Page 48 of Desert Sky (RB MC #4)

JD

T he moment the Clubhouse gates clanged shut behind us, I felt it—war was in the air.

Rain slicked the asphalt like oil on glass, but my tires gripped the road like my hand gripped the Glock holstered tight to my thigh. Edge rode at my left flank, River and Tarak behind us. But this wasn’t just a local sweep tonight.

Big Rafe from Arizona was here, his beard soaked and braided down his chest like some Norse god who wandered into a storm. Wrench and Jigsaw from Vega s flanked our right, chrome glinting through the downpour like predator eyes.

Me? I wore black from boots to kutte. No flash. No flashbacks. Just function. I wasn’t flying the Enforcer patch tonight—I was vengeance riding steel.

We’d followed the rat trail to an abandoned freight yard at the edge of the mesa, rusted rail cars lined up like forgotten tombstones. Motion lights flickered half-dead. Shadows moved. I saw them. Crouching. Waiting .

“Trap,” Edge muttered, eyes scanning the rail line, knife already unclipped.

“Let it spring,” I said, voice flat. Heart iron.

We parked staggered, boots splashing in the mud as we spread out.

I made a silent hand signal. Two o’clock. Movement.

And then—like fire exploding inside a barrel—Wrench barked:

“Royal Bastards MC, motherfuckers!”

Hell broke loose.

Gunfire lit the yard. Muzzle flashes strobing over twisted steel and puddles of blood. I ducked behind a rusted loader and returned fire, dropping one with war paint streaked across his face like this was a game.

Edge was a machine—one knife, one goal. River disappeared between shadows and reappeared with bodies falling behind him like cut wheat. Tarak took a round to the shoulder but didn’t slow. Rafe’s shotgun thundered, coating the side of a rail car in red spray.

“Six more incoming!” Tarak shouted, limping.

“Circle back! Protect the van!” I yelled.

That van held our backup firepower, and if they got there first, we’d be stuck swinging knives and fists in the mud.

Rafe and Jigsaw peeled off. Rafe dropped two with a single blast.

A punk with a spiked mohawk lunged at me with a bat.

I ducked low, rolled, and put two bullets in his gut. He dropped. Still breathing. Not my problem.

Smoke clung to the air like a curse. Tarak came back cursing and bleeding.

“Fuckers weren’t cartel,” he spat. “They’re Red Iron MC. Bottom feeders. ”

River dragged one of them by the collar. “This one’s still breathing.”

I grabbed him by the hair and yanked his face up. “Who sent you?”

He coughed blood. “Just a job. Big payout. Got GPS coords. Told to come heavy.”

“Who?” Edge growled. “Give us a name.”

“Middleman. Calls himself… Ghost.”

My spine stiffened.

Clarissa.

Too cowardly to face us herself, so she hired desperate trash to poke the bear.

Jigsaw studied their cuts. “These aren’t cartel dogs. They’re small-time. Not even affiliated.”

Edge kicked a broken mag across the ground. “She fed ‘em bad intel. Made ‘em think we were sitting on product.”

“Didn’t mean to stir your warpath, man,” the wounded guy muttered.

I stood over him, soaked, knuckles bleeding. “Tell your club: Next time you take a job on Royal Bastards’ turf… dig your graves first.”

He nodded, barely.

I jerked my chin to Wrench. “Tie him to the fence. Let him rethink his career choices till the pigs show.”

We regrouped. Bruised. Bloody. Breathing.

No losses.

My ribs ached, my trigger finger throbbed, and my boots were filled with cold water and grit.

“She wasn’t here,” Edge said, voice hard.

“No,” I growled. “This was smoke. Distraction.”

River rolled his shoulder. “So where the hell is she?”

“Gone,” I said. “For now. But she’s rattled the wrong cage. ”

Edge lit a cigarette with bloodied fingers. “What now?”

“We go home,” I muttered. “Check in. Check our people.”

Tarak groaned. “Thank fuck.”

I looked up at the bruised sky, lightning licking the edge of the horizon.

Her voice haunted me.

Come back to me. To us.

I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Don’t say anything yet… but I’m putting a ring on it.”

River gave a low whistle. “You serious?”

Jigsaw grinned. “You want the Vegas chapel special? I still got the Elvis suit from Tarak’s bachelor run.”

I shook my head. “Red’s more wildflowers and sunshine. She deserves the white dress. All of it.”

River snorted. “A damn groomzilla.”

I laughed, just once. “Let’s ride.”

I parked last. Let the others roll in ahead. My ribs screamed, my clothes stuck to me in wet blood and sweat.

I walked up the back steps quiet, like a man returning from war—and maybe I was.

Inside, the Clubhouse was still, only the hum of the fridge and the click of the hallway clock breaking the silence.

I opened my bedroom door and stopped.

They were there.

Skye and Jackson.

Curled together on my bed like they belonged.

Like they'd never been gone.

My son’s head tucked under her chin. Her arm draped over him like a lifeline. Her face calm in sleep, hair messy, mouth slightly parted. My patch—my kutte—lay folded neatly on the edge of the bed like she’d waited for me .

And just like that— t he storm inside me broke.

Everything I’d been holding in, every wall I’d built, every fear that loving her again might kill me… all of it collapsed.

My heart didn’t ache. It beat. Solid. Steady. Whole.

I leaned down and kissed Jackson’s forehead first. Then hers.

Whispered so softly neither could hear me, “I’m the luckiest bastard alive.”

I didn’t deserve this second chance. But I was going to earn it.

Tomorrow, I'd start making plans.