Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fourteen

Highway

The world is a murky gray that messes with your head and makes you wonder if you're really awake or trapped in some twilight dream. I thumb the safety off my piece, the metallic click almost soothing against the distant hum of the early morning. We're an hour out from dawn.

"Stay sharp," Reaper whispers, his voice cutting through the silence.

My boots make almost no sound on the gravel, hushed and deliberate. This is the time when people are most likely lost in slumber—their guards are down and minds adrift. Dawn is perfect for a first strike.

Scanning the expanse of the Crimson Wheelers' compound, nothing stirs, but that doesn't mean squat. They could be lurking or waiting for us.

"Remember, no mistakes," Winchester says.

We know the stakes and risks, and we've all accepted them without hesitation. This isn't just a mission—it's personal.

"Keep the line open," I remind my brothers as I tap the earpiece I'm wearing because communication is our lifeline. One misstep could cost us everything, and I'm not about to let that happen. Not on my watch.

"Ready?" Reaper's question hangs in the air, heavy with the weight of what's to come.

Many of us nod.

The first glimmer of dawn bleeds into the sky. My heart hammers beneath my cut as we creep closer, our boots silent on the dew-slick grass.

We inch toward the compound's outer fence, the metallic scent of impending rain mingling with the adrenaline that courses through me. Each breath is a cloud of mist, each step a calculated risk.

"Positions," I signal, my fingers tight around the grip of my weapon. The others fan out, their forms blending into the half-light. We are the unseen, the unexpected.

With a nod, Reaper gives the signal. We surge forward, a wave of vengeance poised to crash upon those who wronged us. This is more than an attack—it's retribution.

We are the Royal Bastards, and this dawn belongs to us.

Reaper turns his steely gaze to Fingers, who is clutching a laptop like it's his lifeline. "You make sure you bleed their computers dry. Everything they've got."

"Copy that," Fingers replies, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. Though he's more at home behind a screen, the glint in his eyes says he's ready to throw down if necessary.

Winchester steps forward, pulling out a crumpled blueprint from his cut. Even in the dim light, I can see every mark, every notation he's made.

"Main entrance is a no-go, wired up the ass with cameras. We hit the side gate here…" He points. "Low surveillance, easy pickings."

"Escape routes?" I ask, scanning the layout.

"Back fence, over there…" he gestures off to the left, "… and a hidden passage through the garage."

"Good. Stay sharp, stay silent. We do this clean," Reaper commands. "Let's carve 'em up." Reaper smirks, the threat in his tone unmistakable.

Justice slinks ahead, a shadow among shadows. He moves like he's part cat. I watch him dismantle an alarm with a few deft flicks of his wrist, his fingers steady as a surgeon's.

"Clear," he whispers, barely a breath on the wind.

"Copy that," I reply, my voice just as low.

We edge closer to the compound with every muscle coiled tight, ready for what's next. My heart drums against my ribs, but it's not fear—it's the thrill of the hunt.

I signal the rest of the Bastards with a swift hand motion, and like the ghostly riders of legend, we advance, unseen, unheard, and unstoppable.

"Stay sharp," I murmur, my voice cutting through the hush. "Keep your heads on a swivel and your comms open. We're not out for a Sunday ride… this is the real deal."

"Roger that, Highway," comes the static-laced reply over the earpieces. A chorus of agreement ripples through the group.

"Justice, Winchester, you're up," Reaper says through the comms.

They slip away from the group with practiced ease, their movements fluid and silent as they position themselves.

Winchester crouches by a cluster of bushes, his broad frame surprisingly stealthy. His eyes are on the main gate, fingers flexing around the grip of his weapon, ready to unleash hell if need be.

"Winchester's set," he confirms, his tone low, barely above a whisper, yet clear as day in my ear.

"Good. Justice?" I prompt, knowing full well the man can hear me.

"I'm good to go," Justice replies, and even though I can't see him, I can picture the smirk on his face.

"Let's show 'em how the Bastards party," Reaper growls.

And with that, we move, a single entity driven by purpose and the unbreakable bonds of brotherhood. The hunt is on.

Reaper's signal cuts through the haze, a clenched fist raised high. No more waiting, no more schemes. It's go-time.

My hand tightens around my piece. Adrenaline pumps through my veins. This is what we bleed for—the rush of the ride, the fight, the brotherhood. Fingers is right beside me, a silent shadow that knows tonight is not just about muscle—it's about intel.

Metal clanks and chains snap. We're through the gate, storming the inner sanctum of the enemy. With Justice's handiwork, all the security systems are down before they knew what hit them.

"Let's light 'em up," someone yells, and the morning explodes into chaos.

"Taking point," Winchester's voice crackles through, calm amidst the chaos.

"Flank secured," Justice confirms, just as steady.

Gunfire erupts, bullets singing a deadly lullaby. We move together, fluid and relentless. The Crimson Wheelers scramble, caught off guard by our early-morning strike.

We're inside now, tearing through their defenses.

It's mayhem.

It's madness.

It's a Royal Bastards' raid in all its glory.

The compound is ours, room by room, hall by hall. Their resistance crumbles beneath our onslaught. Winchester and Justice hold fast outside, keeping any would-be heroes from interrupting us.

Fingers moves into a room that has a computer with me keeping watch.

"Crimson Wheelers' secrets will soon be ours," Fingers states as he hacks away while I lay down cover.

I'm perched behind an old couch and an upturned table, my eyes fixed on Fingers as he frantically types away on a battered laptop. The staccato clack of keys blends with the relentless chatter of gunfire. I squeeze the trigger once, twice, sending Crimson Wheelers to the floor, their bodies crumpling like rag dolls.

"Cover me, Highway!" Fingers shouts without looking up, his fingers dancing across the keyboard.

"Got your back," I reply, reloading in a flash.

My hands are steady, even as adrenaline pumps through my veins. Another Wheeler pops out from behind a door, but he's met with a bullet that sends him spiraling backward.

A Royal Bastard never stands alone. That's our creed. To my left, Feral lays down a curtain of bullets, his face an impassive mask as he kills anyone who dares to oppose us.

"Highway, three o'clock!" Winchester's voice cuts through the sound of screams and gunfire.

I pivot, sighting down my barrel. Three Wheelers think they've got the drop on us. They're wrong. My finger hugs the trigger, and three shots ring out. The first man staggers forward, a trickle of blood moving down his face as dead eyes stare at me. The second howls in pain, clutching his chest, and then he falls. The last man falls backward, eyes and mouth open as though he can't believe he got out-gunned.

"Nice shooting." Winchester smirks, reloading his weapon. His eyes are alight with the thrill of the fight, a predator in his element.

We move as one, the Royal Bastards, fueled by the need to protect our own. I watch as one of us takes a hit, goes down, but not out. Tank, built like the machine he's named after, is back on his feet in seconds, bloodied but unbowed. His roar is feral as he charges, taking the fight to the enemy.

Right now, we're ensuring it's the Crimson Wheelers who taste death.

"Done," Fingers exclaims triumphantly.

He snaps the laptop shut and slides it into his bag with one hand while firing off a few rounds with the other.

"Time to blow this joint," I declare, signaling the retreat with a sharp whistle.

I'm a shadow behind Reaper. He's a damn force of nature, barreling through the Crimson Wheelers with nothing but muscle and steel. I watch, almost in awe, as he grabs a rival by the collar, headbutting him hard enough to send him sprawling.

"Should've stayed down," Reaper growls out as the guy tries to crawl away.

This one's trying to beg, blood bubbling from his split lip. Reaper doesn't hesitate. His knife flashes, a silver streak in the dim light, and then there's silence. It's quick, clean, and surgical.

"Damn," I mutter under my breath.

Two more try their luck, rushing him like that's going to save them. Reaper sidesteps the first and sends him crashing into the second. They're entangled, confusion etched on their faces. Reaper's boot meets a ribcage, and there's a crunch that has me wincing.

"Pathetic," Reaper spits out.

His blade finds flesh again and again. No shots are fired, just the slick sound of a knife cutting life short. Two thuds, bodies hitting the floor. Reaper stands, chest heaving, drenched in the proof of his kills.

"Good thing you're with us," I say, clapping him on the back.

Reaper only nods, his eyes already scanning for the next threat.

The survivors are herded inside the clubhouse, like cattle to the slaughter. The air is thick with fear and gun smoke, walls echoing with the ghosts of their fallen brothers.

"Talk," Reaper commands, his voice deadly calm. He's got this way of speaking that chills you to the bone.

One by one, they will spill their guts, hoping for mercy. Reaper's knife glints in his hand, a silent judge.

"Diablo Cartel?" he asks the first, who is shaking so bad his teeth chatter.

"Money… they paid for protection," the Wheeler stammers, eyes darting around, seeking an escape that isn't there.

Reaper nods, and it's over before the guy can blink. Next, next, and next—each confession sealed with a final slice.

"Last one," Reaper says, almost bored.

The last Wheeler is crying now, snot and tears mixing with the dirt on his face. "Please," he whimpers.

"Did you think you stood a chance?" Reaper's voice is a whisper of death.

The guy looks directly at me and gasps just before Reaper's knife ends the conversation for good.

All five are gone.

The questions hang in the air, unanswered whispers drowned in blood.

Without being told, I pour gasoline over the bodies. The smell of it clings to my hands, a pungent reminder of the task at hand. I douse the buildings as well, the liquid splashing over wooden floors and lifeless faces, erasing their identities as easily as we snuffed out their lives. My boots soak up the fuel as I walk, leaving dark, wet prints on the wooden floor.

"What about the women?" I ask Reaper.

There are a few of them huddled together at the back of the clubhouse. Reaper shrugs, but I'm not about to kill females who didn't join in the fight or can't look after themselves.

"We could let them go?"

Slowly, Reaper shakes his head from side to side. The blood of his enemies covers most of him, making him appear more monster than man.

"W-We won't say anything," one of the women says as she steps forward.

One of her friends grabs her hand and tries to pull her back into the group.

"Some of us didn't want to be here in the first place." She glances over her shoulder at a girl who could be more than fifteen, then stares at me. "Please."

Reaper tilts his head to the side, studying her. "I know you."

She nods. "I was Hawk's sister."

Reaper's eyebrows shoot up. "Thought you were dead. Jet, yeah?"

"Yeah, and I might as well have been." Jet looks around at the dead men on the floor.

Justice walks into the room, and Reaper gives him a chin lift. "Get them all back to our clubhouse."

Jet takes another step forward. "I'm not trading this life for another shitty one with the likes of you." Her eyes blaze with defiance.

Reaper laughs. "I don't take sloppy seconds, and you won't be. We just need to make sure we're all on the same page, and after a reasonable amount of time, you can all leave."

Justice moves forward, and she cocks her head to the side. Whatever he sees in her eyes causes him to stop.

"Give me your word we won't be used like whores or slaves or whatever the fuck your gang does."

Reaper laughs and points his knife at Jet. "I like you. You've got balls." The smile falls off his face, and he moves right into her personal space.

I wince inwardly, knowing if it were me, I'd back down, but damn if this woman doesn't have a spine. Jet doesn't step back, and she stares Reaper in the eyes. They stay locked like that until one of the other women lets out a sob. Reaper stares past Jet, then nods.

"You have my word. No one will hurt you, but you will come to our compound. This is non-negotiable."

Jet steps back and nods. "I'm going to hold you to that."

Reaper quirks an eyebrow at her. "Time to go."

Justice steps forward. "Ladies, if you'll all follow me?"

Jet puts her arm around the young girl, and they follow Justice out.

"You did the right thing," I say to Reaper.

He shrugs. "Make it rain, Highway," Reaper says, his voice an undercurrent of darkness in the silence that follows death.

I pull the matches from my pocket, striking one against the rough side of the box. The flame flickers to life, small and insignificant against the carnage around us. But its power lies in what comes next. I flick the match into the pooling gasoline, a simple gesture that ignites an inferno.

Flames roar to life, greedy tongues licking up the sides of the clubhouse. Heat washes over me, and for a moment, I feel like the devil himself. The fire devours everything, consuming the evidence of our retribution with hungry fervor. Crimson Wheelers, their clubhouse, their secrets—all of it turns to ash and smoke under the wrath of the Royal Bastards.

"Let's ride," I call out, my voice hoarse but steady.

There's nothing left here for us but echoes and embers.

***

The rumble of my bike is a familiar comfort as we ride back to our territory, the morning air washing the stench of blood and gasoline from my nostrils. I can't wait to see Lyric, to feel something other than the adrenaline and cold resolve that's been my companion.

The Royal Bastards' clubhouse comes into view, and my heart kicks up a notch.

Home.

Safety.

Lyric.

She's there before I even kill the engine, rushing out to meet me. My Lyric with her wild hair and eyes that have seen too much but still shine when they look at me. She throws herself into my arms, and I hold her tight, breathing in the scent of her shampoo, a stark contrast to the smell of destruction lingering on my clothes.

"Highway," she whispers—it soothes the jagged edges inside me.

"Lyric," I respond, my lips finding hers in a kiss that speaks of the fear, loss, and the relief of return. It's soft and fierce all at once, a promise and a homecoming.

"Are you okay?" she asks, pulling back just enough to search my face with worried eyes.

"Better now," I admit, meaning every damn word.

Her touch is warmth and life, a reminder of why we fight so hard and cling to this brotherhood of outcasts and warriors.

"Come on," she murmurs, taking my hand.

"Not yet."

Her eyebrows come together in a frown, but she lets me pull her toward the bonfire burning at the back of the clubhouse. I take off all my clothing and boots, then throw them into the flames. There will be no forensic evidence to link us to the carnage at the Crimson Wheelers' compound.

One by one, all the men who were at the raid do the same. Tank stands next to me, blood oozing down his chest as he stares into the flames.

"You okay, brother?"

He doesn't look at me. "Yeah. This is only the beginning, isn't it?"

Glancing at Lyric, I nod. "Yeah."

She puts her hand in mind and pulls me through the clubhouse. Lyric asks no questions, and I feel as long as she's by my side, I've got something worth returning to. No matter what hell we ride through, Lyric is my haven, and for her, I'd burn down the world or build it anew.

The clubhouse is silent as we each retreat into our rooms, looking for a shower and clean clothes. Lyric turns on the faucet, and I step under the spray, letting the water wash me clean. There's a knock on the door, and she leaves me to see who it is, only to come back a few moments later.

"Winchester said to give you this?" Lyric looks puzzled as she hands me a bottle of bleach.

"He's making sure none of us goes down for what we did."

Using a scrub brush, I pour the bleach on myself and scour my skin. It flushes red, and I don't stop until the whole bottle has been used. The water goes cold long before I'm finished. When I'm done, I step out onto the tiled floor, and Lyric wraps me in a towel.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"Creed will be waiting for us."

"Will you talk about it?"

The atmosphere feels heavy with the weight of unspoken truths. My rough exterior hides a tumultuous past, and the broad-shouldered frame I carry feels burdened by countless dark deeds.

I run a hand through my tousled hair, a nervous gesture that contrasts with my usual composed demeanor. Taking a deep breath, my chest rises and falls heavily as if preparing myself for the weight of my confessions.

"Yes."

Lyric steps closer, touching my hand, gentle yet reassuring. In that moment, I realize that sharing my darkness will not drive her away but bring us closer. For the first time, I feel the possibility of redemption and the hope that true and unwavering love can heal even the deepest wounds.

She kisses me and entwines her fingers in my hair, then steps back, her nose wrinkling. "You smell like bleach."

Grinning, I say, "I smell clean."

"Are you hungry?" Lyric asks.

"Yeah." It feels like forever since I last ate.

"I'll make you a plate and have it upstairs waiting for you." She goes up on her tiptoes and presses her lips to mine before disappearing downstairs.

***

Creed sits at the head of the table, his eyes scanning each of us as we stride in one by one. The tension in his shoulders eases when his gaze lands on Reaper, Fingers, and me. We're battered but alive.

"Report," Creed commands, his voice carrying the weight of authority and unspoken concern.

Reaper steps forward, his knuckles once stained red are now scrubbed and clean, much like my own. "Crimson Wheelers' clubhouse is ashes. Casualties on their side were extensive. We lost no one."

"Good." Creed nods once, sharp and decisive. He turns to Fingers, who is already flipping open his laptop, the screen casting a pale glow on his concentrated face. "What have you got?"

Fingers doesn't look up, his fingers flying over the keys. "It's just like we thought, Creed. The money trail's as dirty as they come. Shell companies and backdoor deals. But it's clear as day, Diablo Cartel's stink is all over the Crimson Wheelers."

"Show me," Creed demands.

I lean against the wall, arms crossed, watching the screen come to life, a damning picture of betrayal and corruption. Numbers and transfers, dates and times, all weaving a narrative we'd suspected but can now confirm.

"Here." Fingers points at a cluster of transactions. "Payments made days before the rally. And here…" his finger jabs at another series of entries "… more payouts, scheduled for after. They wanted to squeeze us out, take control."

Creed's jaw clenches, eyes flinty with the cold rage that promises retribution. "Diablo Cartel is gonna regret crossing the Royal Bastards."

A murmur of agreement ripples through the room. We're more than a club. We are a family. And when one of us is threatened, we all stand ready to ride into hell together.

"Anything else?" Creed's stare pins Fingers down, demanding every last detail.

"That's the bulk of it," Fingers replies, shutting his laptop with a snap. "But I'll keep digging. There's always more dirt to find."

"Good man." Creed's praise is rare, making it all the more valuable. He surveys the room again. "We'll need all the intel we can get. The Diablos have deep pockets, but they just bought themselves a war they won't walk away from."

There's a deadly promise in Creed's voice. We're the Royal Bastards, and don't bow down to anyone.

"Everyone but Highway, Winchester, Reaper, and Justice… out," Creed commands

The room clears, leaving us four, Creed's trusted council. He fishes a cell from his cut, thumbing it with a fury I recognize all too well.

"Camilla," he barks into the speakerphone, the name like a bullet. "Why?"

Her laugh crackles through the silence, high and mocking. "You Royal Bastards are merely pawns," she sneers. "Pawns in the Diablos' game."

Creed's face reddens, muscles twitching with barely contained rage. "After all these years…" he starts, his voice low and dangerous.

"Your loyalty was your downfall," Camilla interrupts, her tone icy. "The Crimson Wheelers will finish you soon enough."

Silence descends for a heartbeat before Creed's laughter—a cold, mirthless sound—fills the room. "You think you've got us cornered?" His gaze meets mine, fiery and resolute. "The Crimson Wheelers are dead. Jacksonville is ours. Never underestimate a Royal Bastard."

The line goes dead.

Silence hangs heavy, charged with the weight of impending war. But as I look around at my brothers, at Creed, who is unyielding, I feel it—the unbreakable bond.

Creed slams his fist down on the table, his jaw set, eyes like flint. He doesn't skip a beat, punching in another number. His calloused finger presses the final digit, and he switches the phone to speaker for everyone to hear.

"Da." The voice on the other end cuts through, heavy with a Russian accent.

"Creed for Lev," he growls into the silence, every word a promise of retribution.

The room is thick with tension and charged with electricity. I can almost taste the violence in the air, feel it pulsing in my veins. We're standing at the edge of an abyss—war with the Diablos—and we're about to jump.

"Da?"

"Lev." Creed's voice is steel wrapped in velvet, a dangerous combination that means business.

"It is early," replies the Russian.

"He will want to speak with me. Tell him who it is."

"Lev's not gonna like this," the Russian on the other end mutters, but there's a current of curiosity under the annoyance.

"Lev will want to hear this," Creed insists, his tone brokering no argument. "It's about the Diablos."

The line is quiet for a heartbeat, just the crackle of anticipation. Then a rustle, like someone's being roused from sleep—the sound of murmuring, the shuffle of movement, followed by a click as if a door closes somewhere far away.

"Speak," a new voice commands, thick with authority and the remnants of disrupted dreams.

Creed leans in, his eyes narrow slits of calculation. "I've got a proposition that'll benefit us both. It's time to push the Diablo Cartel out of Jacksonville."

"Yes?" Lev's interest piques, almost tangible across the wire.

"Yes," Creed confirms, a ghost of a smirk flickering across his lips. "We take them down, and we share the throne. You in?"

Silence stretches taut between them. Every second ticking by has my heart pounding in my chest. Reaper's fingers twitch beside his blade, and Winchester's stoic gaze is locked on Creed.

"Is this your move, Royal Bastard?" The title isn't mockery but recognition.

"Checkmate." Creed's voice is a promise.

"Interesting." Lev's voice is a growl of approval. "You have my attention. Let's talk."

Creed nods once, sharp and decisive. He glances at us, his warriors, his brothers. We're in this together, each of us ready to ride through Hell's flames.

"Good," he says. "Because when the Royal Bastards make a move, we play to win."

"You've finally had enough of the Diablos, my friend?"

"Enough to make a deal."

Lev chuckles, the sound like breaking glass. "And what makes you think we would align with the Royal Bastards?"

"Common enemy," Creed shoots back.

"Ah, so it is war you're preparing for." He's not asking but confirming what he already knows.

"War's already here," Creed says, scanning the room. Reaper, Winchester, and Justice are all stone-faced and ready. "Just picking sides now."

"Ha!" He barks, a single, mirthless laugh. "Tell me your terms, Creed."

"Simple…" Creed presses on, "Your muscle, your reach. In return, we carve up Jacksonville. Diablo Cartel gets the boot."

"Generous offer," Lev muses, the line humming with the weight of his consideration.

"Smart business," Creed counters. "You get a slice of the South without dirtying your hands too much."

"Yes, you have a point," Lev concedes.

"Listen." Creed leans in. "We've been underestimating each other. Time to correct that mistake."

"Underestimation can be deadly, yes," Lev agrees, a note of respect threading through his words.

"Then let's make them pay," Creed urges

"Perhaps," Lev drawls, dragging out the moment, savoring the power he holds. But I can tell he's hooked, intrigued by the chaos we propose.

"Back us, and we'll push the Diablo Cartel out of Jacksonville. Together."

"Bold, Creed, very bold." Lev's voice drops an octave, a sign he's in. "All right. You have my support."

"Good."

"This will be interesting."

"Interesting enough to shake up the whole damn city," Creed promises, clenching the phone.

"Very well," Lev says, sealing the deal with two words.

"Talk soon, Lev." Creed hangs up before he can reply.

We've just struck a deal with the devil himself.

And hell, if it isn't exactly where the Royal Bastards thrive.