Chapter 33 Titan
TITAN
Ash is already moving toward his bike before anyone can say anything else.
I watch him cross the compound, stepping over debris and shell casings. His jaw is set. Determined. For the first time since the attack started, he looks like he knows exactly what he needs to do. He throws his leg over his Harley and starts the engine. The roar cuts through the morning air.
Jackal steps up beside me. We stand there—both of us—watching Ash prepare to leave.
Ash looks back once. Meets my eyes. Nods.
I nod back.
Then he’s gone. Tearing out through what’s left of the gate, heading toward the highway that’ll take him to Bonnie and Ghost. The sound of his engine fades into the distance.
Jackal crosses his arms. “How bad is Ghost really?”
I turn to face him. “Bad enough that we need to end this war before we lose anyone else.”
“Agreed.” Jackal looks around at the gathered brothers. His chapter mixed with ours. Maybe thirty men total who can still fight. “So let’s end it.”
We move into the meeting room. The one that’s still got bullet holes in the walls and broken glass on the floor.
Brothers file in behind us. Some of Jackal’s men I don’t know. Some of ours who’ve been here since before I earned my patch.
Jackal takes the head of the table. I take the seat to his right. Barnes sits to his left despite his busted arm.
“Alright,” Jackal says, looking around the table. “Someone tell me everything about the Savage Legion compound. Layout, numbers, defenses. Everything.”
Barnes pulls out a map. Spreads it across the table. “Their clubhouse is here.” He points. “About forty miles east. Main building, garage, and a couple of outbuildings. They’ve got maybe thirty, forty members total.”
“Had,” I correct. “We killed twenty of them an hour ago.”
“Right. So they’re down to twenty or less.” Barnes traces the perimeter of their compound on the map. “Single fence line. One main entrance. Back exit here.”
“Guards?” Jackal asks.
“Usually two at the gate. Maybe one or two on patrol.” Barnes looks up. “But after what just happened, they’ll be on high alert. Expecting retaliation.”
Jackal leans back. “Let them expect it. Won’t help them.”
One of Jackal’s men—big guy with a shaved head and a scar running down his cheek—speaks up. “What’s the play? Hit them fast and hard? Or siege?”
“Neither.” I lean forward. “We surround them. Trap them inside their own compound. Then we burn it to the ground.”
Silence falls over the table.
Then someone says, “That’s brutal.”
“They tried to do the same to us.” I look around at every face. “They came here to kill us. To burn our home. To wipe us out. We’re returning the favor.”
“I’m in,” Barnes says immediately.
“Same,” says Rodriguez from across the table.
One by one, the brothers nod, agreement spreading around the room.
Jackal watches this happen. Then he says, “We leave in one hour. Gear up. Bring everything you’ve got. We’re not leaving anyone alive.”
Brothers start to stand. Start to move.
That’s when someone speaks up from the back. A voice I don’t immediately recognize.
“Wait.”
We all turn.
It’s one of the newer members. Patched in maybe six months ago. Name’s Connor or Cameron or something. Young. Early twenties.
“Where’s Ash?” he asks. “Where’s the president? Shouldn’t he be leading this?”
The room goes quiet.
All eyes turn to me and Jackal.
I stand. Look directly at the kid. “Ash had to leave.”
“Leave?” The kid’s voice rises. “We just got attacked, and our president left?”
“Watch your tone,” I say quietly. Dangerously.
He backs down slightly but doesn’t drop it. “I’m just saying, it looks bad. The president taking off right after a battle. What are the other clubs going to think?”
“They’re going to think Ash made the right call.
” I plant my hands on the table. “His wife is alone at a safe house, trying to save our brother’s life.
Ghost got shot protecting her. Got shot protecting Ash’s child.
So yeah, Ash left. Because family comes first. And if you have a problem with that, you can get the fuck out of this club right now. ”
The kid’s face goes red. But he shuts his mouth.
“Ash gave us orders before he left,” I continue, looking around at everyone. “Simple orders. Clear orders. Burn them all to ash. So that’s what we’re going to do.”
“And I’m here now,” Jackal adds. His voice carries weight.
Authority. “I’m Bonnie’s brother. Ghost is my friend.
And the Savage Legion just tried to destroy my father’s legacy.
So trust me when I say—we’re going to make them pay for every bullet they fired, every brother they killed, every second of fear they caused. ”
The kid nods slowly. Sits back down.
“Anyone else have questions?” I ask.
No one speaks.
“Good. Then gear up. We ride in one hour.”
The meeting breaks. Brothers scatter to prepare.
Jackal catches my arm before I can leave. “That kid’s going to be a problem.”
“Maybe. But he’ll fall in line once the shooting starts.”
“Or he’ll get himself killed.”
“Either way, problem solved.” I head for the door. “Come on. We’ve got work to do.”
Fifty-three minutes later, we’re ready.
Thirty brothers. Armed to the teeth. Rifles strapped across backs. Pistols in holsters. Knives tucked into boots. Extra ammunition loaded into saddlebags.
We look like an army.
We are an army.
I swing onto my bike. Jackal takes position beside me at the front of the formation. “Ready?” he asks.
“Been ready.” I start my engine. “Let’s go finish this.”
We ride out in a column. Thirty bikes roaring through the destroyed gate, heading east toward Savage Legion territory.
The ride takes forty-five minutes. Long enough for the adrenaline to build. For the anger to sharpen into something cold and deadly.
I think about Ghost. And I think about Marcus Stone. About the smug bastard who thought he could take us down.
He’s about to learn he was wrong.
Savage Legion compound appears in the distance. Buildings surrounded by a chain-link fence. Their gate is closed. Guards are visible at the entrance.
We don’t slow down.
Jackal raises his fist. Signal to spread out.
The column breaks. Brothers peel off in different directions, forming a wide circle around the entire compound. We’re not hitting them from one side. We’re surrounding them. Cutting off every escape route.
By the time the guards at the gate realize what’s happening, it’s too late. We’re everywhere.
I stop my bike fifty yards from the main entrance. Jackal pulls up beside me. “Light it up,” he says.
I pull the rifle from my back. Aim. Fire.
The shot echoes across the desert. The guard at the gate drops.
Then everyone opens fire.
The compound erupts in chaos. Their members pour out of buildings, armed but disorganized. Panicked.
They try to fight back. Return fire. But they’re outnumbered and surrounded.
We don’t give them a chance.
Molotov cocktails arc through the air. Glass shatters. Flames spread. The garage goes up first, then one of the outbuildings. Savage Legion members run. Some try to escape through the back exit. They run straight into our brothers waiting there. Gunfire. Screams. Bodies dropping.
The main clubhouse is fully engulfed now, flames reaching through shattered windows and licking up the adobe walls.
Some of their brothers are still inside—I can hear gunfire from the upper floors where they’re making their last stand.
But the smoke is too thick, the heat too intense. They won’t last long.
I watch the compound burn and feel nothing but cold satisfaction settling in my chest. This is what happens when you come for the Ruthless Devils. This is what happens when you touch what’s ours.
Movement catches my eye near the back of the main building.
Two figures on a bike, weaving through debris and bodies as they try to escape through a gap in the fence we haven’t covered yet. The rider is big, hunched over the handlebars. The passenger clings to his back.
I recognize them both immediately.
Marcus Stone. And Mona.
“Not today,” I mutter and raise my rifle.
The bike is moving fast, kicking up dirt and gravel as it races toward freedom. But I’ve got a clear line of sight, and the distance is maybe forty yards. Easy shot.
I settle the stock against my shoulder, let out half a breath, and squeeze the trigger.
The front tire explodes in a spray of rubber, and the bike lurches violently to the left.
Marcus fights the handlebars, but it’s too late—the bike tips and goes down hard, metal screaming against dirt as it skids sideways.
Both riders fly off and tumble across the ground in a tangle of limbs.
The bike slides another twenty feet before coming to rest against the fence, sparks still flying from the exposed metal.
I’m already moving. I swing my leg over my own bike and kick it into gear, roaring across the compound toward where they fell. Brothers see me going and lay down covering fire, keeping any remaining Savage Legion off my back.
Marcus is on his hands and knees when I reach them, trying to crawl toward the fence. Blood streams down his face from a deep gash across his forehead, and his left leg bends at an angle that makes my stomach turn. The bone is definitely broken.
Mona lies a few feet away, sobbing and clutching her arm. It hangs limp and useless at her side, clearly dislocated or worse.
I kill the engine and dismount in one smooth motion. My boots hit the dirt, and I stride toward them with my rifle still in hand.
Marcus sees me coming and tries to move faster, his good leg scrabbling for purchase in the loose dirt. But he’s too injured, too weak, and he only makes it another foot before I’m on him.
I grab the back of his cut with my free hand and haul him to his feet. He screams—a raw, animal sound of pure agony as his broken leg tries and fails to support his weight.
I don’t care.
My other hand shoots out and tangles in Mona’s hair, yanking her head back. She shrieks and flails with her good arm, nails raking across my forearm and drawing blood, but I barely feel it.
“No!” she shrieks, voice raw with terror. “Please! Titan, please! I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!”
I don’t respond. I start dragging them both back toward the burning clubhouse, one in each hand like they weigh nothing at all. The battle still rages around us. Gunfire cracks from multiple directions, but I tune it all out and focus only on putting one foot in front of the other.
Marcus tries to fight. He twists in my grip and swings his fist weakly at my ribs, but the blow has no strength behind it. He’s too far gone, too broken.
Mona cries and begs. “Please, Titan. Please. I made a mistake. I was angry. I didn’t think—”
I drag them through the front entrance of the clubhouse and into the main hallway. Smoke hangs thick in the air, stinging my eyes and burning my throat. Flames crawl up the walls on both sides, consuming old photographs and club memorabilia. The heat is tremendous—like walking into an oven.
The building groans above us. Support beams are failing. This whole structure is going to collapse soon.
Perfect.
I haul them deeper into the smoke and flames, searching. There—a door to my right standing partially open. I kick it wider and see a large office beyond. Big mahogany desk. Leather chair. Trophy cases lining the walls. Must be Marcus’s office.
I throw Marcus through the doorway, and he hits the floor hard, bouncing once before coming to rest on his side. He lies there groaning and bleeding from a dozen different wounds, his broken leg twisted beneath him.
Mona stumbles in after him and falls to her knees. Her mascara runs in black streaks down her cheeks, and her whole body shakes with sobs.
“Please,” she begs again, looking up at me with desperate eyes. “Please don’t do this. I’ll tell you anything. I’ll give you anything. Please let me go. I’ll disappear. You’ll never see me again. I swear—”
I walk past her to the desk and grab the crystal decanter sitting there. Amber liquid sloshes inside—expensive whiskey that Marcus probably saved for special occasions.
“Titan, please!” Mona’s voice climbs higher, more frantic. “I made a mistake! I was jealous! I didn’t mean for it to go this far! Please!”
I don’t answer. I lift the decanter high and smash it against the edge of the desk.
Glass explodes outward in a shower of glittering shards. Whiskey splashes across the hardwood floor, soaking into Marcus’s clothes and pooling around Mona’s knees. The sharp, alcoholic smell fills the room immediately, mixing with the smoke.
Mona’s eyes go wide. She understands now what’s about to happen. “No. No, please. Titan, no—”
Marcus tries to speak. His mouth works and blood bubbles at his lips, but all that comes out is a wet, gurgling sound.
I pull my lighter from my pocket and flip it open. The flame catches on the first try, small and bright in the smoky darkness.
“This is for my brothers,” I say, looking down at both of them sprawled on the whiskey-soaked floor. “For my old lady. And for my child.”
I drop the lighter.
It tumbles end over end through the air and lands in the puddle of whiskey with a soft splash.
The alcohol ignites instantly. Blue and orange flames race across the floor in every direction, following the trails of liquid.
They catch on Marcus’s cut first, then spread to his pants and shirt. Within seconds, he’s engulfed.
Mona screams—high and piercing and full of absolute terror. The flames reach her knees and climb higher, consuming her clothes and hair. She tries to stand, to run, but slips in the whiskey and goes down hard.
Marcus tries to roll. To put out the flames or crawl toward the door. But his broken leg won’t cooperate, and he only manages to spread the fire further across his body. His screams join Mona’s, a horrible duet of agony.
I turn and walk toward the door, while the screaming continues—desperate, agonized, inhuman sounds that echo off the walls and follow me into the hallway.
I stride toward the exit without looking back. I reach the front door and step out into the cool desert air. Behind me, I hear the office door slam shut with a solid thud, cutting off the screams.
Then silence.
I stand there for a moment, breathing in air that doesn’t taste like smoke and death, and watch the clubhouse burn.
It’s done.