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Azrael

I tracked my target for six blocks, keeping to the shadows as he moved through the decaying part of town. The streets had names but nobody used them anymore. This was just the bad side, where even cops wouldn’t patrol after dark. Perfect hunting ground for a man like me. The dealer was nervous, his head swiveling every few steps, fingers twitching. He never looked up or behind. If he had, he might have noticed me.

Charming had been crystal clear when he’d slid the photo across the table this morning. “Devil’s Minions are arming up. Find out what they’re buying and send a message.”

Ever since we’d gotten word another club had moved in too close to home, we’d been more vigilant than usual. Charming was on edge, which meant we all were.

The alley came up on my right, narrow and stinking of piss and rotted food. The man ducked into it without breaking stride. I counted to ten, checked my surroundings, then followed. My boots made hardly a sound against the damp concrete. Years of practice had taught me how to move like a ghost when needed.

Twenty yards in, the alley bent sharply left. I pressed my back against the brick wall and tilted my head just enough to peek around. There they were. Three men, my target and two others I didn’t recognize. Between them sat a black duffel bag, unzipped enough to show the gleaming metal inside.

“This all of it?” one asked, his voice carrying the distinct edge of someone who thought he was more important than he was.

“Half,” my target replied. “You get the rest when I see the money.”

The third man knelt and pulled back the zipper farther. “Six Glocks, four AR-15s… What about the ammo?”

“In the truck. Once we --”

I shifted my weight and a discarded bottle clinked against the brick. All three men went silent.

“The fuck was that?” the kneeling one said, already on his feet and reaching behind his back.

I could’ve disappeared, come back another day when they weren’t so alert. But Charming wanted a message sent, and waiting wouldn’t accomplish that. I stepped around the corner, keeping my stance loose. Ready.

All three pulled guns immediately. Someone else might have been scared. Not me. Wasn’t the first time I’d had a gun pointed at me. Wouldn’t be the last.

“Who the fuck are you?” my target demanded, his pistol wavering slightly.

“Private party,” the one who’d checked the weapons added. “Get the fuck out of here if you want to live.”

I smiled. Not the kind that reaches your eyes. The kind that makes smart people run. “Private? An alley? Not hardly. You boys picked the wrong town to do business in.”

“The hell you talking about? We got permission to be here.”

“From who?” I asked, genuinely curious. “Because the Devil’s Boneyard don’t remember giving it.”

The name landed like I knew it would. Their eyes widened, and the one farthest from me took a half-step backward before catching himself.

“Devil’s Boneyard can fuck off,” my target spat, though his voice cracked. “This is Minion territory now. Everyone knows the Devil’s Boneyard have lost their bite.”

I shook my head slowly. “No such thing. Never will be. My President asked me to deliver a message.”

“Yeah? What’s that?” the farthest one asked, trying to sound brave.

I looked each of them in the eye. “This is the only warning. Pack up and leave, or we’ll burn everything you’ve built to the ground.”

The one nearest the bag laughed. “There’s three of us and one of you, asshole. Only message getting delivered is your body to the morgue.”

I didn’t bother responding. Words were done. I moved.

The first shot went wide as I closed the distance, ducking low and driving my shoulder into my target’s stomach. The air left his lungs in a rush as he folded over me. I grabbed his gun hand and twisted until something snapped. His scream echoed against the brick as his pistol clattered to the ground.

The other two were already firing. One bullet grazed my arm, hot pain slicing through me, but I shook it off. I spun my target around, using him as a shield. Two shots thudded into his chest, and he jerked against me.

“Fuck! Stop shooting!” he screamed at his friends.

I shoved him forward and drew my own weapon from inside my cut. My first shot got the farthest man in the throat. He dropped his gun and clutched at the sudden fountain of blood, eyes bulging in shock. He’d be dead shortly after he hit the ground.

The third man emptied his clip at me, but panic made him sloppy. I felt one bullet tug at my jeans, but it didn’t bite into my flesh. When his gun clicked empty, his face went slack.

“Wait --” he started, fumbling for another magazine.

I crossed the distance in three strides and drove my fist into his face. Cartilage crunched under my knuckles. Blood sprayed from his shattered nose. He stumbled back against the wall, ammo forgotten. I hit him again, this time in the gut. As he doubled over, I brought my knee up into his face. More crunching. More blood.

My target was trying to crawl away, leaving a dark trail behind him. The one I’d shot in the throat had stopped moving, eyes fixed on nothing. The third man slid down the wall, consciousness fading as blood poured from his ruined face.

I turned back to my target. “Where’s the Minions’ President? Or your boss. Who the fuck do you answer to?”

“Please,” he gasped. “I got kids.”

“So do a lot of people. Answer my fucking question.”

“Strip club… Velvet something. My boss is there most nights, same for their President.”

I nodded. Information secured. Now for the message.

I pulled my knife from its sheath. The blade caught what little light penetrated the alley, gleaming darkly. My target’s eyes fixed on it.

“No, man. Please. I told you what you wanted.”

“You did,” I agreed. “And I appreciate that. But a message needs sending.”

I grabbed him by the hair and yanked his head back, then dragged my blade in one smooth motion across his throat. Hot blood spilled over my hand and down my wrist. He made a horrible gurgling sound as he tried to breathe through the new opening in his neck.

The third man had regained enough awareness to see what was happening. He tried to scramble away, but his legs weren’t working right. I walked to him calmly, knife still dripping.

“I’ll tell the Pres,” he pleaded, hands up.

“You won’t be telling anyone anything,” I said, and drove the knife up under his ribs. Once. Twice. A third time. His body jerked, then went still.

I wiped my blade on his shirt before returning it to its sheath. The alley had gone quiet except for the distant sounds of traffic and my own breathing. I checked the duffel bag, confirming what I’d seen. High-quality weapons, not the cheap shit usually found in street deals. The Devil’s Minions were serious about arming up.

I zipped the bag closed and slung it over my shoulder. Evidence secured. Message delivered. And hell, we got some new toys free of charge out of the deal. Not bad.

Blood was already drying tacky on my hands as I walked away from the carnage. I felt nothing but the satisfaction of a job well done. This city had enough problems without a one percent club trying to muscle in. Sometimes cleaning required getting your hands dirty.

I left the alley the same way I’d entered, invisible to anyone who might be watching. Just another shadow moving through a city full of them. But unlike most shadows, I left something behind. Something that would make the Minions understand exactly what happened when you tried to set up shop in Devil’s Boneyard territory.

A warning written in blood.

I secured the weapons to the back of my bike and then hauled ass back toward home. But I needed to clean up before I hit the more respectable side of town. I pulled into the Gas-N-Go at the edge of what could only be considered the ghetto. It was the kind of place where the security cameras had been broken for years and nobody cared enough to fix them. Perfect.

The neon sign flickered pathetically, casting sickly blue light across my bloodstained knuckles. I parked around back, away from the single streetlight. The bathroom key hung on a piece of splintered wood labeled “RESTROOM” in faded black marker. The attendant barely looked up from his phone as I dropped a twenty on the counter. He pocketed it without a word. No questions. That’s why I came here.

The bathroom door protested with a screech as I pushed it open. The stench hit me immediately -- bleach barely covering the reek of piss and something worse. One bulb dangled from the ceiling, threatening to plunge the room into darkness at any moment. The tile floor might have been white once, decades ago. Now it was a patchwork of stained gray squares, cracked and broken in spots.

I locked the door behind me. The mirror, spotted with age and what looked like old toothpaste flecks, fractured my reflection into disconnected pieces. Blood had dried in the creases of my knuckles and under my fingernails. More had splattered across my forearms. A few drops darkened the front of my shirt.

I turned the hot water tap. It groaned and sputtered before a weak stream emerged, lukewarm at best. I squirted some pink soap from the dispenser into my palm and began the methodical process of washing away the evidence.

Pink foam turned red as I scrubbed, the water swirling crimson down the drain. Three men dead in an alley. Three lives ended by my hand. I should have felt something -- regret, guilt, horror at what I’d done. Instead, I felt the same calm I always did after a job. The blood washing away felt like cleansing, not just my hands but the town itself.

The Devil’s Minions were cancer, spreading through neighboring towns and now trying to infect ours. They’d started with drugs, then guns. Girls would be next. Always was. I’d seen enough clubs go down that road to know the pattern. First you supply the town with its vices, then you own the town.

Not here. Not while the Devil’s Boneyard stood watch.

I scrubbed harder at a stubborn spot on my thumb, the skin raw underneath. The water ran clearer now, only faint traces of pink swirling down the drain. That spiral reminded me of something else. Something older.

My mother’s blood snaking down her face from a cut on her temple. One of the regulars had gotten drunk and broken a glass against her head. She’d plastered a smile on her face and assured me she was fine, but even then I’d known she was lying.

I grabbed some paper towels and wet them, wiping at the blood spatters on my shirt. Better to have a wet shirt than one covered in red. When I was done, I washed my hands once more then dried them. As I stared at my reflection, I tried to see my mother in me. I’d never known my dad, but I liked to think I didn’t have a damn thing in common with him.

My mom been dead a long-ass time. Cancer took her slow, gave me time to say goodbye, but not enough time to become the man she’d wanted me to be. College educated. Safe job. Family.

“Sorry, Mom,” I whispered. “Didn’t quite work out that way.”

Instead, I’d found the Devil’s Boneyard. Or they’d found me. Stripes had seen something in me. Potential, he called it. Cinder had given me purpose. The club had given me family.

Would she understand? I’d like to think so. Mom had been pragmatic about the world. “Sometimes good people have to do bad things to protect what matters,” she’d told me once, after I’d gotten suspended for breaking a bully’s nose. She hadn’t approved, exactly, but she’d understood.

The men in that alley weren’t good people. They would have brought poison into our town, destroyed lives, all for profit. I’d stopped that. Three lives against how many I’d potentially saved?

The math made sense to me, even if it wouldn’t have to her.

I checked myself in the mirror one more time. No visible blood. Nothing to attract attention. I ran my fingers through my hair and practiced looking normal. Not too hard. I’d gotten good at it over the years.

Before leaving, I wiped down everything I’d touched. The Devil’s Boneyard had friends in the police department, but certain habits kept you alive in this business. Attention to detail. Never get sloppy.

I unlocked the door. The attendant glanced up as I passed, his gaze moving over me in assessment.

“You look better,” he said, voice gravelly from years of cigarettes.

I stopped. “Better than what?”

He shrugged. “Than when you came in. Like maybe you found what you were looking for.”

Something about his stare made me take a closer look. The tattoo peeking out from his sleeve wasn’t just any ink. I recognized the style. Prison work.

“Maybe I did,” I said carefully. “You work here long?”

“Long enough to know when to mind my own business.” He tapped his finger against the counter. “Long enough to know what kind of men come through here needing to clean up.”

I felt my muscles tense, ready for trouble. “That right?”

He nodded toward my cut. “Devil’s Boneyard. You boys do good work. Kept my sister’s kid off the shit when the Undead Serpents were running it through here. I respect that.”

I relaxed slightly. “Just doing what needs doing.”

“Heard there’s new players moving in. Minions or some shit.” He spat into a cup beside the register. “Bad news, those boys. No respect.”

“No respect,” I agreed. “And not long for this world if they keep pushing.”

He nodded, understanding passing between us. “Good hunting, brother.”

I pushed open the door, night air cool against my face. The town spread out before me, lights glittering in the darkness. Most people out there had no idea what happened in the shadows to keep them safe. They didn’t know about men like me, or the lines we crossed so they wouldn’t have to.

That was fine. Let them sleep easy. I’d carry the weight of what I’d done tonight. Add it to all the rest. It wasn’t a burden anymore -- just the price of the life I’d chosen.

I started my bike and pulled onto the empty street. The compound waited, and after that, more work to be done. The town needed cleaning, and I was just getting started.

I rolled through the gates of the Devil’s Boneyard compound just past midnight, the tension easing from my shoulders as I passed under the skull-adorned archway. Home. Or the closest thing to it I’d had in years. Floodlights illuminated the lot where dozens of bikes stood in neat rows, chrome glinting like scattered stars. Two Prospects snapped to attention as I pulled up.

“They’re waiting for you,” one of them said, not meeting my eyes directly. Smart kid. He’d learn the rules fast enough -- never look too eager, never too scared. Balance was everything in this life. After the shit we’d dealt with, we’d cracked down on the rules when bringing in Prospects. Too many rotten apples.

“How long they been in there?” I asked.

“‘Bout an hour. Stripes came in with news from town, then Samurai showed up. Charming’s still in his office.”

I nodded and headed for the clubhouse. The two-story building had been renovated recently. Now it was somewhere between a fortress and headquarters.

The heavy door opened to the sound of classic rock and the smell of whiskey, smoke, and leather. Our main room sprawled before me, all exposed brick and worn hardwood floors. The long bar against the far wall gleamed with decades of polishing. Trophy pipes and old photos covered the walls, history and legacy looking down on each new generation.

Three of my brothers played pool in the corner, their laughter cutting through Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Simple Man” pumping from the speakers. A couple of club girls lounged on the couches, one stretching like a cat as I walked in. She smiled, inviting. I gave her a nod but kept moving. Business first.

Stripes and Samurai sat at the bar, hunched over amber-filled glasses, their heads close in conversation. Stripes spotted me first.

“The hunter returns,” he said, his Russian accent thick as always. “Was beginning to think you’d fallen into trouble, brother.”

I slid onto the stool beside him. “Takes more than a few Minion punks to cause me trouble.”

The Prospect behind the bar, Harland, had a glass of Jack in front of me before I could ask. Smart kid. I took a long swallow, the burn a welcome friend after the night’s work.

“You find what Charming sent you for?” Samurai asked, his voice quiet.

“Found it and handled it.” I set my glass down. “Three of them doing a weapons exchange in the alley behind Murphy’s. High-end stuff – Glocks and AR-15s. Not street-level shit. Bag is on my bike.”

Stripes whistled low. “They’re arming for war, then.”

“Looks that way. I sent the message Charming wanted delivered.” I flexed my hand, knuckles still tender beneath the skin. “Left them where someone will find them.”

“Good.” Samurai nodded once. “What else did you learn?”

“Looks like the Minions’ base of operations is some strip joint. Velvet something. One of them spilled before I cut his throat.”

“ Velver Cage ,” Stripes supplied, his face darkening. “ Da , we know this place. Very bad business happening there.”

“What kind of bad business?” I asked, already guessing.

Samurai glanced around, then leaned closer. “Girls. Young ones. Word is they’re not all working by choice.”

My stomach tightened. Human trafficking. The line no respectable club crossed. Even in our world, there were rules. Lines you didn’t step over unless you wanted war. Hadn’t always been that way, but there were more and more of us ready to put our lives on the line to keep this shit from happening. Not just here, but across the country.

“We’re sure about this?” I asked.

Stripes nodded gravely. “My contact in sheriff’s office, he says three girls reported missing last month. All last seen at this club. Deputies go to investigate, suddenly they find nothing wrong. Girls who made complaints withdraw statements, say they just went on vacation.” He held my gaze. “Meanwhile, one of the deputies buys new boat. Very convenient timing, da ?”

“Fucking bought and paid for,” I muttered. “So the cops are useless.”

“Worse than useless,” Samurai added. “They’re protecting the Minions’ operation.”

I drained my glass and gestured for another. “What does Charming want to do about it?”

“That,” came a deep voice from behind us, “is what we’re about to discuss.”

We all turned as Charming strode into the room. At sixty-three, his hair had gone mostly gray, but he moved with the same authority he always had. The club president’s patch on his cut commanded immediate respect. The room went quiet, even the music seeming to drop in volume.

“Church,” he announced. “Now.”

The three brothers at the pool table immediately set down their cues. The club women stood and headed for the door without being told. They knew it was time to get the hell out. Church meant members only, and it meant serious business.

I followed Stripes and Samurai through the door at the back of the main room, into our chapel. The long wooden table dominated the space, scarred from decades of meetings just like this one. The horned skull carved into its center stared up at us, silent witness to all our decisions, good and bad.

Charming took his place at the head of the table. I sat in my usual spot halfway down, watching as the rest of the club filed in. We waited until everyone had a chance to get here, since some had been at home or out having fun. The door closed with finality after the last brother walked in, and Charming brought down the gavel.

“We’ve got a problem,” he began without preamble. “Devil’s Minions have moved from inconvenience to threat.”

Murmurs of agreement circled the table.

“Azrael,” he continued, looking my way, “report.”

I laid out everything I’d seen and done -- the weapons deal, the quality of the merchandise, the information about the Velver Cage . I didn’t sugarcoat the violence. These men had seen worse, done worse. Hell, most would probably think I’d gone easy on them. In truth, I had. I’d needed to make sure they could be recognized when they were found.

When I finished, Charming nodded. “Good work. The message needed sending.” He stood and leaned forward, placing both hands flat on the table. “But it’s worse than we thought. I had a visit today from someone you all know -- Melissa Carter.”

The name sent a ripple through the room. Melissa had been a friend to the club for two years now, running the new women’s shelter on the eastside. We provided security, donations, and made sure her ex-husband -- who’d put her in the hospital twice -- stayed far away.

“Her shelter took in a girl last night,” Charming continued. “Seventeen years old, beat to hell, track marks up both arms. Says she was held at the Velver Cage for three months after answering an ad for waitress work. They got her hooked on heroin, then put her to work in the back rooms.” His knuckles went white against the wood. “When she tried to leave, they made an example of her.”

“Jesus Christ,” someone muttered down the table.

“It gets worse,” Charming said grimly. “She says there are at least a dozen girls in the same situation. Some as young as fifteen. And the guy running the whole operation personally samples the merchandise before putting it on offer to customers.”

“Marco,” I said, the name tasting like poison.

“Marco Delgado,” Charming confirmed. “Ex-military, dishonorable discharge. Rumor says he was trafficking girls in Afghanistan before Uncle Sam caught on. Now he’s set up shop here, thinking we won’t notice or won’t care. And he’s the current President for the Minions in this area.”

Stripes slammed his fist on the table. “We should burn the place to ground. With him inside.”

“Not yet,” Charming cautioned. “We do this right, or we don’t do it at all. The girl says they move the merchandise every few days between the club and other locations. We hit too soon, those girls disappear forever.”

“Do we know when they were last moved? If it’s already been several days, waiting means we’ll lose them,” I said.

“Intel says they won’t be moved again for another two days.”

“So what’s the play?” Samurai asked, ever the strategist.

Charming’s gaze found mine. “Azrael, you and Stripes will do recon on the Velver Cage . I want to know security, layout, patrol patterns, everything. Samurai, you and Phantom work your contacts. Find the clean law enforcement, the ones we can trust when this goes down. We’ll need them on our side.”

He looked around the table. “Make no mistake, brothers. This is war. Not just for territory, not just for business. This is about what kind of men we are. What kind of club we are.” His voice hardened. “The Devil’s Boneyard does not allow this shit in our town. Not now, not ever.”

Nods of agreement spread around the table. On this we were united.

“We meet back here in forty-eight hours with intel,” Charming continued. “Then we plan the hit. If there are girls in that club, we get them out. And then --” his eyes went cold – “then we send Marco Delgado straight to hell.”

“And his whole fucking operation with him,” Stripes added darkly.

I thought of the men I’d killed tonight. A warm-up for what was coming. The Devil’s Minions had chosen the wrong town, the wrong enemy. They’d crossed a line that couldn’t be uncrossed.

Charming brought the gavel down with finality. “Church dismissed. Azrael, Stripes, Samurai -- my office. We need to talk details.”

As the others filed out, I caught Samurai’s eye. He gave me the slightest nod, a silent acknowledgment of what we all knew. The coming days would be bloody. But sometimes blood was necessary to wash away the filth.

I followed Charming toward his office. This wasn’t just club business anymore. This was about something more fundamental.

Some lines you didn’t cross in our world. Those who did paid the price.

And the Devil’s Boneyard would be collecting in full.