Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Nineteen

Highway

The rumble of motorcycle engines soothes me as we cruise down the highway. I'm at the tail end, eyes peeled for trouble because that's what road captains do. Watch. Protect. Ride.

Ahead, Creed's bike slows. We must be pulling over. We are near the Old Dixie Highway, so I throttle down, feeling the drag, and the boys follow suit.

"Circle up," Creed grunts, his voice rough like gravel tossed in a metal bucket. He's off his Harley, his boots kicking up dust.

I kill my engine. The sudden quiet is a stark contrast to the relentless thrum of the ride.

Creed's stance is all wrong. He's favoring his left side, shoulder dipped low. The wound in his shoulder must be giving him some pain.

"Russians say we wait here," Creed says through gritted teeth. His hand hovers over his shoulder. "They got a present for us."

"Present, huh?" Reaper snorts, but there's an edge to his voice.

A present from the Russians could be anything from a crate of AKs to a one-way ticket to a shallow grave.

"Any idea what kind of gift?" I ask.

"Guess we'll find out." Creed's eyes are steel, cold, and hard. He's expecting a delivery all right, just not the usual kind.

We settle in, engines cooling, the tension rising like heat from the blacktop.

Creed fishes out a couple of painkillers from his pocket, tilts his head back, and swallows them dry.

"Good to go?" I call over to him.

He nods, a tight jerk of his chin. "Hate this," he grunts. "Being out here, away from home turf… dealing with Ivanov's goons." His eyes darken, haunted. "But because the Diablos screwed us, we have no choice."

I watch Creed, the man who took a bullet and still rides like he owns the road. I've never seen him steer us wrong. Not once. He's got a code, and it's kept us alive. But things have changed since Devil entered his life. She's softened his edges without dulling his blade. Made him more human. And the club is all the better for it—tighter and stronger.

Yeah, we're in deep with the Russians now, but if there's a way through this mess, Creed will find it. He always does.

The rumble of an engine in the distance snags my attention. Dust plumes up from the Old Dixie Highway like a bad omen. I squint against the glare of the afternoon sun. Reaper catches the sound, too, his head tilting slightly.

"Truck's coming," he says, voice steady.

"Here?" Creed grunts, disbelief lacing his tone. "They normally stick to the main highway."

"Could be anyone." Reaper's hand hovers near his sidearm, eyes locked on the approaching vehicle. "Could be trouble."

"Or could be just what we're expecting," I toss in, but I'm scanning the stretch of road, wary. There aren't many reasons for a truck to roll through here. It could be lost.

Winchester's voice cuts through the tension. "Might wanna play it safe. Justice and I can take to the trees… keep an eye out."

Creed looks at him, a ghost of a smirk twisting his lips despite the pain etched in his face. "It's a damn truck, Winchester, not a goddamn ambush."

"Right," Winchester drawls, but the look he shoots me says he isn't convinced. "But you know how I love nature."

"Me too," Justice says.

"Fine," Creed concedes. "Go be one with the wilderness, boys."

Justice's nod is quick, a silent agreement. He reaches into his saddlebags with practiced ease, pulling out the Glock. It gleams for just a split second before he tucks it away, hidden but ready. He doesn't say a word as he melts into the trees, blending into the scenery. Winchester follows suit, just another whisper in the wind, vanishing without a trace.

"Always the cautious one." Creed chuckles, shaking his head.

"Better safe than sorry," Reaper adds, though his eyes never stray from the dust cloud that's heralding the truck's arrival.

"Let's see what this present is all about, then," Creed says, flexing his injured shoulder with a wince.

"Ready for whatever's coming," I reply, my hand resting on the grip of my piece. The comfort of cold metal under my fingers steadies me.

"Let's hope it's just a delivery," Reaper mutters.

But we're all thinking the same thing—in our world, nothing is ever just anything.

The rumble of the truck grows louder, its engine growling like some caged beast finally set free. Something about this whole setup feels off.

The truck rolls to a stop, and the driver's door swings open with a creak. A mountain of a man steps out, boots thudding on the asphalt. His frame is bulky, muscles straining under the fabric of his shirt as if the cotton is a second skin.

"Present," he grunts, his accent thick, the syllables rough around the edges. He thrusts the keys toward Creed, who takes them without flinching. "For you."

"Who are you?" Reaper demands, voice like gravel.

"Boris," the man says, tapping his chest with a meaty finger. His eyes dart between us, sizing us up as friends or foes.

Creed pockets the keys, his face unreadable. "What kind of present?"

"Good present." Boris' attempt at reassurance comes across more like a warning.

I take a step forward, my instincts screaming.

What if this goes south?

What if it's a trap?

But I push those thoughts down and lock them away. No room for doubt now.

"Let's see it then," Creed's voice is steady.

Boris strides to the back of the truck, a hulking mass of confidence. The grin plastered on his face says we are either about to strike gold or walk into a damn ambush. I follow closely behind Creed and Reaper, my gut tight with anticipation.

"Come, come," Boris calls out, waving us on like we're old pals at a reunion rather than potential rivals or targets.

"Showtime," Reaper mutters, and there's that flicker in his eyes, the one that speaks of danger and excitement all wrapped up in one deadly package.

The truck doors fly open with a metallic crash that echoes off the trees. They stand wide like the gates to some forbidden armory. Inside, it's a goddammed arsenal. Row upon row of sleek, deadly firearms gleam under the Florida sun. My pulse kicks up a notch. This isn't just hardware—it's a statement.

"Fuck," Creed exhales, long and slow, a whistle cutting through the still air.

"Present from Camilla Sanchez." Boris beams. His eyes crinkle at the corners, and there's this glint of triumph in them.

"Jesus," Reaper says, his voice low and thoughtful. He's eyeing a rocket launcher like it's Christmas morning, and he's ten years old again.

"Sanchez?" Creed's brow creases into a frown, his voice rough like gravel. "How?"

Boris' smile doesn't falter as he runs a finger across his thick neck—a universal gesture that needs no translation. The Russian's eyes glint with dark humor, and there's a hint of finality in the move that sends a shiver down my spine.

Gifts like these come with strings. But right now, they look a lot like opportunity. And we're in no position to turn down any advantage.

"Very generous," Boris agrees, nodding enthusiastically. There's an eagerness in his stance, like he's waiting for applause.

"Let's get this party started," Creed announces, and something like relief washes over Boris' face. Maybe he wasn't so sure of his welcome after all.

He digs deep into his coat pocket—so deep I find myself tensing, ready for anything. But it's just a phone he pulls out, sleek and black, the screen catching the light as he hands it to Creed.

"You ring," Boris says, pushing the device into Creed's palm.

Creed's fingers close around the phone. He scrolls through the contacts, but there's only one entry, a number without a name. He looks up at us, a silent question in his eyes. Reaper nods, his expression set in stone. I give a slight tilt of my head. No turning back now.

The call button is pressed, and the speakerphone is engaged. We gather around, the tension coiling between us like a live wire.

"Creed," comes the voice of Lev Ivanov from the speaker. There's a coldness to it that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

"Lev." Creed's voice is steady, giving nothing away.

"We've taken over the Diablos," Lev states matter-of-factly as if discussing the weather. "Consider these weapons a measure of good faith."

"Good faith," Creed echoes, skepticism lacing his tone. His eyes scan the arsenal before us, then flick back to the phone.

"Yours to do with as you wish," Lev continues, and the line crackles with the weight of those words.

"Understood." Creed's reply is clipped, and he ends the call with a decisive thumb press.

"Looks like we're back in business," Reaper murmurs, but his eyes are wary, watchful.

"Let's load up," Creed says.

This is more than a gift—it's a game changer. And in our world, change is rarely bloodless.

"Damn," I mutter under my breath.

"Let's move out," Creed barks as he pockets the phone.

Reaper nods, his eyes scanning the horizon like he's expecting trouble to roll up on us at any second. "Wheels up," Reaper yells, facing the woods.

Creed approaches Justice and points at his bike. "Move her off the road. Make sure she's hidden."

"Will do," Justice replies, his voice low as he walks toward Creed's pride and joy. He'll stash the bike where God himself couldn't find it.

Creed hoists himself up into the truck, then jangles the keys in his hand. "Let's move."

My bike roars to life, and we move into formation, Reaper and I falling in behind the truck. The convoy rolls out, engines thundering as we put miles behind us.

***

Our procession slows as Creed takes the truck through our compound gates. I downshift, easing off as Reaper and I roll to a stop outside the gate.

A black SUV is parked near the entrance, a suit leaning against it. It's not until we dismount that he looks up and shows us his face.

"Trouble," I mutter, eyeing Hector.

He's normally always suited up, looking like Wall Street in a world of leather and tattoos. But not today. Today, he's a mess, a shell of the man who once stood by Camilla Sanchez's side. His eyes are bloodshot, with visible veins crisscrossing the whites, giving him a weary appearance.

"Reaper," he rasps, nodding at my VP with something that looks like respect.

"Creed…" I call out. "You've got company."

Creed gets out of the truck, his face a mask of stone. He strides over with Winchester and Justice on either side of him. Hector waits, holding back words until Creed's within striking distance. You can cut the tension with a knife.

Before Creed can speak, Hector holds up a hand. His voice is rough as he speaks, "They killed her." He pinches his nose at the bridge and waggles a finger in Creed's direction. "I don't blame you." Hector looks at Creed. "She couldn't get over your rejection of her. Her pride was her downfall. What Camilla did, going against you, it shouldn't have happened." He shakes his head. "You cut the head off the snake…" Hector finally says, his voice hollow, "… but another will rise."

"Is that right?" Creed asks.

"It won't be me. You've thrown in with the Russians, and they only care about themselves."

Creed says nothing. He crosses his arms over his chest and stares at Hector.

"The organization is already rallying. War's coming."

Creed frowns. "The Diablos picked the fight. We worked for you for years, and you betrayed us. Tried to force us out." Creed points at his chest. "I nearly got killed, and for what? Because Camilla felt jilted?"

"You made her look weak. She felt she had to strike back at you." Hector's bloodshot gaze searches each of us. "But I'm not here to discuss the past."

"Why are you here?" I ask.

Hector focuses on Creed. "You can't trust the Russians, and you were right. You did work for us for years, and for years, we had each other's backs."

"Until you tried to kill me."

Hector waves a hand in the air. "It's in the past. Your MC controls Jacksonville. We will rebuild, and when we do, you'll have a decision to make."

"And if we side with the Russians?" Creed asks.

Hector slightly shakes his head, walks to the driver's side of his SUV, opens the door, and climbs in. Through the open window, he says, "I know you, Creed. You'll do what's best for the MC and your Devil."

Hector starts the car, and we stand together as he drives away.

"What the fuck?" Reaper asks.

"Yeah, what the fuck?" I repeat.

"I think it's Hector's way of letting us know he wants to do business with us again."

My eyebrows shoot up to my hairline. "Creed, you've gotta be fucking kidding me?"

Creed shrugs. "He's a businessman, and he's right… we do own the streets of Jacksonville."

Reaper chuckles. "Yeah, and now we're armed to the teeth to protect it."

Creed grins. "We sure are, but we don't need this much firepower. Winchester, reach out to the Irish and maybe the Khans. I see lots of green in our future."