
Shadow cuts through it with bolt cutters while the rest of us provide cover.
The guard on the warehouse roof doesn't notice.
He’s too busy smoking a cigarette and checking his phone.
Stupid fucker.
That mistake will cost him his life.
We slip through the fence like ghosts.
Phantom takes point while Shadow and I flank him.
The rest of Shotgun Saints spread out behind us in practiced formation.
The two guards at the front gate see us too late.
Shadow drops the first one with a suppressed shot to the head.
The second one reaches for his radio—I put two rounds in his chest before he can speak.
Both bodies hit the ground.
Then all hell breaks loose.
Someone inside must have heard something because lights start coming on in the main house.
Shouting in Spanish. Doors slamming open.
"Go, go, go!" Phantom's voice cuts through.
We rush the main house as Los Coyotes soldiers pour out of buildings like ants from a kicked nest.
Gunfire erupts from every direction.
The quiet, surgical strike we planned becomes a full-scale assault in seconds.
I'm firing as I run—controlled bursts, center mass, dropping anyone who moves.
A soldier appears in the doorway of the main house with an AK-47.
Shadow takes him down before he can aim.
We breach the door and inside is pure chaos.
Men scrambling for weapons, half-dressed, panicked.
They weren't expecting this. Weren't ready.
Their mistake.
We move through the house like a machine.
Room to room. Door to door. Anyone armed dies. Anyone reaching for a weapon dies.
No hesitation. No mercy.
This is war.
A Los Coyotes member jumps out from a bedroom, knife in hand. He manages to slash Shadow's arm before I put three rounds in him.
He drops, twitching, blood spreading across expensive tile.
"You good?" I ask Shadow.
"Flesh wound. Keep moving."
More soldiers in the hallway.
We cut them down.
The sound is deafening—gunfire echoing off walls, men screaming, someone crying for his mother in Spanish.
I try not to think about it. Try not to see their faces.
Just move. Just survive. Just complete the mission.
We clear the first floor in ten minutes.
Eight bodies. None of them are Sebastián.
"Upstairs," Phantom says.
The staircase is narrow.
Dangerous.
The perfect ambush point, but we go up anyway.
A soldier appears at the top with a shotgun.
Phantom shoots him before he can fire.
The body tumbles down the stairs, lands at our feet.
We step over it.
Upstairs is quieter, more expensive.
This is where Sebastián lives—thick carpet, artwork on the walls, the kind of luxury built on blood money and suffering.
Doors line both sides of the hallway.
We clear them methodically.
Bedroom—empty.
Bathroom—empty.
Another bedroom—a woman cowering in the corner, unarmed, crying.
Phantom waves us past. She's not our target.
Then we reach the office at the end of the hall.
The door is heavy wood. Locked.
Shadow kicks it open.
And there he is.
Sebastián Salazar looks exactly like his photos. Mid-forties, well-dressed even at 5 AM, standing behind an expensive desk with a pistol in his hand.
Two bodyguards flank him.
Both armed. Both look nervous.
"Gentlemen," Sebastián says in perfect English. "I think we can discuss this like reasonable men."
"No discussion," Phantom says flatly.
"I can pay you. Whatever you've lost, I'll double it. Triple it." His voice is calm but his hand on the pistol is shaking. "There's money in the safe. Three million dollars. It's yours. Just walk away."
"We're not here for money," Shadow says.
"Then what do you want?"
I step forward. "Justice. For Ivar. For everyone you've tortured and killed. For the families you've destroyed."
Recognition flashes in Sebastián's eyes. "Ah. How touching."
He realizes then that there's no negotiating out of this.
His bodyguards see it too.
One of them goes for his weapon. Phantom shoots him before the gun clears his holster.
The other one freezes, hands up, weapon clattering to the floor.
"Please," he says. "I have kids. Please."
Shadow shoots him anyway.
Now it's just Sebastián.
He's still holding his pistol but he knows it's over.
Three guns trained on him and no way out.
"You think killing me ends this?" he asks. "Los Coyotes is bigger than me. Someone else will take over. This changes nothing."
"Maybe," Phantom says. "But you won't be around to see it."
Sebastián's face hardens. "Then at least let me die with some dignity. Not executed like a dog."
"You don't deserve dignity," I say, thinking about Ivar's missing hand, about Helle's nightmares, about three years of her running and hiding because of what this man's organization did. "But you can have it quick. That's more than you gave your victims."
He looks at each of us and raises his pistol.
We all fire at once.
He goes down hard, body jerking from multiple impacts, pistol falling from his hand.
We stand there for a moment, looking at his body.
The man who terrorized three motorcycle clubs.
Who tortured Ivar.
Who's been running Los Coyotes operations in Texas.
Dead on his own expensive carpet.
It should feel like victory.
Instead it just feels heavy.
"Take photos," Phantom says. "We need proof."
Shadow pulls out his phone, snaps pictures of Sebastián's face, the body, the scene.
Evidence. Documentation. Proof that this is over.
Then we move.
The compound is still erupting in gunfire outside.
We fight our way back down, through the main floor, out into the dawn light.
The Raiders of Valhalla have secured the back exit.
Bodies scattered everywhere—Los Coyotes soldiers who tried to run and didn't make it.
Reapers are at the warehouse, smoke already rising.
They're burning the drugs, the money, everything Los Coyotes stored here.
But there are still pockets of resistance. Men who haven't gotten the message that this is over.
Who are fighting anyway because surrender means death and dying fighting is better than dying on your knees.
I respect that even as I shoot them.
A Los Coyotes soldier comes at me with a knife.
We grapple and fall to the ground.
He's younger than me, maybe twenty-five, fighting with the desperation of someone who knows this is his last stand.
I get my knife out and we struggle.
He's strong but I'm fighting for something more than survival.
I'm fighting to get back to Helle.
That makes the difference.
My knife finds his throat and he makes a gurgling sound, eyes going wide, then empty.
I roll off him, breathing hard, covered in his blood.
Shadow appears, pulls me up. "You good?"
"Yeah. You?"
"Living the dream."
It takes another forty minutes to clear the compound completely.
Room by room. Building by building. Making sure no one's hiding, no one's left to retaliate later.
We find more evidence of Los Coyotes operations. Ledgers. Names. Distribution networks.
Phantom takes photos of everything before we burn it.
The bodies pile up.
I lose count after thirty.
Some died fighting.
Some tried to surrender and died anyway because Phantom's order was clear: no prisoners.
I have to shoot three men who were on their knees begging.
I'll see their faces for the rest of my life, but I do it anyway because this is war and wars don't have clean endings.
Out of nowhere, there’s a shout from the warehouse.
I run over.
One of our prospects—kid named Miller, nineteen years old, been with Shotgun Saints for six months—is down.
Chest wound and bleeding bad.
Shadow's already applying pressure but I can see from his face that it's not good.
Miller looks up at me. "Did we—did we get him? Sebastián?"
"Yeah. We got him."
"Good." He coughs, blood on his lips. "That's good."
"Stay with us, Miller. Medic's coming."
But the light is already leaving his eyes.
He dies there in the dirt, surrounded by strangers, while the compound burns around us.
Nineteen years old.
Never had a chance to really live.
Shadow closes Miller's eyes. "Fuck."
"Yeah."
We carry his body to one of the trucks and wrap him in a tarp.
He'll go home to his mother, who begged him not to prospect, who said the club would get him killed.
She was right.
By 7 AM, it's all over.
All the Los Coyotes are dead.
One Shotgun Saints prospect dead.
Five men wounded but will survive—cuts, bruises, one gunshot to the leg that went clean through.
Could've been worse.
Still feels like too much.
We pour gasoline over everything.
The main house, the warehouse, the bodies we couldn't bring ourselves to move and light the rest of it on fire.
We all watch it burn as the sun climbs higher.
Black smoke rising into the Texas sky, visible for miles.
Let it be a message: this is what happens when you fuck with us.
We don’t stay long.
We all know that the local fire department and police will be on the way, so we head back to the clubhouse.
The ride back is quiet.
No one talks. Just engines and thoughts too heavy to share.
I'm covered in blood—some mine from cuts I didn't notice, most from other people.
My hands won't stop shaking. Adrenaline crash hitting hard.
I keep seeing Miller's face. Keep seeing the men I killed. Keep replaying every shot, every death.
This is what I am now.
Killer.
Executioner.
Monster.
We stop at a gas station an hour out.
I go to the bathroom, try to wash the blood off my hands.
It won't all come off.
Stains are under my fingernails, even in the creases of my knuckles.
I text Helle:
It's over. We're coming home.
Her response is immediate:
Thank God. I love you.
Love you too. See you soon.
That's what I focus on, getting back to her.
To the life we're going to build.
To something good after all this death.
We roll through the Sharp Shooter Ranch gates a couple of hours later and she's there.
Standing by the gate like she's been there for hours.
Who knows, she probably has been.
I'm off my bike before the engine fully stops.
She runs to me and I catch her, hold her so tight she gasps.
"It's over," I say into her hair.
"You're alive. You came back."
"I promised."
She pulls back, looks at me, really looks at me.
She sees the blood, the exhaustion, the weight of what I did.
"Are you okay?"
"No. But I will be."
"Did you—"
"Yeah. Sebastián's dead. Los Coyotes are done. It's fucking over, baby."
She starts crying—relief and grief and exhaustion all mixed together.
I hold her while she breaks apart.
While the compound around us deals with the aftermath—wounded being treated, Miller's body being taken to the morgue, men calling families.
But right here, right now, I've got Helle in my arms.
Later, after I've showered and changed and tried to wash away all the blood on my body, we sit on the cabin porch.
The sun is setting. Same as yesterday. Same as it will tomorrow.
But everything's different now.
"I killed people today," I say quietly. "A lot of people."
"I know."
"I shot men who were begging. Who had surrendered. Who weren't even fighting anymore."
She takes my hand. "I know."
"I don't know if I can live with that. Don't know if I can be the person you deserve after—"
"Hey." She makes me look at her. "You did what you had to do. To protect your club. To end a threat. To make it safe for us to build a life."
"That doesn't make it right."
"No. But it makes it necessary." Her voice is gentle but firm. "And you're not alone in carrying it. We'll carry it together."
"I love you," I say, because it's the only thing I'm sure of right now.
"I love you too. And we're going to be okay. Both of us. Together."
We sit there as darkness falls, holding hands, watching stars appear.
Miller is dead.
Thirty-three Los Coyotes members are dead.
I'm covered in blood I can still feel even after I scrubbed my body until I was almost bleeding, but Helle's here beside me.
Safe. Alive. Mine.
And tomorrow we start building the life we fought for.
Tomorrow we start healing.