Page 20
Azrael
The first rays of sunlight hadn’t even broken over the horizon when the rumble of performance engines shattered the pre-dawn silence. I rolled out of bed, grabbing my gun from the nightstand in one fluid motion. Balal Quadir had finally made his move, and from the sound of it, he’d brought an army. Mazida was still sleeping at Gator’s house. I hoped like hell she stayed out of sight.
I shoved my feet into my boots, not bothering with socks, and pulled a shirt over my head as I moved to the window. Six black SUVs and three sports cars tore down the street outside the compound, moving fast toward the front gate. My phone vibrated and I quickly answered.
“Rally at the front. Get the Prospects to the clubhouse roof with rifles.” I hung up without waiting for a response. Ripper knew what to do.
The compound’s new alarm began to wail as I strapped on my shoulder holster and grabbed my AR-15 from the gun safe. By the time I reached the clubhouse, brothers were pouring out of their homes, many half-dressed but all armed.
“Balal Quadir’s here for his sister,” I announced, moving toward the front entrance. “Anyone gets past us, she’s as good as dead. No one gets through.”
The first shots rang out before any of us had a chance to take cover. Glass shattered as bullets tore through windows. I dropped to a crouch and signaled for the others to take cover. My brothers dispersed, finding positions behind vehicles, around the sides of buildings, or anywhere that might stop a bullet.
“Azrael! The bastards are using armor-piercing rounds!” one of the Prospects shouted from the rooftop. “Check the club truck. Through and through.”
I glanced at the trucks and saw he was right. The bullets tore through the vehicle like a knife sliding through butter.
Balal’s men had positioned themselves behind their vehicles, using the engines as cover. Smart, but not smart enough. I spotted gas cans in the bed of a pickup parked near the clubhouse.
“Cover me,” I called out, then sprinted toward the vehicle. Bullets whizzed past my head, close enough that I could feel their heat.
From my position, I had a clear shot at the gas cans. I ran to the truck, grabbed two of the cans, and tossed them toward the gate. Then I aimed, exhaled slowly, and squeezed the trigger on my gun. The explosion rocked the compound, sending two of Balal’s vehicles airborne in a ball of flame, and our gate flew off, landing more than ten yards away. Screams filled the air as burning men staggered from the wreckage.
I used the distraction to move closer, ducking behind a battered Chevy as more gunfire erupted. My brothers were returning fire now, the rapid staccato of automatic weapons drowning out the screams of the wounded.
Chaos appeared at my side, his face smeared with blood that wasn’t his own. “One of the Prospects isn’t going to make it,” he said, his voice flat. “Took one through the neck.”
Anger surged through me. Just a kid, probably no older than twenty. “Which one?”
“Damien.”
I nodded, committing the debt to memory. Balal would pay for every drop of blood spilled today. Jesus. Damien was just a kid. Not even eighteen yet. “Where’s Balal?” I asked, scanning the battlefield.
“Haven’t seen him. Probably letting his men do the dying for him.”
A grenade sailed over our cover, landing a few feet away. I grabbed Chaos by his cut and hurled us both behind a club vehicle as the world exploded. My ears rang, and dust filled my lungs. I spat blood onto the ground, not sure if it was from my mouth or my lungs.
“You good?” I asked, checking Chaos for injuries.
He nodded, though his eyes seemed unfocused. “Just ringing,” he shouted, probably unable to hear his own voice.
I patted his shoulder and peered around our cover. Three of Balal’s men were advancing, taking advantage of the grenade’s aftermath. I lined up my sights and dropped them one by one, clean shots through the head. No need to waste ammunition.
The rain that had threatened all night finally broke, falling in sheets that turned the asphalt and gravel slick with blood and water. I used the downpour as cover to move closer to the main gate, or where it used to be. Most of Balal’s forces had concentrated there.
From my new position, I could see across the compound to where several of my brothers had taken refuge. They were pinned down, taking heavy fire from a group of Balal’s men who had somehow flanked them.
“Chaos,” I called out. “Southeast corner of the compound. Our boys need help.”
“On it,” came the immediate response.
I watched as Chaos and three others broke cover, moving in a coordinated pattern toward our trapped brothers. They were good, but Balal’s men were professionals. Two of my brothers went down before they reached the building.
“Fuck,” I growled, adjusting my position to provide covering fire. My finger tightened on the trigger, sending a spray of bullets toward Balal’s men. One dropped, then another, giving Chaos the opening he needed to reach them.
A bullet ripped through my arm, the hot pain momentarily stealing my breath. I twisted around to find one of Balal’s men standing just a few feet away, his gun trained on my head. I rolled as he fired again, the bullet embedding itself in the ground where I’d been. I came up with my knife in hand, driving it deep into his thigh. He screamed, his gun wavering just enough for me to grab his wrist and force it upward. His final shot went into the sky as I slit his throat in one smooth motion.
Blood sprayed across my face, warm and metallic. I wiped it from my eyes with my sleeve and retrieved my rifle. The wound in my arm throbbed, but the bullet had passed clean through muscle. I’d live.
An explosion rocked the compound, sending debris flying. For a moment, my heart stopped, thinking of Chaos and the others. Then I saw them making their way toward the clubhouse, dragging wounded brothers with them.
Movement caught my eye. A tall figure in an expensive suit stood observing the carnage, flanked by bodyguards. Balal. The old man hadn’t even bothered to arm himself, so confident was he in his men’s ability to handle us.
Our gaze met across the battlefield, and even at that distance, I could see the cold calculation in his gaze. He wasn’t here just for Mazida. He wanted to send a message, to crush anyone who dared stand between him and what he considered his property.
I started moving toward him, no longer caring about cover or caution. Rage propelled me forward, each step fueled by the memory of Mazida’s bruised face. By the Prospect bleeding out. By every brother who’d fallen today.
Balal’s bodyguards noticed my approach and raised their weapons. I didn’t slow down. Bullets tore through the air around me, one grazing my cheek, another ripping through my side. I barely felt them. All I saw was Balal, his composed expression finally showing a flicker of concern as I closed the distance.
One of his bodyguards moved to block my path. I shot him point-blank in the chest, not even breaking stride as he crumpled. The second guard was smarter, aiming for my legs, but I was moving too fast, too erratically. His shots went wide, and then I was on him, driving my knife up under his chin. The ten-inch blade scraped bone before finding the softness of his brain. It looked like he’d used his intelligent muscle for the main fight and kept the weaker ones beside him. Big mistake.
By the time I looked up, Balal was retreating toward one of the few intact vehicles, a sleek black Mercedes. I raised my gun, but a burst of automatic fire from my right forced me to dive for cover. When I got back to my feet, the Mercedes was already speeding away, leaving half his men to continue the fight or die trying.
“Azrael!” Chaos’s voice barely reached me over all the noise. “They’re pulling back!”
Sure enough, Balal’s remaining forces were disengaging, climbing into vehicles or fleeing on foot. Not a retreat, I realized. A tactical withdrawal. Balal had seen enough to know he couldn’t take us all at once. He’d be back with more men, better intelligence.
I staggered back toward the clubhouse, the adrenaline fading enough for me to feel every wound. My brothers emerged from various positions, bloody and battered but still standing. We’d lost one, maybe two. Hard to tell in the chaos.
Ripper met me at the entrance, his face grim. “Two dead, three wounded bad enough they need a hospital.”
I nodded, surveying the destruction. Bodies littered the ground, mostly theirs, except two: one of the prospects and Shadow. The club would take the loss hard. Especially Shadow. He’d been with the club for over twenty years. There wasn’t a single man in the Devil’s Boneyard who didn’t have fond memories of him. Now that’s all we’d have left.
Looking around once more, I took it all in. The carnage. Destruction. Vehicles burned, casting an orange glow against the lightening sky. The rain continued to fall, washing blood into the gutters.
“He’ll be back,” I said, wincing as I probed the wound in my side. Not deep, but it needed stitches.
“For Mazida?”
“For all of us now.” I spat blood onto the pavement. “This wasn’t just about his sister anymore. This was a statement.”
Chaos looked across the devastated compound and nodded slowly. “What’s the play?”
I thought of Mazida, safely tucked away in Gator’s house. Thought of the fear that would consume her if she knew her brother had found her. Although, she’d likely heard all the commotion and put two and two together. Hopefully, Gator was keeping her calm.
“We don’t wait for him to come back,” I said, my decision crystallizing. “We find him first. And this time, we finish it.”
Sirens wailed in the distance, growing louder. The police would be here soon, not that they’d do anything but take statements and pretend to care. This part of town belonged to us, and everyone knew it. Still, we couldn’t be out in the open like this when they arrived.
“Get the wounded to the clubhouse,” I ordered. I couldn’t send them to a hospital without making sure it wasn’t going to cause trouble for us. We had a doctor in the club for a reason. “And get Doc over here.”
Chaos nodded and moved off to relay the orders. I took one last look at the battlefield that had once been our home. Balal had brought war to our doorstep, thinking to catch us unprepared. He’d underestimated us once. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.
* * *
Five hours later, I found Balal Quadir exactly where Shade said he’d be -- holed up in an abandoned textile factory on the edge of town. The rain had stopped, leaving behind a heavy mist that clung to the broken windows and rusted metal of the derelict building. I parked my bike three blocks away and approached on foot, my body still aching from this morning’s firefight. The fresh wounds I’d sustained hurt like a bitch, but pain was an old friend. What mattered was finishing what Balal had started. For Mazida. For my fallen brothers. For the promise I’d made to protect those under my care.
There were times I hated being right. This was one of them. After the failed assault on our compound, he’d retreated to regroup and call in reinforcements from Tel Aviv. But he’d made a critical mistake -- dismissing most of his surviving guards to lick their wounds, keeping only his most trusted men with him. Maybe he thought we’d need time to recover. Maybe his arrogance blinded him to the threat. Either way, it was the opening I needed.
I circled the building, noting the black Mercedes parked by a loading dock. Fresh tire tracks in the mud showed where other vehicles had come and gone. I counted two men patrolling the perimeter, moving with the practiced precision of professionals. Former military, probably Mossad.
I waited until the guards crossed paths, then moved. My knife entered the first man’s kidney before he registered my presence. I clamped my hand over his mouth as he sagged against me, lowering him silently to the ground. The second guard turned at the wrong moment, catching a glimpse of movement. He reached for his weapon, but I was already closing the distance. His gun cleared the holster just as I launched myself at him, my shoulder slamming into his chest, driving him against the factory wall. The breath rushed from his lungs in a pained gasp. I grabbed his wrist, twisting until something snapped. The gun clattered to the ground as I drove my knee into his groin, then my elbow into his temple. He dropped like a stone.
I picked up his gun -- a Jericho 941, Israeli-made. Fitting. I checked the magazine, then tucked it into my waistband as a backup. My own weapon felt more reliable in my hands as I approached the factory’s side entrance.
The door creaked as I eased it open, but the sound was swallowed by the cavernous space beyond. The factory floor stretched before me, populated by the skeletal remains of industrial looms and cutting tables. Weak light filtered through broken windows, casting long shadows across the concrete floor. The air smelled of rust, mildew, and cigarette smoke.
I moved from shadow to shadow, ears straining for any sound that didn’t belong to the settling building. A voice echoed from somewhere ahead -- Balal, speaking rapid-fire Arabic into a phone. I couldn’t make out the words, but the tone was clear. He was angry, demanding.
I followed the voice to a former office space overlooking the factory floor. Through a gap in the partially closed blinds, I could see Balal pacing, one hand gesturing emphatically as he spoke. A bodyguard stood by the door, arms crossed, expression bored.
I had two options: wait for Balal to finish his call and hope to catch him alone, or go in now and deal with both of them. The decision was made for me when Balal ended his call and barked an order at his guard, who nodded and left the office, heading in my direction.
I pressed myself against the wall, waiting until the guard passed my position before stepping out behind him. My arm locked around his throat, cutting off both air and sound as I dragged him backward into the shadows. He thrashed, an elbow catching me in the ribs where the bullet had grazed me earlier. Pain flared white-hot, but I didn’t loosen my grip. His struggles weakened, then stopped altogether as unconsciousness claimed him. I lowered him to the ground, checking to make sure he was still breathing before continuing toward the office.
Balal stood at the window now, his back to the door as he stared out at the ruined factory floor. The years had not been kind to him. His hair was streaked with gray, and his broad shoulders had begun to stoop. But the set of his stance still radiated the confidence of a man accustomed to being obeyed.
I pushed the door open slowly, wincing at the creak of hinges. Balal didn’t turn.
“I told you I didn’t want to be disturbed,” he said in Arabic, his tone clipped with irritation.
“Hello, Balal,” I replied in English, shutting the door behind me.
He stiffened, then turned, his face a mask of controlled surprise.
“Azrael,” he said, my road name sounding strange in his accented English. “I should have known you’d come yourself.”
“You should have stayed away from my town,” I replied, keeping my gun trained on his chest. “Away from your sister.”
A flicker of genuine emotion crossed his face at the mention of Mazida. “My sister belongs with her family, not with American bikers who don’t understand our ways.”
“Your ‘ways’ make her little more than an animal, a slave,” I said, feeling the old rage bubbling up.
Balal waved a dismissive hand. “Mazida dishonored our family name by running away with that boy. Consequences were necessary.”
“Consequences?” I took a step forward, fighting the urge to put a bullet between his eyes right then.
His expression hardened. “Our business is not yours, American. Step aside, tell me where she is, and perhaps I will let your club survive what comes next.”
I laughed, a sound without humor. “You think you’re in a position to make threats?” I gestured with my gun. “On your knees.”
Instead of complying, Balal lunged for something on the desk beside him. I fired, the bullet shattering the wooden surface inches from his hand. He froze, then slowly straightened, a cold smile spreading across his face.
“You won’t kill me,” he said with certainty. “Mazida would never forgive you.”
“I’m willing to take that chance.” I kept the gun aimed at his center mass.
“Are you?” His smile widened. “Family is everything to my people.”
“Really? Is that why you pretty much sold your sister to the highest bidder? Your sister is a person. Not currency.”
Balal’s hand shot out, knocking the gun aside as he closed the distance between us. I recovered quickly, blocking his follow-up strike and countering with a punch to his solar plexus. He grunted but didn’t go down, instead grabbing my wounded side and digging his fingers into the injury.
Pain exploded through my body. I head-butted him, feeling cartilage give way as his nose broke under the impact. He stumbled back, blood streaming down his face, giving me enough space to bring my gun to bear again. But he was faster than I expected, kicking the weapon from my hand before I could aim. The gun skittered across the floor, disappearing under a filing cabinet.
“Not so confident without your weapon, are you?” Balal wiped blood from his face, his smile now a crimson smear.
I drew my knife. “Don’t need a gun to kill you.”
He laughed, pulling a blade of his own from inside his jacket. “In my country, we give boys their first knife at twelve. How old were you when you first held one, American?”
“Eight,” I replied, circling slowly. “My mother’s boyfriend tried to hit her. I put it through his hand.”
Something like respect flickered in Balal’s eyes before he lunged, his knife slashing in a practiced arc toward my throat. I stepped inside his reach, catching his wrist and driving my own blade toward his kidney. He twisted, my knife slicing through his expensive suit but missing flesh. His knee came up, catching me in the thigh with enough force to numb my leg momentarily.
We broke apart, both breathing heavily, reassessing. Blood dripped from a cut on my forearm where his blade had found a target. Balal’s suit was torn in several places, but he seemed largely unscathed.
“You fight well,” he admitted, “for a biker.”
“You fight like someone used to letting others do his dirty work,” I countered.
Rage flashed across his face. He attacked again, this time with less control. I used his momentum against him, sidestepping and sending him crashing into the desk. Wood splintered under the impact. Before he could recover, I was on him, driving my fist into his kidney, then his jaw. My knife hand came down, aiming for his shoulder to disable his arm, but he rolled at the last second. My blade embedded itself in the wooden desk.
Balal kicked out, catching me in the stomach. Air rushed from my lungs as I staggered back. He seized the advantage, tackling me through the office door onto the factory floor beyond. We hit the concrete hard, his weight driving what little air remained from my body. Stars danced across my vision as my head cracked against the floor.
His hands found my throat, thumbs pressing into my windpipe with practiced precision. I bucked, trying to dislodge him, but he had the advantage of position and weight.
“I should thank you,” he said, his face inches from mine as he squeezed. “You’ve made this personal. Before, I only wanted my sister back. Now, I’m going to enjoy watching your club burn to the ground.”
Darkness crept into the edges of my vision. My lungs screamed for air. I reached desperately for anything I could use as a weapon, my fingers finding only smooth concrete. Then they brushed against something metal -- a broken piece of machinery, its edge jagged and sharp.
I gripped it and swung blindly. Metal connected with the side of Balal’s head with a sickening crack . His grip on my throat loosened as blood poured from the gash along his temple. I hit him again, harder, feeling bone give way beneath the makeshift weapon. He toppled sideways, no longer a coordinated threat but still conscious, still dangerous.
I rolled to my hands and knees, sucking in painful breaths through my bruised throat. Balal lay sprawled a few feet away, his hand fumbling inside his jacket. I lunged for him, catching his wrist as he pulled out a small pistol. We struggled for control of the weapon, our blood making our grips slippery and uncertain.
The gun discharged, the shot deafening in the enclosed space. I felt the bullet’s heat as it passed inches from my face. With a surge of desperate strength, I slammed Balal’s hand against the concrete floor once, twice, three times until his fingers went slack and the gun fell free.
I grabbed the pistol and pressed it to his forehead. “Give me one reason not to end you right now,” I rasped, my voice a painful whisper.
Balal looked up at me, blood covering half his face, one eye swollen shut. For the first time, I saw fear in his remaining eye.
“Mazida,” he said, his voice weak. “She needs her family.”
“She has family,” I replied. “Us. The club. People who actually give a shit about her well-being.”
“You don’t understand our world,” he insisted. “There are others who will come for her. Worse than me.”
I pressed the gun harder against his skin. “Let them come.”
His good eye searched my face, looking for weakness, for hesitation. Finding none. Despite everything, Mazida might not thank me for executing her brother, monster though he was. Even if she’d seemed to understand his death was necessary, I wondered if the reality would make her feel differently.
I made my decision. Standing, I kept the gun trained on him as I pulled zip ties from my pocket. “Hands behind your back.”
He complied without resistance, his strength seemingly spent. I secured his wrists tightly, then hauled him to a sitting position against a nearby pillar.
“I’m taking you back to the compound,” I told him. “Then we decide if you live or die.”
Balal nodded wearily, his one good eye already calculating, planning. Even defeated, he was dangerous. But he was also my best chance at understanding the true threat to Mazida.
I pulled out my phone and called Chaos. “It’s done,” I said when he answered. “Bring the van to the old textile factory. And call Doc -- we’re going to need him.”
“Balal?” Chaos asked.
“Alive, for now.” I glanced at the bloody, battered man slumped against the pillar.
“We’re ten minutes out.”
I hung up and returned to Balal, checking his bindings. He watched me through his swollen eye, his breathing labored but steady.
“You’re making the right choice,” he said quietly.
I gripped his jaw, forcing him to look directly at me. “Understand something. The only reason you’re still breathing is because I’m letting my President decide what to do with you. Nothing more.”
Fear flashed across his face, quickly masked by a pained attempt at dignity. But we both knew the truth. For the first time in his life, Balal Quadir was at someone else’s mercy. And mercy wasn’t something I was known for.