Chapter Sixty
WE GATHERED IN the war room long after Charleston had gone quiet, when the city slept and only the neon lights and the roll of the tide marked the hours.
Phones were powered down, burners tossed into a lead-lined toolbox in the corner, and every man in that room knew—this wasn’t club business no more.
This wasn’t about patches or territory. This was blood.
The old table stretched beneath the low light, scarred surface buried under maps, surveillance photos, and sketches that looked like they’d been dragged outta hell itself. My uncle’s hand-drawn blueprint lay in the center, lines so worn it looked ready to split clean in two.
Ash stood at the head of the table like he’d been there all his life, shoulders squared, arms folded, jaw hard enough to cut steel.
Didn’t speak right off. Just let his eyes sweep over Devil, Chain, Mystic, Bolt, Gearhead, and the rest of my brothers, gaugin’ us, testin’ if we had the guts to bring fire to the doorstep of the place he used to call home.
“This spot here,” Ash finally said, his voice clipped, even, tappin’ a satellite photo with the end of a pen, “don’t let it fool you. What you’re seeing from above is just the skin. The meat’s buried deep.”
He unfolded the sketch careful, like he was unwrappin’ a ghost. “They didn’t build it to be seen.
They built it to survive. Reinforced corridors.
Concrete bunkers sunk into the earth. Storm shelters that got stretched bigger year after year.
You try to bust through the front, you’ll be stacked like cordwood in a hallway before you draw breath. ”
Mystic leaned over the table, the light catchin’ sharp across his scar, brows pulled low. “So how the hell do we get in?”
Ash’s finger slid to a thin, near-forgotten line that curled along the edge. “Here. Old service tunnel. Used to push air and fuel to the backup generators before they built new ones. They sealed it on their end, but it’s still intact. I used it myself more’n once.”
Chain’s knuckles cracked loud in the hush. “Still viable?”
Ash didn’t blink. “It’s how I’ve been communicating with the resistance inside.”
The room stilled.
Devil straightened slow, arms crossin’, his voice heavy as an iron chain. “Alright. Say we make it through. What kinda resistance we talking?”
Ash’s eyes didn’t waver. “Fifty men, maybe more. Loyal to Gabrial in a way you can’t shake. You tell ‘em to die for him, they’ll thank you for the privilege.”
Cold crawled under my skin. “That include the women?”
“Especially the women,” Ash said. “But there are some who want out. One of ‘em—Lark—she’ll make sure the guards’ drink is laced with sleeping pills. Only question is if they’ll down enough before we hit.”
The words dropped heavy. Even the buzz of the light overhead seemed to shut its mouth.
Bolt was first to speak, his voice like a growl. “We don’t leave ours behind. But if there’s anyone in that pit wantin’ out—anyone still human—we pull ‘em too.”
Devil grunted low. “We grab the kids. We grab Miriam. We get Sable. But anyone looking to run rides with us.”
Ash nodded, though his face stayed grave. “Not many’ll take it. Most are too far gone. But there’s twenty. They’ve risked everything on the inside. I’d stake my life on ‘em.”
Chain’s hand rested on his rifle, like it had grown outta him. “And the rest?”
My voice cut through rough, “We finish Gabrial and whatever son of a bitch stands in our way. But I ain’t killin’ women and kids. Brainwashed or not, that blood don’t fall on us.”
Ash studied me a long beat, then nodded slow. “You remember where I told you to find the Flame Hall?”
My gut twisted, but I forced the word out. “Yeah.”
“That’s where she’ll be. Gabrial always needed an audience. If he’s making a statement, he’ll do it there. She’ll be front and center. Word is, it happens at first light. We don’t have time to waste. Stick to the plan, we get in and out.”
I pressed both palms to the table, leanin’ over the map, bitin’ back the growl in my throat. “Then that’s where I’m headed first.”
“What about the rest of us?” Gearhead asked.
“You take the quarters. Find the kids. Find my momma. Anyone willin’, move ‘em through the tunnel. Quiet. Fast. First shout goes up, it’s too damn late.”
I lifted my eyes, locked on Ash, felt the weight settle like a chain between us.
“Once they’re out… we finish it. We end him.”
Ash gave one nod, slow and solemn. “We won’t get another chance.”
I looked around that room, my brothers, men who’d bled beside me, buried pieces of themselves for this club, for this family.
“We ride tonight.”
Chairs scraped. Boots hit hard against the floor. The men scattered to gear up, but it wasn’t chaos. It was ritual.
Bolt and Spinner checked their knives one by one, thumb skatin’ across the edges, mutterin’ under their breath like each blade carried a name.
Mystic packed explosives with steady hands, eyes narrowed, every move deliberate, like he already heard the echoes of what came after.
Chain strapped the rifle across his back, chambered a round, checked it again, then again, like the click itself was keepin’ him from losin’ control.
Gearhead laid out spare mags in a neat row, lips movin’ in a quiet prayer, his fingers brushin’ the cross tattoo on his hand.
Devil was last, slow as stone, draggin’ on his cut and settlin’ it over his shoulders like a king claimin’ his shield.
He didn’t need to say a word, but when his eyes hit mine, I knew what he meant clear as day: Don’t let your rage burn hotter’n your head, or she dies right along with your momma and those kids.
When the room cleared, I stayed, hands braced on the table like if I let go the whole damn world might tilt clean off its axis. The blueprint lay open in front of me. Every hallway, every chamber, every hidden line looked the same now, each one inked with her name.
Sable.
But it wasn’t just her face I saw when I closed my eyes.
It was Zara’s little arms wrappin’ ‘round my neck. Malik standin’ tall, tryin’ to be braver than his ten-year-old heart could manage.
My momma, silver hair tied back, voice steady even when her hands shook, draggin’ me outta the fire once, fightin’ to keep me breathin’ when that world wanted to take me.
I folded the map slow, slid it into my cut.
Outside, my bike waited. Black frame gleamin’ under low light, chrome scuffed from every fight we’d ridden through. I ran my hand along the bars, thumbed the tank like it was a prayer. She wasn’t just a machine. She was the horse I’d ride into hell, and she deserved to know it.
“Just you and me again, girl,” I muttered.
I was checkin’ my knives, re-holsterin’ my sidearm, shovin’ a spare mag in my pocket when I heard footsteps beside me.
Gearhead stepped outta the shadows, his cut hangin’ heavy on his shoulders, face lined with the kind of worry a man don’t put into words. He didn’t say anything at first. Just reached into his vest and pulled out a single mag, slid it across the seat of my bike.
“Loaded with tracers,” he said quiet, his voice low enough only I’d hear. “Figured you’d want ‘em. You always did like leavin’ a mark.”
Our eyes met, and for a second all the noise in my chest went still.
“Appreciate it, brother,” I rasped.
Gearhead gave one short nod, his jaw tight. “We’ll bring ‘em back, Thunder. All of ‘em.”
I swallowed hard, the words sittin’ heavy in my throat. I didn’t trust myself to speak again, so I just gripped his shoulder tight, lettin’ that say the rest.
Then I swung my leg over, kicked the stand, and turned the key.
The engine roared awake, deep and mean, thunder rollin’ down off the hills to rattle the ground beneath me.
“I’m comin’, darlin’,” I muttered, voice low, rough as gravel. “You hold the fuck on. You and the kids. And Momma too.”
I let the roar of the bike drown out every fear I didn’t have time to feel.
We rode tonight.
Straight into the fire.
And I wasn’t leavin’ without ‘em.