Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Thirteen

Highway

Justice is a silent statue beside me as we hide in the shadows of the warehouse. His eyes are fixed on the closed doorway. We wait for the Crimson Wheelers and the hell we will unleash on them.

"Any minute now," Justice murmurs, the words barely a vibration in the cool night air.

A set of headlights pierces the darkness, and the growl of an engine cuts through the silence. The truck approaches. My hand rests on the cold metal of my piece, comfort in its familiar weight.

"Showtime," I mutter under my breath as the truck's brakes squeal.

One of the prospects, a wiry kid with more guts than brains, swings the doors open. His movements are eager and hungry. The truck rolls in, and we all hold our breath.

"Easy," I breathe, eyeing the shadows where my brothers lie in wait. The Royal Bastards are a pack of wolves ready to strike. But we're not alone in our hunt tonight. The tension is a living thing, coiling around us, ratcheting tighter with each passing second.

The rumble hits us first, a vibration through the concrete. Harleys, too many to count, their roar a challenge that splits the night. Headlights flash as the Crimson Wheelers ride into the warehouse.

"Shit," I hiss, my fingers tightening around the grip of my Glock. They roll in, engines snarling, leather and chrome gleaming under the warehouse lights. These bastards are way too cocky.

"Stay down," Justice commands, his voice barely above a whisper.

They dismount like they own the place, boots striking the floor with the arrogance only fools possess. One of them draws out a gun and shoves it in our prospect's face. The driver's door is flung open, and the driver is staring down the barrel of a gun.

"Outta the truck! Now!" one of the Wheelers bellows, a scarred brute with fists like hammers. He steps forward, gun waving wildly in the air, the authority of violence etched into his every scar.

"Keep cool," I murmur, waiting and watching. It's not time yet, but the itch to act is like a fire in my veins.

"Move it!" Scarface barks at the driver, who's shaking so badly he can barely get his feet to function.

Justice's hand twitches, a signal only I can read. Soon, very soon. The Royal Bastards won't bow to these gutter rats.

"Hey, pretty boy!" Scarface sneers at the prospect, shoving the kid hard enough to make him stumble back. "Next time you open those doors, it'll be the last thing you—" He cuts off, laughter dying in his throat as he catches sight of something beyond the truck. Something he didn't expect.

"Too late now," I whisper.

What comes next is the part I live for, the clash, the fight, the dance with death. We're the Royal Bastards, and this is our turf. These Crimson clowns are about to learn what happens when you crash the wrong party.

Justice steps out, lean and lethal, his eyes all fire and fight. "Evening, fellas," he drawls, stepping into the dim light.

The Wheelers freeze, their bravado flickering. It's like they've seen a ghost, only this ghost has a blade glinting in his hand and a grin that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"Drop 'em," Creed's voice cuts through the tension, sharp as the edge of Justice's knife. No face, just the command echoing off the warehouse walls.

Gunshots explode as the Crimson Wheelers fire blindly into the shadows. I hold my ground, heart racing, watching as Justice closes in on Scarface. The burly biker's gun trembles and clatters to the concrete as Justice holds his blade to his neck.

"Easy now," Justice murmurs, but there's steel behind the soft words. The blade kissing Scarface's throat draws a thin red line, a vibrant bloom of red against the paleness of his skin. Scarface's eyes bulge, horror-struck, as his brothers crumple one by one in the dark.

"Didn't have to be this way," Justice says, almost gently.

But we all know it did.

We all know there's no room for mercy.

Silence falls, pierced by the ragged breaths of the living.

I step over a still body, boots sticking slightly to the slick warehouse floor. The tang of gunpowder and blood hangs thick in the air, a scent that is all too familiar.

I move alongside Justice, my gaze darting from shadow to shadow. No movement. Just us and the bodies. The night's chaos is settling into an eerie calm. My fingers loosen around the grip of my Glock, the metal warm from use. With a click, it finds its place at my side, nestled in its holster.

Justice's grip on Scarface hasn't eased. The burly man is trying to swallow, his Adam's apple bobbing against the blade. His eyes are wild, flicking between his fallen brothers and the steel at his throat.

"Who was it?" It's Creed's voice, rough like gravel. He emerges, one arm hanging useless in a sling but the other ready and steady. He's a predator despite his injury, dangerous and demanding answers.

Scarface shakes his head, his lips pressed into a thin line. He knows talking will sign his death warrant, but so is staying silent. Fear has got him in a vice, squeezing tight enough for panic to seep through the cracks.

"Spit it out," Creed pushes, stepping closer.

The burly man's eyes dart to him, then to the floor. Silence won't cut it, not tonight. Not with what's at stake.

The tension is a live wire between us, sparking with every second he keeps his mouth shut. We need answers, and we need them yesterday. This war has been a long time coming, and now it's on our doorstep.

"Talk," Creed growls.

Justice's arm tenses, the knife edge kissing skin. A bead of blood trickles down the man's throat.

Scarface gasps, eyes bulging. "This here, it's nothing. A taste."

"Of what?" Creed's words are ice.

"War," the burly biker spits out. "You took tonight, sure. But what's coming…" He chuckles, but more from fear than bravado.

"The Khans?" Creed probes, eyes narrowed.

Laughter erupts from the man's throat, rich and dark with fake amusement. "No. It's closer than that."

A shadow moves forward—Reaper—vengeance radiating off him, his blade glinting.

The man recognizes him. His eyes go wide, he shakes his head, and then blurts out, "Diablo."

"Diablo," Creed echoes the word. "Shit." He's staring at the dirty concrete beneath us, and I can tell it isn't just the floor he's seeing. Disappointment creases his features, deep lines carved by betrayal.

His head tilts, his eyes locking with Reaper's. A silent conversation passes between them, and the nod that follows is all it takes.

Justice is a coiled spring. He moves, a flicker of motion, and Scarface hits the floor hard. For a heartbeat, the guy looks up, thinking maybe, just maybe, he's dodged a bullet.

He's dead wrong.

Reaper steps forward, swift as a shadow, and there's no hesitation in his movement. Steel flashes, biting deep, tearing through lies and flesh alike.

Blood arcs high, a gruesome fountain painting the night red. A choked gurgle rips from Scarface's throat, the sound raw and primal. His body convulses, thrashing in the dirt on the concrete floor like some wounded animal fighting for its last breath.

"Damn," I mutter under my breath, watching Scarface clutch at his throat.

The man's final spasms slow, then still. The silence that follows is thick enough to choke on. The acrid scent of blood and gunpowder stings my nostrils. My heart hammers in my chest. The body at my feet lies too still—the thrashing stopped, and the gurgling silenced. I watch until the man's eyes fix on a point far beyond this world, the light fading from them as death claims another soul.

"Highway."

Creed's voice slices through the aftermath, quiet but carrying the weight of an order. He doesn't need to say more. We've done this dance before—we know the steps by heart.

"Got it," I reply, my tone even.

I look at him and see the hard set of his jaw and the tightness around his eyes. He's our president, our leader, unshakeable and unbreakable. But tonight, I see something else there, a chink in the armor.

"Make sure they're gone. Every last one," he commands, his words leaving no room for error.

"Understood." I acknowledge with a nod, my gaze sweeping the area.

It's a grim job but necessary. We can't leave any evidence behind or give the cops or our enemies anything to work with. We move like ghosts, erasing ourselves from the scene.

As I direct the cleanup, my mind races, piecing together the puzzle of tonight's events.

"Creed," I venture once the others are busy at work. "You think the Diablos are behind this?"

His eyes catch mine in the dim light, hard as flint. For a heartbeat, he's silent, considering, then gives a single, curt nod. No words, but it's all the confirmation I need.

"Shit." The curse is out before I can stop it.

Creed stands there, a solitary figure against the darkness, staring into the night as if he could see right into the heart of our troubles.

"Let's finish here," he says after a moment, his voice rough with unspoken thoughts. "We'll talk back at the clubhouse."

"Roger that." I turn back to the task at hand, but my mind is already racing ahead, thinking of what this means for us, for the Royal Bastards.

If the Diablos are moving against us…

Well, that's a storm we might not weather.

But for now, we clean.

We make it like we were never here.

And we brace for what's coming next.

***

Gravel crunches underfoot as I drag the last of the Crimson Wheelers to the pit we've dug out back. Sweat beads on my brow, mixing with the grime and blood spatters—the scent is metallic. My breath comes in sharp pulls.

"Dump him," Reaper hisses from the edge.

I heave the lifeless body into the dark hole, not bothering to look where it lands. There's no ceremony here, just cold necessity. I wipe my hands on my jeans, feeling the coarse fabric scrape against my skin. The air is heavy with unspoken tension.

"Think we're clear?" Justice's voice cuts through the silence, sharp as his knife.

"Yeah," I grunt, knowing full well the mess we're in now isn't just about tonight—it's about what happens when dawn breaks.

"Diablos won't take this lying down," Creed mutters, more to himself than anyone else.

No one argues that point.

"Creed," I say, stepping closer. "Are we ready for what they bring?"

"Have to be," he replies, resolve hardening his features. "No other choice."

The moon hangs low, casting elongated shadows across the dirt. I glance around at my brothers, their faces set, minds already turning to defense, retribution, and survival.

And then there's Lyric. Her face flashes in my mind, innocent and unaware of how close the danger lurks. A pang of something fierce hits me.

Is it protection?

Fear?

Love?

I shove it down deep.

I can't afford that kind of distraction now, but it's there, smoldering like embers waiting to ignite.

"Highway." Creed's gaze locks onto mine, pulling me back. "You good?"

"Always," I lie.

The truth is, the thought of the Diablos cutting ties is a gut punch. The Royal Bastards is life, but without the deals, without the alliances…

Can we keep what we have?

Can we protect our own?

"Let's roll out," Creed commands, and we move as one, disappearing into the night.

As the roar of Harleys fills the void, my thoughts circle back to Lyric. I have to keep her safe—keep them all safe. If the Diablos are out, we're in for a hell of a ride. And I'll be damned if I let anything touch what's ours.

***

The roar of my Harley cuts through the quiet neighborhood as I pull up to Lyric's home. Gravel spits under the tires, scattering with a satisfying crunch. My heart hammers in my chest. This isn't a social call.

"Pack a bag," I bark the moment she opens the door. "You, too," I say to her father. "Clubhouse. Now."

Lyric's eyes flash with a mix of fear and excitement, but it's her dad who gets in my face. "Who the hell do you think—"

"It's dangerous for you and Lyric to be out here alone," I cut him off.

His gaze goes to Lyric, not Gwen. Not anymore.

It's the name that ties her to us, to me. To the Royal Bastards MC. His fight deflates, and his shoulders slump. He knows he's lost her to the life, to the chaos… to me.

"Five minutes," he grumbles, defeated.

"As fast as you can," I counter, the urgency clawing at my insides.

They hustle. Bags zip. Doors slam. The night is full of danger.

Lyric emerges, bag slung over her shoulder, looking like sin and salvation. She swings her leg over the back of my bike, pressing tight against me. Her arms snake around my waist, her grip steady. My heart kicks against my ribs. Yeah, this is right.

"Ready?" I ask, revving the engine.

"Yes," she whispers against my back, sending shivers down my spine.

I gun it down the road, leaving dust and normalcy behind. Her father closely follows us in his Mercedes. The wind howls, blending with the bike's growl. It's us against the world now. Maybe, just maybe, we can carve out our own piece of forever—a wild, untamed, ride-or-die life.

Creed and Devil and Reaper and Lucy found their way through the fire. Maybe it's our turn now. As Lyric holds onto me, something fierce and tender wraps itself around my chest.

Yeah, we could be that unit. Solid. Unbreakable.

Against the rush of the night air and the pulse of the engine beneath us, I let myself believe we can make it.

The clubhouse looms ahead, a fortress against the encroaching darkness. The lot is crowded with bikes, chrome glinting under the security lights. Engines purr and rumble in a chorus that speaks of unity and power.

"Stay close," I mutter to Lyric as we dismount. Her nod, tight-lipped and determined, tells me she's all in. This is her world now too.

We push through the heavy door, the noise inside slamming into us like a physical force—laughter and shouts, the clinking of bottles. Life in the face of death. Creed has called church, and the room hums with anticipation. Everyone is here, bracing for whatever hell is about to break loose.

I scan the room. There are brothers with their arms around their women or their kids, making sure they've got a place to crash. Tension threads through the camaraderie. Eyes meet mine, and nods are exchanged. This is family. When shit hits the fan, it's the Royal Bastards who stand shoulder to shoulder.

"Food's on," a voice hollers from the kitchen, where club women are dishing out strength and comfort by the plateful. The smell of meat and spices fills the air, battling back the stink of fear.

Then she's there, Lucy, slicing through the crowd, her eyes locked on Lyric. Their sisterly bond is almost a lifeline I can literally see. She grabs Lyric's hand, and a silent conversation passes between them. They move toward the stairs. Her father follows, his face etched with worry and resignation. He looks back once, our eyes meeting. There's no blame there, just an unspoken understanding. He's entrusting me with another piece of his heart.

"Highway, I'm going to get Dad settled in the room across from yours and Lyric's," Lucy throws over her shoulder, not slowing down. They vanish upstairs, leaving me stranded in the storm.

"Fuck!" I exhale, watching them go. My room. Our room. A sanctuary for Lyric in this madhouse. She's under my skin, her name etched into my soul alongside the ink.

But there's no time for that now. I square my shoulders. There's war on the horizon, and every man here has a role to play. Mine is clear—I must protect, survive, and retaliate.

"Highway!" a voice calls, pulling me back to the present. Eyes on me, waiting.

"Yeah?" I say, my voice steady.

Time to plan our next move.

Time to show them who the Royal Bastards really are.

Leather creaks as I pivot, and the clubhouse feels alive. Feral is beside me, a shadow with rage in his eyes, muscles coiled tight. He jerks his head, and without a word, I follow him through the crowd, each step heavy with purpose.

We push open the door to the meeting room. Creed is at the table, his presence commanding silence. The leaders of our chapter flank him, faces grim. This is the inner sanctum where decisions are life or death.

"Betrayal." The word slams into the room from Creed's lips. "The Diablo Cartel. They've turned on us."

A collective growl ripples through the room, a sound that's all fury and no fear. My fists clench at my sides.

"Camilla," Feral spits the name like poison. "I'll tear her heart out. Make her regret the day she crossed the Royal Bastards."

"Ease up, brother." Creed's voice is calm but commanding. His gaze locks with Feral's. "That rage? Bottle it. We need cool heads, not just brute force. We need everyone we can count on to come out of this alive."

"Everyone?" I say, my voice low but cutting clear. "Even the Khans?"

"Every damn one of them." Creed's nod is slow and deliberate. "We're calling in every marker, every favor owed. This storm? We weather it together."

"United," someone mutters.

It's a pledge, a vow spoken in the language of the outlaw.

"United," the rest of us echo.

The Royal Bastards don't bend.

We sure as hell don't break.

Creed's voice slices through the murmurs, his eyes cold and calculating. "We hit them hard and hit them fast."

I nod, feeling that familiar surge of adrenaline—the rush that comes before the chaos. Every pair of eyes is fixed on Creed.

"Tonight," he says, and his words hang heavy, loaded. "We take the fight to them before they even smell the blood in the water."

A collective growl of approval ripples through us. We're predators, not prey. We set the traps but don't fall into them.

"Winchester," Creed's gaze cuts to where the man sits to his right. "We need to know the layout of the Crimson Wheelers' compound."

"Got it, Prez." Winchester's reply is a low rumble. "I've had it for a while."

"Good." Creed's lips twist into a half-smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "Let's remind the Wheelers who they're dealing with. And let the Diablo Cartel hear about it."

My hands curl into fists at my sides, knuckles itching for a fight. We're a brotherhood bound by blood and honor.

Betray us?

Hell hath no fury like the Royal Bastards scorned.

Creed's words echo in my head. Tonight, the streets will whisper our story—a tale of loyalty, retribution, and the fierce bond of the Royal Bastards MC.