Page 9
Azrael
The side door of Mazida’s modest home wasn’t locked. Not a good sign. I pushed it open with my gloved hand, the hinges complaining quietly as I stepped over the threshold. Havoc moved in behind me, his bulk filling the narrow entrance while Gator brought up the rear. The air inside felt wrong -- stuffy and tinged with something metallic that settled in the back of my throat. Club business had taken me to plenty of disturbed homes over the years, but something about this one had my senses on high alert before I’d even seen the damage.
“Clear the rooms,” I muttered, my voice barely audible. This wasn’t my first rodeo with the Devil’s Boneyard, and certainly not my first time walking into the aftermath of violence. The fact the police had been here meant the place should have been secured. Had someone come back after they’d left?
Mazida’s neighborhood was quiet -- a collection of aging single-story homes with chain-link fences and patchy lawns that had seen better days. Nothing about the outside of her home had suggested trouble. No broken windows. No kicked-in doors. Just a garden gnome tipped on its side near a withered bush.
The hallway stretched before us, narrow and dim with late morning light filtering through closed blinds. Family photos hung crooked on the walls -- Mazida and her daughter, Zara, at various ages. A high school graduation. A birthday. Normal life moments now tilted at unnatural angles. I saw a few with a man who had to be Zara’s father. The home in the background didn’t match this one, which made me think Mazida had moved here after losing her husband.
“Someone didn’t want any attention from the neighbors,” Havoc said, his voice gruff as he pointed to the intact front door lock. But the issue was that it wasn’t locked. I knew Zara wouldn’t have left this place open. Someone had definitely been here. But why? If they already had Mazida, what else could they have wanted?
I nodded. “Whoever came in knew what they were doing.”
We moved deeper into the house, our boots making little sound on the worn carpet. The layout was simple -- living room and kitchen to the right, bedrooms down the hall to the left. I signaled toward the bedrooms, taking point while Gator positioned himself to watch our backs.
The first bedroom door stood half-open. Mazida’s room.
The scene inside told the story we’d feared. Clothes scattered across the floor like fallen leaves. An overturned end table lay on its side, a vase shattered beside it, ceramic shards mingling with a paperback novel and a pair of reading glasses. The bed was unmade, sheets twisted and halfway to the floor.
“Someone got dragged outta that bed,” Gator observed from the doorway, his Cajun accent more pronounced in the tense moment. “How the fuck did the police not see this as a crime scene?”
“They didn’t want to,” Havoc said.
I moved to the dresser, where Mazida’s purse sat untouched, her phone beside it, screen cracked but otherwise undisturbed. Cash still in the wallet. Credit cards present. This wasn’t a robbery.
“Whoever did this wasn’t after money,” I said, taking mental inventory as I carefully picked through the items.
Havoc moved to the closet, sliding hangers across the rod with practiced efficiency. “Doesn’t look like she packed anything. If she left, it wasn’t willingly.”
I nodded, still examining the dresser top. A bottle of prescription medication. A framed photo of Zara. A hairbrush with strands of dark hair caught in the bristles. Normal, everyday items that suddenly felt heavy with significance.
“Check the drawers,” I instructed, moving toward the bathroom.
Havoc flipped open the top drawer of the dresser, rifling through folded clothes with the efficiency of a man who’d searched more homes than he could count. “Nothing unusual here.”
The bathroom told the same story -- toothbrush in its holder, makeup scattered across the counter, a towel hung haphazardly over the shower curtain rod. Everything looked normal except for a small smear of something dark on the edge of the sink. I leaned closer. Could be makeup. Could be blood. Too small to tell for sure.
Back in the hallway, I gestured toward the kitchen. “Let’s check the rest.”
The kitchen was small but tidy, save for a coffee mug on its side near the sink, dark liquid staining the countertop. The dining area consisted of a rough-hewn wooden table with four mismatched chairs. One chair lay on its back.
That’s when I saw it. A single drop of blood on the linoleum floor, near the fallen chair. Dark. Dried. But unmistakable.
I crouched down, pulling my phone from my pocket to snap a picture. The flash illuminated the small red-brown spot, no bigger than a dime. “Blood,” I confirmed, glancing up at Havoc.
He nodded grimly, his face set in hard lines that emphasized every one of his sixty-eight years. Despite the gray threading through his once-red hair, Havoc’s eyes remained sharp, missing nothing.
“Recent?” he asked, moving closer to examine the spot.
“Probably happened when she went missing,” I replied, standing back up and surveying the kitchen. “Whoever took her knew what they were doing. Clean. Professional. No signs of forced entry means she knew them, they had a key, or they knew how to pick a lock without leaving evidence behind.”
“So what? You think she let them in, went to bed, and then they betrayed her trust?” Havoc asked.
Before I got a chance to answer, Gator appeared in the doorway, his usual easy charm replaced by business-like efficiency. “Checked the back door and windows. No sign of forced entry there either.”
“Any indication of where Zara might be?” I asked. “If anyone comes back here again, I want to make sure they can’t find her.”
Gator shook his head. “Other than the pictures we saw, there’s nothing.”
“Small mercies,” Havoc muttered, running a hand over his short-cropped hair.
I moved back to the living room, scanning for anything we might have missed. A stack of mail on the coffee table caught my attention. Bills. Advertisements. And a postcard from the Florida Keys with a picture of palm trees and white sand. I flipped it over, reading the brief message: “Thinking of you both. Stay safe. - C.”
“C could be Carter,” Havoc suggested, reading over my shoulder. “Wasn’t that her husband’s name?”
“Carter’s been dead for years,” I replied, tucking the postcard into my pocket. “This is recent.”
We stood in silence for a moment, absorbing the scene and its implications. Mazida Quadir -- a quiet, reserved widow who kept to herself -- was gone. Not by choice. And someone had sent her a warning to “stay safe” that she clearly hadn’t been able to heed.
“We split up,” I decided, tucking my phone away. “Havoc, check for any hidden spots -- false bottoms in drawers, loose floorboards, anything. Gator, go through her desk for any letters, cards, anything unusual. I’ll check the garage.”
They nodded and moved off to their assigned tasks. The garage was attached to the house through a utility room filled with laundry supplies and cleaning products. Nothing unusual there. In the garage itself, Mazida’s modest sedan sat undisturbed, dust collecting on its hood suggesting it hadn’t been moved in days.
I circled the car, checking under it, inside it, and around it. Nothing seemed out of place except for a small cardboard box tucked behind some gardening supplies in the corner. Inside, I found photos -- older ones, yellowed with age. A young Mazida without her hijab, smiling beside a handsome man I assumed was Carter. Some documents in Arabic that I couldn’t read. A small journal with entries dating back decades.
I tucked the journal into my cut on the off chance we needed it. The rest I left as found. Whatever had happened to Mazida, these memories wouldn’t help us find her now.
Back in the living room, Havoc and Gator had finished their searches.
“Nothing else of note,” Havoc reported, his voice grim. “No hidden money, no secret messages.”
Gator shook his head too. “Found her planner book. Mostly doctor appointments and emergency contacts. Her daughter’s cell number is in there.”
“Take it,” I instructed. “I don’t want them having a way to reach Zara, or track her.”
“You think she’s a target too?” Gator asked, tucking the small book into his pocket.
I shrugged, taking one last look around the disturbed home. “Don’t know. But whoever took Mazida did it clean and quiet. Professional job. Might be connected to her past, maybe something from the Middle East. Either way, her daughter could be next.”
“Or leverage,” Havoc added darkly.
I nodded, this new problem settling between my shoulder blades like a familiar burden. “Let’s bag any other evidence we’re taking. Blood sample and her phone mainly. I have the postcard and a journal.”
As we gathered what little evidence there was, my mind was already spinning forward to the next steps. Mazida’s disappearance wasn’t just another missing person case. The care taken, the precision -- it had the hallmarks of something deeper, something with tendrils that might reach all the way back to her life before America. If this place hadn’t looked like this when the police came, then it meant someone came back. I couldn’t think of a reason why unless they thought she had something important. Right now, I just had more questions than answers.
“Time to report to Charming,” I said finally, heading for the side door we’d entered through. “He’ll want to know what we found.”
And what we didn’t find -- like Mazida herself, alive and well. That particular absence hung in the air around us, unspoken but impossible to ignore as we stepped back out into the late morning light, locking the door behind us as if it mattered anymore.
* * *
The Devil’s Boneyard compound loomed ahead of us. Security cameras tracked our approach, though the brothers manning the gate waved us through without hesitation, recognizing our cuts and bikes. I led our small procession, Havoc and Gator flanking me as we parked outside the clubhouse.
The main building stood solid against the afternoon sun, its weathered exterior hiding the fortified structure beneath. Years of club life -- celebrations, fights, deaths, and victories -- had seeped into the very walls. Our boots crunched against the gravel as we dismounted and made our way toward the entrance.
Inside, the familiar scent of leather, cigarettes, and whiskey greeted us. A few Prospects hustled around, cleaning and restocking the bar area. They nodded respectfully as we passed, their eyes curious but knowing better than to ask questions.
“Church in session?” I asked one of them, a skinny kid with tattoos crawling up his neck.
“Yes, sir,” he replied, gesturing toward the closed double doors at the far end of the hall. “President and VP been waiting for you three.”
We made our way across the room, passing the well-worn pool table and leather couches. Havoc stepped ahead and knocked once on the heavy wooden doors before pushing them open.
Charming and Ashes rose from their seats as we entered. Neither said anything right away and waited until we were closer.
“You found something,” Charming stated rather than asked, gesturing for us to take seats.
I nodded, pulling the bag from inside my cut and placing it on the table between us. The plastic crinkled as I spread out the contents -- Mazida’s cracked phone, the postcard, and a small plastic baggie containing a scrape of the blood we’d found.
“The purse, the phone, and a few of the scattered clothes -- nothing was cleaned up,” I reported, meeting Charming’s gaze directly. “There was a drop of blood in the kitchen, which confirms a struggle took place.”
Charming picked up the postcard, examining both sides before setting it back down. His face gave nothing away, but the tension in his shoulders told me he recognized the significance.
Havoc leaned forward, his massive forearms resting on the table. “The overturned furniture suggests she was desperate to escape and knocked it over herself. I don’t think the type of men who’d enter the house so quietly would make a mess of the place.”
“No sign of a break-in?” Ashes asked, his voice tight with controlled concern.
I shook my head. “That’s what’s strange. Locks intact. No broken windows. Either she knew them and let them in --”
“Or they had a key, or picked the fucking locks,” Charming finished, sitting back in his chair. “Professional job.”
“That’s how it reads,” I confirmed. “Nothing of value was taken. Cash and credit cards still in her purse. This wasn’t a robbery gone wrong.”
Gator shifted in his seat. “If the police determined this wasn’t a kidnapping after seeing the state of her bedroom, they’re idiots. Or someone came back, searching for something. Maybe she wasn’t dragged from the bed. They could have tossed it during their search.”
“Or looking for some one ,” Ashes added grimly.
Charming’s fingers drummed once on the table, a rare tell that indicated his concern. “Zara?”
“That’s what I’m thinking,” I replied. “Once they had Mazida, they probably thought Zara would turn up and they could snatch her too. But that depends on why her mom was taken in the first place.”
“That postcard,” Charming finally said, tapping it with one finger. “Message is clear enough.”
I nodded. “‘Stay safe.’ Signed only with a C.”
“Her dad has been dead for years,” Ashes noted, his brow furrowed.
“Exactly,” I responded. “Which means it’s from someone else. Someone who felt Mazida needed warning.”
Charming exchanged a look with Ashes that spoke volumes about conversations I hadn’t been privy to. Something deeper was happening here, something they’d seen coming.
“When was the last confirmed sighting of Mazida?” Charming asked, turning back to us.
“Zara didn’t say, but I can ask.” Although, I’d hoped I would have some answers for her today. Instead I just had questions.
“What about the blood?” Ashes asked, picking up the small baggie and holding it to the light.
“Not much of it,” I replied. “Single drop in the kitchen. We’ll need to get it tested to confirm it’s hers. I’m sure Doc could help us out, or a contact in the police department.”
“And how will you know it’s hers?” Ashes asked.
“Compare it to Zara’s? If there’s roughly a fifty percent match, then we know it belongs to a parent, right?” I asked.
Charming leaned forward, placing both hands flat on the table. “Here’s what we know: Mazida Quadir is missing. Signs of struggle but minimal blood. No forced entry. Nothing of value taken. A warning postcard received recently.” He looked at each of us in turn. “What we don’t know is who took her, why, or where Zara fits into this.”
“The phone might tell us something,” I suggested, gesturing to the cracked device on the table. “Text messages, calls, emails.”
Ashes nodded. “I’ll get it to Shade immediately. If there’s anything on it, he’ll find it.”
“Locked?” Charming asked, eyeing the phone.
“Password protected,” I confirmed. “But that won’t stop Shade for more than a few minutes.”
Ashes collected the phone, tucking it into his pocket before standing. “I’ll take this to him now. Want me to bring him back when he’s got something?”
Charming nodded. “We need to move quickly on this. If they’ve had her for three days already, time isn’t on our side.”
“Longer,” I said. “Zara has been with me for three days now. Her mom has been gone since before then. Not sure exactly what day she went missing. Could have been closer to a week by now. I think Zara said it had been a few days since her mom had disappeared.”
As Ashes left, Charming turned back to us. “Gator, I want you to reach out to your contacts in south Florida. That postcard origin might not be coincidence.”
Gator nodded, already pulling out his phone. “On it, Prez.”
“Havoc,” Charming continued, “get some of the brothers together. Start canvassing hospitals and morgues. Discreetly. We need to know if Mazida has turned up elsewhere.”
“Will do,” Havoc responded, his face grim with determination.
Charming’s gaze finally landed on me. “Azrael, I want you to stick with Zara. Until we know who took her mom and why, she could very well be a target.”
I nodded, already planning to do exactly that.
“Good.” Charming sat back, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. “One more thing -- this stays close. Club business only for now. We don’t know who we’re dealing with or what their reach might be.”
“You thinking this might connect back to Mazida’s past?” I asked, voicing the question that had been nagging me since we’d found the postcard.
Charming’s expression darkened. “Mazida left the Middle East for a reason. Fled, more accurately. She’s kept a low profile for decades, but some enemies have long memories.”
“And they have a longer reach,” Havoc added ominously.
“How do you know she was laying low?” I asked, genuinely curious.
“Because those types of men would have gone looking, and I doubt her being married would have stopped them from retaliating.”
The door opened, and Ashes returned with Shade trailing behind him. The club’s hacker looked as he always did -- slightly disheveled, his hazel eyes sharp behind his glasses. At sixty-four, Shade remained the best technical mind in the club.
“Got something already?” Charming asked, surprised.
Shade nodded, adjusting his glasses. “Phone wasn’t as locked down as it could have been. Simple six-digit code. Took less than two minutes to crack.” He sat at the table, placing a small notebook in front of him. “Last received call was over a week ago, duration four minutes, twelve seconds. Caller ID listed as ‘Unknown.’”
“Any texts?” Gator asked.
Shade flipped a page in his notebook. “Several, most mundane. Shopping lists, reminders for appointments. But there’s a thread with an unknown number that’s interesting.” He looked up, meeting Charming’s gaze. “Your time is up.”
A heavy silence settled over the room as the implications sank in. Did that mean Mazida was possibly dead? Or had they meant something else?
“What about law enforcement?” Ashes asked, voicing the question we’d all been avoiding.
Charming shook his head. “Not yet. If this connects back to Mazida’s past, official channels might create more problems than solutions. We handle this ourselves first, see what we’re dealing with.”
I pushed through the Church doors, my mind already focused on Zara. Behind me, I heard Charming giving final instructions to Shade about digital surveillance. Ahead lay hours, maybe days, of searching, questioning, and piecing together the puzzle of the Quadir woman’s disappearance. I didn’t envy him.
For now, I had the honor of telling Zara we still didn’t know who had her mom.