Page 10
Azrael
I felt the tension before I even entered the clubhouse. It hung in the air, invisible but unmistakable. The usual pre-meeting bullshit had been replaced with hushed conversations and hardened expressions. Whatever Stripes had called us together for, it wasn’t going to be good news. I caught Charming’s eye as I walked in, and the slight shake of his head confirmed it. This was going to be one of those meetings that ended with bloodshed -- the only question was whose.
The main room of the clubhouse was uncharacteristically quiet. A Prospect was wiping down the bar with mechanical precision, his eyes darting toward the meeting room door every few seconds. Two of the younger members stood near the pool table, cues in hand but no game in progress. Even the fucking music had been cut, and I didn’t see club pussy anywhere.
“Azrael.” Charming nodded at me, his voice kept low. “They’re waiting.”
I followed him into Church. I took my seat, noting how Phantom kept checking his phone, how Doc’s fingers drummed an irregular beat on his thigh, how Ripper stared at a water stain on the ceiling as if it held the secrets of the universe.
Stripes entered last, a manila folder clutched in his hands. At seventy-one, he moved with the deliberate grace of a man who’d survived too much to be rushed by anything. His white beard and hair gave him the look of a biker Santa, but the steel in his eyes would make any naughty-lister shit themselves.
“Brothers,” he began, his Russian accent thick despite decades in the States. “We have a situation.” He didn’t sit, instead remaining standing by the table. That alone told me this was worse than I’d thought. Stripes preferred to sit, to lean back in his chair with his boots crossed at the ankles, spinning tales of the old days to anyone who’d listen, or doing his best to make us laugh.
The folder slapped onto the wooden surface, and he spread out several documents -- surveillance photos, what looked like transaction records, and a map marked with red lines crossing continents.
“Mazida’s family has taken her back to the Middle East,” he announced, his voice filling the room with a heaviness that seemed to press the air from my lungs.
I felt my jaw tighten. This was really fucking bad. Getting her back while on US soil was one thing. But overseas?
“We traced Balal Quadir to Tel Aviv,” Stripes continued, pointing to a grainy surveillance photo of a well-dressed man in his late fifties exiting what appeared to be a private jet. “Mazida’s brother. He has ties to the top Israeli crime family there.”
“Kidnapping,” Phantom muttered. “So, your woman was right, Azrael. Her mother was definitely taken, and by her own damn family.”
Stripes nodded. “ Da . It’s looking that way. Balal never approved of Mazida marrying an American. Even less of her having a half-American daughter. When Mazida’s husband died, Balal saw an opportunity. From what my contacts could find, he’s been working on a deal the last few years, and Mazida is the prize on offer.”
“How solid is this intel?” I asked, leaning forward to examine the documents. The photos were date-stamped just yesterday.
“Solid as a Russian winter,” Stripes replied, tapping a finger on a document covered in Cyrillic script. “My contact in FSB owes me a big favor. This is the flight manifest, security footage, hotel reservations. Balal arrived in Tel Aviv with a female companion matching Mazida’s description. Woman appeared… not willing.”
Charming picked up one of the photos, squinting at it before passing it to me. The image showed a woman being guided -- or forced -- into a luxury sedan, a man’s hand gripping her upper arm tightly. She wore a hijab, but even from the side angle, the resemblance to Zara was unmistakable. I passed the photo on, trying to ignore the sick feeling in my gut.
“Why now?” Doc asked, adjusting his glasses as he studied the map. “Mazida’s been on her own for what, three years? And married for probably twenty or thirty? I have no idea how old she is.”
“Zara,” I said before I could stop myself. All eyes turned to me. “Zara turned twenty-two. What if she’s the one they’re really after? They couldn’t use her mother to broker any deals when she was younger, so now maybe they want Zara.”
“Azrael’s right,” Stripes confirmed with a nod in my direction. “In a traditional family like the Quadirs, an unmarried daughter becomes the best way to leverage deals. Balal wants control of both women.”
“So when you said they would use her for leverage, what type did you mean?” Ripper asked, finally looking away from the ceiling.
Stripes’ expression darkened. “Many possibilities, none are good. Could be an arranged marriage for Zara to cement business ties. Could be punishment for Mazida’s disrespect all these years. Could be about money. Colton left a sizable estate to both his wife and daughter, despite the small home Mazida has now.”
“Does Zara know her mother’s been taken?” Charming directed this question at me. “Or is she still just assuming that’s what happened?”
“She knows her mother is missing. I did tell her I believe she was kidnapped, but that we just had more questions than answers right now. So she doesn’t have all the details.” I gestured to the pile of evidence on the table. “I wanted all of you to review what I dug up first and see if we could narrow down what happened.”
“She must be told what happened, and told who is responsible,” Stripes said solemnly. “But first, we must decide what the club will do.”
The tension in the room ratcheted up another notch. What Stripes was really asking was whether this was club business or my personal problem. If it was just my issue, I’d have the club’s support but would be expected to handle it mostly on my own. If it was club business, the full resources of the Devil’s Boneyard would be deployed -- and that meant blood would definitely flow.
“The Quadirs have deep connections,” Charming mused, running a hand through his graying hair. “Getting to Mazida in Tel Aviv won’t be easy.”
“And what’s our interest here?” asked Magnus, one of the quieter members who rarely spoke unless he had something important to say. “Why is this club business?”
I started to speak, but Stripes cut me off. “Zara is Azrael’s woman. Isn’t that enough reason?”
Several of the older members nodded. I could tell the thought of us going to the Middle East to retrieve Mazida bothered the younger ones. I couldn’t blame them. It wasn’t high on my list of places to visit. Despite how beautiful it looked in pictures online, I had a feeling we’d get into trouble fast.
“If Balal Quadir is working with the Tel Aviv crime families, we could be looking at a new pipeline for drugs and weapons coming into our territory. The fact they came to Florida for her means they had time to scope things out. Lots of ways for them to smuggle shit into this state. We’re surrounded by water on three sides for fuck’s sake. Getting Mazida back gives us leverage and information.” Charming eyed each of us. “Makes you wonder what he noticed and what his future plans might be.”
I sat back, letting them frame it as club business. Sure, Zara was mine. But, as far as they knew, I’d claimed her as a way to keep her safe. No one knew I’d started to feel something for her. They didn’t need to know that somewhere along the way, the avenging angel had found something worth fighting for beyond vengeance.
“So what’s the play?” Phantom asked, cracking his knuckles one by one, a habit that usually signaled his readiness for violence.
“We need more information,” Charming said. “Contacts on the ground in Tel Aviv. Safe houses. Extraction routes.”
“My contacts can provide this.” Stripes nodded. “But it will take time. Few days, at least.”
“And money,” Doc pointed out.
“Club has money.” Ripper shrugged. “What is it there for if not for times like this?”
I studied the map, tracing the marked route from the States to Tel Aviv with my finger. The distance felt insurmountable, not in miles but in influence. We were powerful here, on our turf. There, we’d be strangers walking into someone else’s kingdom.
“We’ll need more than money and information,” I said finally. “We’ll need allies over there. Local muscle that knows the territory. And sat phones. We need secure lines.”
“Anatoly,” Stripes said, a slight smile appearing beneath his white beard. “Our President’s ex-best friend. He has connections with the Russian community in Israel. Many former FSB, military.”
“Can we trust him?” Charming asked. “Sure, he helped us once before, but that’s been a while.”
Stripes laughed, a harsh sound that held little humor. “Trust? No. But family is family. He will help because you ask, and because between you and me, we know enough secrets to destroy him if he betrays us.”
The old Russian’s frankness drew a few grim chuckles around the table. In our world, such arrangements were often more reliable than friendship or even blood.
“Then it’s settled,” Charming declared, looking each of us in the eye. “We’re going to get Mazida Quadir back. Stripes will coordinate with his contacts for intelligence. Havoc, you handle logistics -- transport, weapons, whatever we need. Doc, medical contingencies. Ripper, research on Balal Quadir and his associates. I want to know what we’re walking into. And, Shade, pull me everything you’ve got about every aspect of this mission.”
He turned to me last. “Azrael, you’ll be point on this. It’s your operation. Pick who you want to take.”
I nodded, feeling the assignment settle on my shoulders like a heavy load. It wasn’t just club business anymore -- it was officially my responsibility. As it should be.
“And Zara?” I asked.
Charming’s expression softened slightly. “Tell her what she needs to know. But keep her here. Last thing we need is an emotional civilian in the mix.”
I didn’t argue, though I already knew that conversation would be the hardest part of this whole operation. Telling Zara to sit and wait while we went after her mother would be like telling a wildfire to stay put.
As the meeting continued, with details being hashed out and plans taking shape, I found my thoughts drifting to my house and the woman waiting there, unaware that her world was about to shift again. Unaware that the man she’d sought out for help was now officially committed to giving it -- with the full might of the Devil’s Boneyard behind him.
The Russians hadn’t offered their assistance for nothing, and neither would anyone else. I only hoped whatever price was asked was one I or the club would be willing to pay.
The meeting was winding down, the initial shock of Stripes’ intel giving way to the cold calculation of men used to violence. I watched as Charming leaned forward in his seat, his hands splayed across the scattered documents. His eyes, still sharp despite the crow’s feet framing them, scanned each of our faces before he spoke. “We reach out to the Russian Mafia, officially this time,” he said, his voice conveying a decision already made. “I’ll contact Anatoly personally.”
No one objected. When Charming spoke like that, it wasn’t a suggestion. It was the road we’d be taking, whether we liked the terrain or not.
Around the table, the brothers began shifting in their seats, the wooden chairs creaking beneath leather cuts and tensed muscles. Phantom cracked his knuckles one last time. Doc removed his glasses, polishing them methodically with the edge of his shirt -- a ritual he performed whenever he was processing something troubling. Normally, we wouldn’t have brought him in on this type of discussion, which meant Charming was trusting him more and more. Havoc gathered the maps, folding them with military precision, while Ripper simply stared at his hands, his face a mask of contained violence.
“We move on this tomorrow,” Charming continued, pushing back from the table. “Get some rest. Clear your heads. Once we’re in motion, there won’t be time for second thoughts. I want your asses in Tel Aviv within the next few days, before we lose Mazida for good.”
As the men began to rise, collecting papers and exchanging quiet words, my attention caught on something half-hidden beneath one of Stripes’ intel reports. I reached out, sliding the document aside to reveal a small photograph. It wasn’t part of the intelligence packet -- it was personal. Zara smiled up at me, her blue eyes startling against her swarthy skin, a contradiction inherited from her mixed heritage. The photo must have fallen from my cut when I sat down. I’d swiped it from her mother’s house, feeling the need to have Zara with me even in this small way.
I quickly picked it up, but not before Stripes noticed. His hand covered mine for a brief moment, his eyes meeting mine with an understanding that made my throat tighten.
“It’s not a weakness to care for something worth protecting,” he said quietly, his accent thicker with emotion. “Is a reason to fight better, yes?”
I didn’t answer, just pressed my lips together and slipped the photo into my inner pocket. The weight of it against my chest felt suddenly significant, like armor over my heart. I glanced away, not wanting the others to read whatever might be showing on my face. The brotherhood understood revenge, understood loyalty, understood fighting for the club. What they might not understand was the uncomfortable truth I was barely admitting to myself -- that somewhere along the line, Zara Colton had become more than just a woman who needed help. She’d become something I couldn’t define but couldn’t ignore.
We filed out of Church in near silence, boots heavy on the worn floorboards. This hallway had seen generations of Devil’s Boneyard business, the walls themselves soaked in secrets and blood oaths. Tonight, they’d witnessed another.
The heavy door thudded shut behind us with a finality that sent a chill down my spine. That sound marked the official beginning of whatever was coming next. It would end with another sound: either the celebration of victory or the silence of men who wouldn’t be coming home.
“You good with this?” Phantom asked, falling into step beside me as we moved toward the main room of the clubhouse. His frame blocked most of the hallway, forcing others to slide past him along the wall.
“With what part?” I asked, knowing exactly what he meant but playing for time.
He gave me a sideways look that said he wasn’t buying it. “With bringing the club into your personal shit. With going halfway around the world for a woman you don’t know and another you seem to know better than you’re letting on. I’d thought you’d claimed her out of a sense of duty. Now I’m thinking I was wrong.”
I stopped walking, turned to face him. “You questioning the President’s decision?”
“Fuck no,” he replied without hesitation. “I’m asking my brother if his head’s on straight before we roll into something that could get us all killed.”
The rest of the men continued past us, giving us space for what they recognized as a necessary conversation. In the dim light, Phantom’s face was all hard angles and shadow, but his eyes held genuine concern beneath the challenge.
“My head’s straight,” I told him, meeting his gaze steadily. “This is club business with personal stakes. No different than when we protected Grey, Meg, or any of the other women here.”
He considered this, then nodded slowly. “Just making sure. Because the way you looked at that picture just now… that’s the look of a man with something to lose.”
I didn’t confirm or deny it. Instead, I clapped him on the shoulder and moved past him. “We all have something to lose, brother. That’s why we win.”
The main room had transformed in the time we’d been meeting. The Prospect had set out bottles of whiskey and glasses on the bar, anticipating the need for liquid courage or comfort. A few of the old ladies had arrived, sensing something was happening. They hovered at the edges of the room, exchanging worried glances but knowing better than to ask questions until they were brought into the circle of knowledge. Still no club pussy in sight, although that was a good thing right now. Couldn’t always trust them, no matter how many checks we ran.
I grabbed a bottle and a glass, avoiding the concerned looks. I needed to get back to my place, needed to figure out what I was going to tell Zara. The thought of facing her made my stomach twist in a way that had nothing to do with fear of danger and everything to do with fear of her reaction.
What would I say? Your mother has been kidnapped by her controlling brother and taken to the Middle East. I’m going to get her back with a bunch of bikers and Russian mobsters. Wait here and don’t worry . Yeah, that would go over well.
“Keep your dick in your pants and your head in the game,” Ripper muttered as he passed, reading me too easily for comfort. “Save the domestic drama for after we get back.”
I flipped him off without looking, but he had a point. Whatever was happening between Zara and me -- or not happening -- had to take a back seat to the mission. Getting Mazida back safe was the priority, not sorting out my inconvenient feelings for her daughter.
I downed my whiskey in one swallow, letting the burn center me. As I set the glass down, I caught Charming watching me from across the room. He beckoned me over with a slight tilt of his head.
“You’ll need to tell her tonight,” he said without preamble when I reached him. “We’re moving fast on this. Stripes is already on the phone with his contacts. We’ll have transport arranged by day after tomorrow.”
“I know,” I replied, glancing toward the door. “I’m heading back now.”
He studied me for a moment. “She’s not coming, Azrael. Not negotiable. I need your word on that.”
“You have it,” I said automatically, though I already knew it wouldn’t be that simple. “But she’s not going to like it.”
“She doesn’t have to like it. She just has to accept it.” His tone softened slightly. “This isn’t her fight.”
“It’s her mother,” I pointed out.
“And it’s my club I’m risking,” he countered. “My brothers I’m sending into unknown territory. If she came along and something happened to her, how would that affect the mission or you?”
The question hit too close to home, and I didn’t have an answer that wouldn’t reveal more than I wanted to. Instead, I just nodded my understanding.
“I’ll handle it,” I assured him. “She stays here.”
Charming seemed satisfied with that, clasping my shoulder briefly before moving away to speak with Doc. I took it as my dismissal and headed for the door, pausing only to exchange a few words with Stripes, who was barking orders in Russian into his phone.
“You will need a passport,” he told me, covering the mouthpiece briefly. “And patience. Tel Aviv is not like here. We cannot just shoot our way in and out.”
“I’ve never been to the Middle East,” I admitted.
He gave me a grim smile. “Then you are in for an education. Anatoly will meet us at airport in Tel Aviv. After that” -- he shrugged expressively – “we improvise.”
Improvisation with Stripes usually meant blood and fire, but I kept that observation to myself. I still remembered what happened when he swooped in to rescue his woman. “I’ll be ready,” I promised instead.
Outside, the night air hit me like a splash of cold water. The clubhouse was set back from the main road, surrounded by enough land to give us privacy and security. The parking lot was filled with motorcycles and a few trucks, chrome gleaming under the security lights. My Harley sat waiting, a black shadow among its brothers.
I swung my leg over the seat, feeling the familiar comfort of the machine beneath me. For a moment, I sat there without starting the engine, letting the consequence of what was coming settle over me. Israel. A foreign crime family. A rescue mission with too many unknowns. And waiting for me at home, a woman whose reaction I couldn’t predict but whose trust I couldn’t bear to lose.
The photo of Zara pressed against my chest, tucked safely in my inner pocket. I reached up and touched the spot. A reminder of what was at stake -- not just Mazida’s life, but whatever fragile thing had been growing between her daughter and me.
I kicked the bike to life, the roar drowning out my thoughts momentarily. The road stretched before me, a ribbon of asphalt leading home to Zara and the conversation I didn’t want to have. Beyond that lay another road -- one that would take us across oceans to face an enemy we barely understood, in a land where our reputation and strength meant nothing.
I opened the throttle, letting the speed clear my head. One challenge at a time. First, I had to tell Zara what had happened to her mother. Then I had to convince her to let me handle it.
And then I had to make damn sure I came back alive. Because despite all my efforts not to, I’d given her something dangerous: a promise. And in my world, promises were kept, or you died trying.
The wind whipped past as I leaned into a curve, the bike responding to my body’s slightest shift. In that moment of perfect control, I found a sliver of peace. Whatever was coming -- whatever battles, whatever revelations, whatever pain -- I would face it. Not just because the club demanded it or because duty required it.
But because somewhere along the way, the avenging angel had found someone special, someone who made the blood on my hands feel like a price worth paying, if it meant keeping her world intact.