Chapter Eight #4
He pivots with a vicious snarl, eyes wild, teeth bared, and pumps another round straight through the chest of a second soldier who’s entering and diving for cover. Blood sprays, splattering across the boardroom table and walls like violent artwork.
“You don’t fucking get to take him,” he roars, voice cracking with fury.
Another figure tries to flank him from the right, but Chains spins, shotgun roaring again. The impact lifts the soldier off the floor, his body hitting a filing cabinet hard enough to dent the metal before slumping in a heap.
Smoke fills the air, water raining from the ceiling, steam curling around Chains like some avenging demon dragged straight from hell.
His movements are primal, raw muscle and rage as he wades through the chaos like a force of nature, reloading without even looking, pure instinct guiding every brutal move.
He dives behind a toppled conference table, flanks left, and comes out the other side like the fucking Grim Reaper. Another soldier goes down with a scream and a hole in his chest the size of a softball.
I can barely keep my eyes on him. He’s everywhere at once, cutting through the last of them like they’re nothing but shadows in his storm.
And then it’s quiet.
The room is a graveyard.
Smoke, blood, and the stench of gunpowder burn my nose.
Chains stands in the center of it all, soaked, heaving, his shotgun hanging limp at his side, his eyes locked on Nickel’s still form. His chest rises and falls with ragged breaths, but he doesn’t move. He doesn’t speak.
He just stands there, in the ruin of his own making, broken wide open.
And I know, he didn’t just lose his brother, he lost the last piece of himself that still believed they’d both make it out of their own hell alive.
I glance down at Nickel, feeling the heavy burden of presidential guilt weighing me down.
I should have protected him.
I’m sorry, brother.
Finding my strength, I race through the room, grabbing Wraith, who’s bleeding but on his feet. “Can you move?”
“I can damn well try.”
“Then let’s fuckin’ finish this.”
Texas bursts through the stairwell door, carrying multiple sets of turnout gear already soaked and heavy. “I left two sets in the stairwell for Slick and Scout. I’ve already told them through comms to meet us at the vans.”
“Great fuckin’ job, Texas. Let’s get the hell outta Dodge!” I announce, signaling to my men.
Chains hesitates, and I step up to him. “We gotta go, brother. You good to take Nickel?”
Chains curls his lip and rolls his shoulders. “We all get out of here, Pres. Let’s get him home.”
With a quick pace, we all step into the fireman’s gear, passing out helmets and jackets as smoke fills the hall.
The roar of sirens grows louder, while firefighters pour into the lower levels.
Once kitted up, Chains hoists Nickel into his arms, in that very typical firefighter rescue pose, and with our gear on, Wraith and Fox grab the duffels, and we take off, blending in with the chaos.
Thirty floors of waterlogged stairs.
Confused security guards.
Panicked workers.
And no one looks twice at us.
Outside, the scene is apocalyptic, with firetrucks, ambulances, and news crews kept back by barricades. The city is in full crisis mode. And in the middle of it, we disappear into the crowd.
Eleven bikers went in.
One was buried beneath the cost of justice.
But the truth?
The truth is out.
And the bastards who built this empire on blood and silence?
They’re about to burn.
Houston’s financial district looks like a war zone. Fire trucks, ambulances, and police cars are all focused on the flooded high-rise and the reports of ‘gas leaks’ that caused the water system to malfunction.
The official story will be an industrial accident.
The real story is encrypted and finding its way to news outlets all across America.
As we drive toward the clubhouse, with the chaos in our rearview, my eyes shift to Chains, holding his best friend in his arms.
We went into this fight knowing we could lose good men.
And we have.
Nickel came into this club with a sordid past, but he had more than made up for it. And now that the dust will settle on our role in this Cartel takedown, we will take the time to mourn and to heal from our wounds.
Because Lord knows my body is aching like a motherfucker.
Glancing out the window, I key my radio one final time. “This is H2. Package delivered. Over.”
“Copy that, H2,” the kind voice chimes down the line. “Status report?”
I slump in my seat, blood still seeping from what looks like every inch of my fucking body. “Files leaked. Mission success. Multiple brothers wounded. One 86ed.” My chest squeezes as I glance over at Nickel, my top lip curling at the thought.
“Understood…” She’s quiet for a moment, then her voice comes down the line again, but it’s more fragile this time, “Take care of yourselves. We’ll check in soon. Over and out.”
I’m not sure who’s manning the comms over in LA right now, but it is nice to have a friendly voice on the line. “Thanks, L6. Over and out.”
Exhaling, I run my bloodied hands through my hair.
Six cities, six operations, six chances to cripple a monster. And we just played our part in bringing down this Cartel juggernaut.
I just hope it was enough.
Because the cost?
The cost was higher than any of us wanted to pay.