25. Blade
BLADE
By the time we finish loading the last supply crate into the SUV, I feel like I’ve lived six different lifetimes in the span of a single week.
The Black Rock department store parking lot is nearly empty this early in the morning except for our trucks lined across the far side beside the loading area.
Mac slams the back doors shut after stacking the final case of bottled water while Bishop double-checks the receipt list against the clipboard in his hand.
“Tell me again why we suddenly need enough supplies to survive the apocalypse,” Bishop mutters.
“Because fourteen traumatized women apparently require food,” Ryder says dryly from the next truck over, while balancing three bags of over-the-counter medication against his chest.
Bishop stares at him. “That feels manipulative when you phrase it like that.”
Trace snorts quietly beside me while securing another box of burner phones into the SUV.
Nobody slept much last night. Nobody’s slept much all week.
Ever since Los Angeles, the clubhouse hasn’t stopped moving.
Women recovering. Panic attacks. Nightmares.
New IDs getting built. Calder coordinating transport routes and safe stops all the way to Miami, while half the club scrambles trying to make the logistics work without exposing fourteen vulnerable women to another nightmare crossing half the country.
Calder finally locked down enough contacts yesterday to move them safely. It still means sending nearly a third of our people and supplies east once transport starts. Fourteen women who physically panic if strange men get too close too quickly.
Nothing about this operation is simple anymore.
I rub a hand over the back of my neck while staring out toward the desert highway beyond the parking lot.
Every muscle in my body aches in that deep exhausting way that comes from too much adrenaline followed by not enough sleep.
My knuckles are split open again. There’s dried blood under my nails that isn’t mine even after two showers.
I still feel coated in the warehouse sometimes.
Women crying. Steel cages. The smell of fear. The way several of them physically flinched anytime a man stepped too close too quickly.
I’ve spent six years seeing variations of the same horror and somehow it never gets easier to walk into. It only gets more personal. Especially now. Because now every terrified blonde woman in her twenties briefly turns into Nora in my head before my brain catches up and corrects itself.
That alone nearly got a man killed faster than intended four nights ago.
“You’re doing it again,” Mac says while tossing another grocery bag into the truck.
“Doing what?”
“Staring at nothing like you’re planning murder.”
“I’m awake.”
“Barely.”
I don’t bother arguing.
Bishop climbs into the passenger seat with an exhausted groan. “If I see another bulk package of toothpaste in my lifetime, I’m committing crimes.”
“You already commit crimes,” Ryder says.
“Different crimes.”
Trace shuts the rear SUV door and leans briefly against the vehicle. “Can we go home now?”
I slide into the driver’s seat and start the engine while the others load into the remaining vehicles. The ride back to the compound is quiet except for Bishop occasionally muttering about inventory lists and supply costs under his breath.
Nobody talks much anymore. We burned through conversation somewhere around day three after Los Angeles. Now every conversation circles back eventually.
Hydra.
That’s what Stryker called it during the meeting yesterday. A hydra. He was right. We keep cutting off pieces and the network just reshapes itself somewhere else.
I rest one arm against the window while driving through town and immediately make the mistake of thinking about Nora again.
Wet hair. Wine glass balanced against her thigh. Sleepy smile in her kitchen while pretending she wasn’t already waiting for me to walk through the door.
My chest tightens hard enough that I grip the wheel harder automatically. Stryker told me everything while we loaded trucks.
“She knows.”
“She overheard enough.”
“I told her the truth.”
“She asked me to leave.”
I understood her reaction instantly. That’s the worst part.
Nothing about Nora’s response surprised me, because rationally she’s right. Men like us are dangerous. Our lives are dangerous. There is no version of reality where the President of an outlaw motorcycle club sounds safe to a woman who spent years surviving instability already.
It definitely doesn’t stop me from wondering whether she’s still in Black Rock right now or already planning how to disappear again before things around us get worse.
I pull my phone from my pocket at a stoplight even though I already checked it twenty minutes ago. Still nothing from her. I should probably leave it alone. Instead, I stare at the screen for another few seconds before locking it again.
“We’re almost there,” Mac says quietly over the radio.
I nod once even though he can’t see it. The clubhouse comes into view ten minutes later.
The compound feels tense before we even fully pull through the gates.
Prospects are everywhere. Some exhausted enough they barely look upright anymore.
Others moving gas cans, supply boxes, bedding, and medical crates between trucks while patched members coordinate transport assignments near the perimeter fences.
Nobody wastes time greeting us. The second we park, movement starts again around the vehicles.
I climb out of the SUV and the cold morning air hits my face hard enough to wake me more fully. The clubhouse front doors swing open before I even grab the first crate.
Eva steps outside first, looking like she’s survived approximately twelve disasters in a row.
Hair pulled into a rough bun. Sweatpants. One of Reyes’ hoodies hanging off her frame while she balances a clipboard and coffee at the same time. The fact that she still somehow looks composed is honestly terrifying.
“You took too long,” she says immediately.
“Nice to see you too.”
“You smell like poor decisions.”
“That’s because he’s covered in them,” Bishop mutters, climbing out beside me.
Eva ignores him completely. “Did you get the antibiotics?”
“Three cases.”
“Burner phones?”
“Back truck.”
She exhales slowly, like someone barely holding together a spreadsheet entirely through spite. “Good. Oh, one of the girls had another panic episode overnight and Dani used the last sedatives you left her.”
“Fever girl?”
Eva nods once. “Finally sleeping.”
“Anybody else hurt?”
“Mostly exhaustion.” She shifts the clipboard under her arm. “Two women tried leaving through the east fence again yesterday because they thought we were lying about Miami. Cami and Isa talked them down before it escalated.”
“Sounds under control,” Mac says dryly.
“It isn’t,” Eva replies flatly.
Then her expression softens slightly when she looks directly at me. “You good?”
No.
“Yes.”
She lets the lie pass because there’s too much else happening to dissect it right now. Inside the clubhouse, the atmosphere hits harder. The place barely resembles itself anymore.
Every couch, office, spare room, and open floor space has been converted into a temporary shelter.
Blankets cover furniture. Pillows line walls.
Women sit in clusters throughout the common areas wrapped in oversized Savage Wolves hoodies because apparently our women started raiding closets and storage bins days ago for anything comfortable.
The television is muted. Soft music plays somewhere distant in the kitchen. Everything smells like coffee, detergent, exhaustion, and fear. One of the rescued girls visibly startles when the front door shuts too loudly behind us. I feel that reaction like a knife under my ribs.
Cami notices too from where she’s sitting cross-legged on the floor beside two younger women near the fireplace helping them fill out paperwork for new identities. She catches my eye briefly and jerks her chin toward the hallway.
Translation: don’t crowd them yet.
I nod once.
Isa moves through the room carrying folded clothes with the same cold effortless grace she brings to literally everything.
Mafia upbringing practically radiates off her sometimes, especially in crisis.
She kneels beside a trembling brunette near the stairs and speaks low enough that I can’t hear the words, but whatever she says works because the woman’s breathing visibly steadies afterward.
Across the room, Tori sits on the floor beside another survivor. She’s staring blankly at nothing while Tori quietly braids her hair away from her face like gentleness alone might convince her she’s safe now.
I look away before anger takes over again.
“Blade.”
I turn toward the voice immediately. Stryker stands near the hallway entrance already dressed for war despite the early hour. Jeans. Henley. Boots. Gun visible at his back because we stopped pretending things are calm weeks ago.
Viper stands beside him equally exhausted. The second I really look at them, I know neither man has slept much since Nora found out. I head toward them automatically while prospects continue hauling supplies around us.
“How bad?” Stryker asks quietly.
“Worse than we thought.”
“That’s becoming a theme.”
I scrub a hand over my jaw before answering. “Several girls confirmed Bratva oversight directly. Masks. Auctions. Private buyers flown in internationally. They rotate locations constantly. Warehouse manifests only hold temporary routes.”
Viper’s expression hardens immediately. “And the ledgers?”
“Real.” I lower my voice further. “Same network from six years ago. Same shell corporations. Same offshore accounts Bishop flagged before.”
Stryker goes completely still for a second. That’s always when he’s most dangerous..
“We need the full meeting,” he says finally.
“Already setting it up,” Viper replies.