Chapter 41 #2
Beck navigates us through the industrial district, taking the route we planned yesterday, heading for the seedy underpass near the rail yards that nobody pays attention to because it's always full of homeless camps and abandoned cars.
Ash grabs the two five-gallon gas cans from the trunk, heavy with fuel we bought at different stations using cash, untraceable.
He passes one to me, the plastic handle slick in my grip.
We pour them all over the car—exterior first, dousing the hood and roof and trunk until gasoline runs in rivulets down the windows.
Then interior, splashing it across the torn seats and dirty floor mats, making sure it soaks into every crack and crevice.
The fumes are overwhelming, chemical and sharp, making my eyes water.
When the cans are empty, we toss them inside, plastic clattering against metal.
Beck lights a match, the small flame bright and almost cheerful in the shadows under the bridge. He holds it for a second, meeting my eyes. I nod. He drops it through the open window.
The car erupts in flames with a whoosh that steals the air from my lungs, heat washing over us like opening an oven door, orange and yellow and hungry. The fire climbs fast, engulfing the beater completely within seconds, plastic melting and metal warping, everything we touched turning to ash.
We walk away without looking back, cutting through the homeless encampment where nobody asks questions because everyone minds their own business, making our way through alleys and side streets to where we stashed the change car three blocks over.
Another beater, different color, different plates, different VIN.
Layers of protection between us and consequences.
The drive to the chop shop is quiet, each of us lost in our own thoughts. I stare out the window at San Diego sliding past, the city oblivious to what we just did, to the justice we just delivered. My knuckles throb where skin split against Daniel's face, and the pain feels good. Feels right.
We pull up next to the hydraulic compactor at Tommy's shop, and Tommy himself gives us a nod from the office window.
He doesn't ask questions—never does, that's why we use him.
We paid him upfront, cash, for exactly this service.
The crane operator is already moving, the massive metal claw swinging over to grab our change car like it's a toy.
He loads it into the compactor, and we watch as the machine comes to life with a hydraulic hiss.
Metal screams as it crushes down, the car folding in on itself like aluminum foil in a fist, glass shattering, frame collapsing, everything compacting into a cube of twisted steel that'll get melted down and recycled into rebar or car parts or some shit. Evidence gone. Trail cold.
"Thanks for coming," I say finally.
"It was fun," Ash grins, his eyes still bright with adrenaline and violence. "Therapeutic, really. Been wanting to kick the shit out of someone all week."
Beck nods his agreement, running a hand through his hair to smooth it back into place because even after beating a man half to death, he's worried about his appearance. "Needed that. All the bullshit with my girl lately, it felt good to hit something that actually deserved it."
"Wouldn't want to miss it," Havoc says, cracking his knuckles one by one, each pop deliberate. "Fallon's cool people. She doesn't deserve what that fucker did to her. Nobody deserves that shit."
My throat tightens at the casual way they talk about defending her, like it's obvious, like there was never any question they'd show up when I called. This is what brotherhood means. This is what family does—you don't even have to ask, they're just there, ready to go to war beside you.
"So what's the plan now?" Havoc asks after a beat of silence broken only by the compactor's hydraulics and the distant traffic noise. "You got him good, but he's still breathing. Still dangerous."
"Yeah, how do you actually get her out when he has so much control over our fate?
" Beck's brow furrows in that way it does when he's calculating angles and outcomes.
"DA can fuck us in a hundred different ways.
He could have us all arrested on bullshit charges, make evidence appear out of nowhere, bury us so deep we never see daylight again. "
I run my hand over my face, feeling the stubble rough against my palm, the reality of the situation settling heavy on my shoulders. "Fuck. I want to kill him—want it so bad I can taste it. But I need to talk to Damián before escalating to that."
"Damián?" Ash's eyebrows shoot up toward his hairline, surprise clear in his voice. "Since when are you talking to Damián about anything?"
"Since Damián pulled me aside and told me that ángel saw something between me and Fallon at the gala," I explain, remembering that conversation, his calculating eyes and the offer hidden in his words.
"Said if there's trouble with Daniel, come to him first. So I'll talk to one of them at the wedding, see if he has another idea that doesn't end with all of us in federal prison. "
"And if he doesn't?" Ash asks, voice careful, because he already knows my answer.
"Then I'll put a bullet in Daniel Reid's skull and get Fallon out of that house, consequences be damned."
They all nod, faces serious in the dim light from the chop shop's security lamps. Simple as that. No judgment, no attempts to talk me out of it, just acceptance that sometimes the only solution is violence and the willingness to pay whatever price comes after.
"Let's get home," I say, suddenly exhausted, the adrenaline finally draining away and leaving me hollow.
We walk over to where our bikes are parked, hidden in the shadow of the building, exactly where we left them hours ago. The Harleys are beautiful in their deadly simplicity—chrome and black paint, engines built for power and speed, freedom and danger combined into metal and rubber.
I throw my leg over the seat, feeling the familiar weight settle beneath me, and turn the key. The engine roars to life with that perfect thunder that always makes my chest tight, that sound that means home and family and the only life I've ever really known.
One by one, the others start their bikes, engines roaring in perfect harmony, four Harleys singing their violent song to the San Diego night. We pull out together, riding formation, brothers in every way that counts.
The city blurs past as we ride, wind tearing at my clothes, engine vibration traveling up through the frame into my bones.
Out here, with the throttle open and the road stretching ahead into darkness, I can almost breathe.
Can almost forget the weight of what we just did and what I might still have to do.
But not quite. Because somewhere out there, Fallon is going home to an empty house, not knowing that her shitty husband is currently bleeding in the street, that his weapons are broken, that help is coming even if it's too dark and too late to be called salvation.
Grace's wedding can't come fast enough.