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Azrael

The Tel Aviv market churned with bodies as I weaved through the evening crowd, my senses on high alert. Sunset painted the sky in shades of orange and purple, casting long shadows across the stalls of spices, electronics, and cheap souvenirs that lined the narrow passageways. Stripes and Samurai flanked me, their vigilant eyes scanning each face we passed. None of us spoke. We didn’t need to. After years of handling the Devil’s Boneyard MC’s most delicate problems, we had developed an understanding that went beyond words. Tonight’s meeting wasn’t one I looked forward to, but then again, being the Angel of Death rarely involved pleasant social calls.

“Three o’clock,” Samurai murmured, his chin barely moving as he indicated a man watching us from behind a display of knockoff designer sunglasses.

I gave a slight nod, acknowledging without looking directly. “Probably one of the Russian’s people. Let him watch.”

The weight of my SIG pressed against my lower back, a constant, comforting presence. I didn’t plan on using it -- gunfire in a crowded market would be messy and complicate our already delicate situation -- but I’d learned long ago that peaceful negotiations often required the quiet promise of violence.

Stripes’ thick accent cut through the din of haggling vendors. “I do not like this place for our meeting. Too many people. Too many variables.”

Despite his age, the old Russian moved with the agility of a man decades younger.

“That’s exactly why Viktor chose it,” I replied. “Hard to set up an ambush when you can’t tell which random tourist might be working for the other side.”

We’d been in Tel Aviv for three days now, setting up the groundwork for a negotiation that, if successful, would secure the release of my mother-in-law.

“There,” Samurai said, nodding toward a stall displaying imported electronics -- everything from counterfeit AirPods to tablets of questionable origin.

Behind the counter stood Viktor, his pale eyes scanning the crowd with the dispassionate interest of a predator assessing which prey was worth the energy to hunt. His fingers tapped an irregular rhythm on the folding table in front of him, the only outward sign of impatience.

“Azrael,” he said as we approached, my road name falling from his lips with practiced precision. He didn’t offer his hand, and I didn’t expect him to. “You’re late.”

“Market was crowded,” I replied, not bothering to point out that we were exactly on time. Power plays were part of the dance.

Viktor’s gaze flicked to Stripes, recognition dawning in his eyes. “Mikhail Petrov. I’d heard you were dead. Your call was unexpected.”

Stripes shrugged. “I left that life behind.”

A smile that never reached Viktor’s eyes briefly touched his lips. His attention returned to me. “You’ve made quite the name for yourself, Samir -- or do you prefer Azrael now? The Angel of Death. Very dramatic.”

The use of my birth name was another power play. I let it slide. “Just business. Are we here to reminisce or to finalize details?”

Around us, the market continued its evening dance. Tourists bargained for souvenirs they didn’t need, locals purchased dinner ingredients, and everyone pretended not to notice our tense little gathering. The vendor to our left, a heavyset woman selling scarves, deliberately turned her back on us, recognizing trouble when she saw it.

Viktor gestured to a young man standing nearby, who brought over a tablet. “The terms are set. You’ll meet him in an hour,” Viktor said, handing the tablet to me. His fingers lingered on the edge for a moment before he added, with steel in his voice, “Don’t disappoint.”

I took the tablet, scanning the information displayed. GPS coordinates for a warehouse, security details, and a grainy photo of Mazida. The sight of her face hardened something inside me.

“Your mother was Middle Eastern, wasn’t she?” Viktor asked, watching me too closely. “This must feel… personal.”

My jaw tightened. I didn’t ask how he knew about my mother. Information was currency in this world, and Viktor had always been rich. “Every trafficked woman is personal. How many guards?”

“Eight visible. Possibly more inside. Their leader, Darwish, expects payment, not trouble.”

“And he’ll get what he expects,” I said, passing the tablet to Samurai, who memorized the details with a quick glance before passing it to Stripes.

Viktor leaned in slightly. “Darwish is not a patient man. He’s also not stupid. He’ll be looking for a double-cross.”

“We’re not in the business of deception,” I replied. “We pay, she walks, everyone goes home happy.”

“And if complications arise?” Viktor asked, one eyebrow raised.

I met his gaze steadily. “Then he’ll understand why they call me the Angel of Death.”

A tense silence stretched between us, broken only when Stripes handed the tablet back to Viktor’s assistant.

“Your reputation precedes you,” Viktor acknowledged with a small nod. “There’s one more thing you should know. Darwish recently aligned himself with the Kazarian network.”

The name sent a ripple of tension through our small group. The Kazarians were notorious for their brutality and reach. What had been a straightforward exchange had just become significantly more complicated.

“That changes things,” Samurai said quietly.

Viktor shrugged. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. They’re still businessmen. The question is whether you’re prepared to pay the higher price they’ll demand when they recognize who they’re dealing with.”

“Money isn’t an issue,” I said.

“I wasn’t talking about money.” Viktor’s eyes narrowed. “The Kazarians collect debts in blood and favors. Be prepared to offer both.”

With that, he inclined his head slightly and stepped back, signaling the end of our meeting. His assistant disappeared into the crowd, and a moment later, Viktor followed, leaving us standing at the now-empty electronics stall.

“This is fucked,” Samurai muttered once Viktor was out of earshot. “If Darwish is tied to the Kazarians, this isn’t just about retrieving the woman anymore.”

I nodded, already calculating the new variables. “Call Charming. He needs to know the situation’s changed.”

Samurai stepped away, phone in hand, while Stripes moved closer to me.

“Kazarians have a long memory,” he said gravely. “If they recognize me, this complicates things further.”

“Your Bratva days catching up with you, old man?” I asked, though there was no humor in my voice.

Stripes’ face remained impassive. “Over forty years ago, I killed a Kazarian’s younger brother in Moscow. Some things are not forgiven.”

“Fuck.” I ran a hand over my face, feeling the day’s stubble rasp against my palm. “Can you sit this one out?”

His expression hardened. “ Nyet . I don’t hide from my past. Besides, you need me. My Russian will be useful.”

Before I could argue, Samurai returned, his expression grim. “Charming says to proceed. Whatever it takes. Since Zara is your woman, that makes Mazida family.”

“And you specifically told him about the Kazarian connection?” I had to make sure. It felt like Charming had agreed too easily.

Samurai nodded. “He’s calling in some markers, seeing if there’s any leverage we can use. But he was clear -- we get her out tonight, no matter what. And we get our asses home.”

We were walking into a situation that had all the makings of a trap, dealing with people notorious for their sadistic creativity when crossed. But the image of Mazida’s frightened eyes stayed with me. I thought of my mother, of the stories she told me about the men who had violated her when she was barely fifteen. I hoped like hell no one had touched my mother-in-law, but who knew what these men were capable of.

“An hour gives us just enough time to prepare,” I said. “Samurai, get the cash from the hotel safe. Stripes, I want you to scout the perimeter of the meeting point before we arrive.”

“And you?” Stripes asked.

I checked my watch, calculating the timing. “I’m going to make sure we have a backup plan if this goes sideways. Meet back at the hotel in thirty.”

As we separated, blending into different streams of market-goers, I felt a familiar coldness settle over me -- the detachment that came before violence. It was the state of mind that had earned me my road name. Azrael. The Angel of Death. Tonight, I hoped that name would be enough to keep us alive and bring Mazida home.

But as I walked, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this mission had just become something much more dangerous than a simple exchange. The Kazarians didn’t deal in ransoms and releases. They dealt in blood and power. And by sundown, I had a feeling we’d be trading in both.

* * *

Zara

The rain tapped against the windows like impatient fingers, matching the rhythm of my pacing across the worn hardwood floor. Three days. Three days since Azrael had left for Tel Aviv with Stripes and Samurai, and the noticeable void from his absence added pressure with each passing hour. I clutched the photograph in my hands so tightly the edges had begun to crease -- Azrael and me taken the day before he’d left, his rare smile catching the sunlight while his arm wrapped possessively around my waist. The Devil’s Boneyard compound sat quiet beyond my window, most members gone on various assignments or holed up against the unseasonable downpour. I checked my phone for the thousandth time. No messages. No calls. Just the endless, maddening silence that came with loving a man they called the Angel of Death.

I traced my finger over Azrael’s face in the photograph. The man guarded his emotions like they were precious contraband, letting them out only in our most private moments. Sometimes I wondered if I was the only one who knew how deeply he felt things. Beneath the ruthless biker was a man haunted by his mother’s suffering, determined to balance scales that would forever remain tipped.

The phone on the counter chirped, and I nearly tripped over my own feet rushing to grab it.

“Hello?” I answered, not bothering to check the caller ID.

“Just me.” The disappointment must have been audible in my exhale because Clarity continued, “Still no word?”

“Nothing.” I sank onto the sofa, the photograph still clutched in my other hand. “It’s been three days.”

“That’s normal, though. Charming would know if something went wrong, and he’d send someone to tell you, or show up himself.”

“I just wish I knew for sure he was still alive and well.” I stared up at the ceiling.

“He’s fine. I’m sure of it. I just wanted to check on you.”

We talked for a few more minutes before hanging up. The conversation had done nothing to ease the knot in my stomach. I resumed my pacing.

A knock at my door jolted me from my memories. I froze, heart racing, before forcing myself to move. Club members rarely visited unless there was news -- good or bad. That’s something Clarity had made sure I knew when Azrael had left.

I opened the door to find Dakota, Charming’s wife, standing there with two steaming travel mugs and a paper bag that smelled of warm pastry.

“Thought you could use some company,” she said, brushing past me into the house without waiting for an invitation. Dakota carried herself with the confidence of a woman who had seen the worst life could offer and decided to live anyway. Her hair was pulled into a messy bun, and she wore no makeup, but there was a natural beauty to her that time couldn’t touch.

“Is there news?” I asked, unable to keep the desperation from my voice as I closed the door behind her.

Dakota set the mugs and bag on the kitchen table before turning to face me. “Not exactly, but Charming had a call from Samurai about an hour ago.”

My heart jumped into my throat. “And?”

She tilted her head and studied me. “I’m going to tell you what I know, and then you decide for yourself what you’ll do with the information. But first, sit down and drink this coffee before you wear a path in that floor.”

I complied, though my hands shook slightly as I accepted the mug she pushed toward me. “That sounds ominous.”

She shrugged. “It is what it is. Look, Charming had a meeting this morning with someone connected to our contacts in Israel. I also know that the mission parameters have changed. I’m just not sure of all the details. There are some things Charming won’t tell me.”

I set my mug down before I could drop it. “Are they in danger?”

“More than they expected to be,” she admitted. “But less than they’ve handled before.”

The photograph I’d been clutching all evening sat on the table between us now. Dakota glanced at it, a small smile touching her lips. “He’s good at what he does, Zara. They all are.”

“That’s what scares me.” I wrapped my hands around the warm mug, trying to absorb its heat into my suddenly cold fingers. “Being good at what he does means being the one they send in when death is the only language left to speak.”

Dakota nodded, understanding in her eyes. “The first time Charming went on a run like this, I didn’t sleep for days. Kept imagining every possible horrible outcome. By the time he got back, I was a wreck.”

“How do you handle it now?” I asked.

“I still worry. That never stops.” She reached across the table and placed her hand over mine. “But I’ve learned to trust. Not just in his abilities, but in the brotherhood. They protect each other as fiercely as they protect us.”

Rain drummed against the windows. I picked at the pastry Dakota had brought -- some kind of cinnamon roll -- but couldn’t muster much appetite.

“There’s something else you should know,” Dakota said after a moment of silence. “It seems they know quite a bit about Azrael, which means they’ve looked into him.”

I closed my eyes briefly. “I’m sure he didn’t like that.”

“He didn’t, and it’s made things more dangerous. Complicated.”

“The Angel of Death,” I finished. “They know who he is.”

“Yes.”

“But why would they care about someone from America?” I asked.

“Your man doesn’t just rescue women. He has a tendency to save Middle Eastern women. I have a feeling he’s saved some who were being trafficked by these assholes.” She took another sip of her coffee. “Charming told me once that he’s never seen anyone become so calm before unleashing hell. It’s like he steps outside himself. I’m sure the same will happen over there, if that’s what’s needed.”

I twisted the bracelet on my wrist -- a silver chain with a small angel wing and motorcycle charm Azrael had given me right before he left.

“When will they be back?” I asked.

“If things go as planned, they should be on a flight tomorrow morning. Back here by tomorrow night.” She hesitated. “If things don’t go as planned…”

“Let’s not go there,” I said quickly.

Dakota reached for her phone as it buzzed. She read the message, her expression giving nothing away. “Charming says they’ve made contact. The exchange is happening now.”

My stomach clenched. “Now? As in right this minute?”

She nodded. “Midnight in Tel Aviv.”

I glanced at the clock on my wall. Somewhere across the world, Azrael was walking into danger. I closed my eyes and sent a silent prayer to whatever deity might be listening.

Dakota watched me with knowing eyes. “The first time is the hardest. Eventually, you develop a sense for when to truly worry and when to trust that they’ve got it handled.”

“And which is this?” I asked.

She considered the question. “Honestly? A little of both. The situation is volatile, but they’ve got good intel and backup plans.”

“What happens after?” I asked. “When they get Mom, I mean.”

“They’ll bring her here, to the compound.” Dakota’s expression hardened slightly. “And the men who took her will no longer be in a position to hurt anyone else.”

The implication was clear. Those men would be dead, if they weren’t already. There was a time when that knowledge would have disturbed me, but that time had passed. Loving Azrael meant accepting certain truths about the world -- some people deserved the violence they received. Just like the men in the alley the first night we met.

“Will they call when it’s done?” I asked.

Dakota shook her head. “Probably not. But Charming will know, and he’ll tell us.”

We sat in companionable silence for a few minutes, the rain creating a soothing backdrop to our thoughts. Despite my anxiety, Dakota’s presence had calmed me somewhat. There was strength in the shared experience of waiting, of loving men who walked willingly into darkness.

“You know,” Dakota said finally, “you should be there when he gets back.”

I looked up from my coffee. “At the clubhouse?”

She nodded. “These men -- they’d never admit it but seeing you waiting after a mission like this… it matters. It reminds them what they’re fighting to come home to.”

I considered her words, remembering the rare vulnerability I sometimes glimpsed in Azrael’s eyes when he thought I wasn’t looking. The way he held me a little tighter after our first night together.

“I’ll be there,” I decided.

Dakota smiled, satisfied. “Good. Now finish that pastry. You need your strength.”

As we continued talking, the knot in my stomach slowly began to unravel. The fear didn’t disappear -- it never would as long as I loved a man like Azrael -- but it became manageable. I could breathe again.

Later, after Dakota had left, I stood at the window watching the rain slowly taper off. The sky had darkened, stars beginning to peek through breaks in the clouds. Somewhere under those same stars, Azrael was fighting to save my mother and make it back to me.

I placed the photograph on the nightstand and began deciding what I’d wear to the clubhouse. Tomorrow night, I would be there when he walked through those doors. And whatever darkness he carried back with him, whatever weight rested on his shoulders, I would be ready to help him bear it.

Because loving the Angel of Death meant accepting all of him -- the protector and the destroyer, the man and the myth. And in the quiet moments between missions, when he laid his head in my lap and let me see the vulnerability behind his eyes, I knew I wouldn’t trade this life for anything.