Page 12
Rebel
The Devil’s Boneyard clubhouse buzzed with the kind of quiet that made my skin crawl. Not silence -- never silence with this many bikers in one room -- but the low hum of voices pitched just above a whisper, of boot heels scuffing the floor as members paced, of knuckles rapping on tabletops and phones being checked for the hundredth time. Three days of nothing from Java. Three days where every ring of a phone had us all jerking our heads up, hoping for news, dreading news.
I leaned against the far wall, watching the makeshift command center they’d set up in the main room. Maps spread across the pool table. Laptops open, their screens casting blue glows on tense faces. A whiteboard stood in the center, covered in names, locations, and times -- data that meant something to someone, but looked like chaos to me. The chaos of desperate men trying to find their brother.
Ripper stood nearest to me, his fingers twitching against his thigh in a nervous rhythm. His eyes hadn’t left the door in twenty minutes.
“Anything?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Fuck all.”
Across the room, Stripes slammed his palm against the wall. “I’m telling you, we should’ve hit the Morettis three days ago. The second Java went missing.”
“And I’m telling you,” Viper countered, voice low but sharp, “that would’ve been suicide without intel. We don’t know if the Morettis have him or if they’ve already killed him. But if he’s alive, going in guns blazing could make them decide to cut any loose ends.”
I watched their faces -- the tight lines around Viper’s eyes, the vein pulsing in Stripes’ temple. Java meant something to each of us. He’d impressed the hell out of everyone here when he’d rolled in on a customized bike. He’d been in the Army, like my Rio, except he’d lost both legs to an IED. I was also the reason he was here.
My stomach tightened. How the fuck could he have survived all that to be taken down by the Morettis now?
I also knew Viper made a good point. Didn’t mean anyone would listen to him.
Doc approached me, offering a bottle of beer I hadn’t asked for. I took it anyway.
“This waiting is killing us,” he said, eyes on the knot of officers gathered around one of the laptops. “You good?”
I nodded, though “good” wasn’t the word I’d use. Tense. Wired. Ready to explode. Those fit better.
“You know Java well,” Doc said.
“Well enough,” I said. Truth was, I didn’t think anyone really knew him. He only let people get so close. “Watched him grow up. There were times we’d go shooting together, once he was older. Said my aim was shit.”
Doc’s laugh was brief, hollow. “Sounds like him.”
The minutes stretched. I counted the weapons I could see. Counted the times Azrael checked his phone only to shake his head at whoever was watching him for reaction.
The front door swung open. We all tensed, but it was only Gator, returning from his recon. His face told us everything we needed to know before he even opened his mouth.
“Nothing,” he said. “Warehouse is clean. If they had him there, they’ve moved him.”
“Or he’s dead,” someone muttered from the back.
Scratch shot them a look that could’ve frozen hell. “We don’t know that.”
“We don’t know shit,” Gator said. “That’s the problem.”
Scratch started to respond when the rear door opened, and the energy in the room shifted instantly. Backs straightened. Conversations died. All eyes fixed on the man who entered with measured steps that conveyed more authority than any shouted command could.
Charming.
He wore the weight of three sleepless nights in the lines of his face, but his eyes were sharp, focused. His leather cut was pristine, the President’s patch a silent reminder of who called the shots. He surveyed the room, nodded once, and moved toward the center of our makeshift command post.
No one spoke. No one needed to. We all knew what three days of silence meant. We all knew the odds were stacking higher against Java with every passing hour. But none of us would say it, not until Charming did.
He stood before the whiteboard, studying it like it might reveal some secret if he stared long enough. Then, without turning: “Any word from our friends on the north side?”
Scratch shook his head. “Nothing. Their places are locked down tight.”
“The Russians?”
“Radio silence,” Viper replied. “But that could be good or bad. They’re not exactly chatty on the best days.”
Charming nodded once, a single dip of his chin that somehow made the room even tenser. He turned, faced us all, his gaze sweeping across everyone before landing on mine for just a second longer than the others. I felt the weight of that look -- assessing, calculating.
Then he said it: “I’m calling Anatoly.”
The room went still. Completely still. Like someone had hit pause on everything except our breathing.
Anatoly. The Bratva connection. Charming’s friend from back before he’d broken ties with the Bratva. The nuclear option.
Scratch was the first to move, shifting his weight from one foot to another. “You sure that’s the play? Once the Bratva are in --”
“I’m sure Java doesn’t have time for us to debate,” Charming cut him off. His voice wasn’t raised, but it carried an edge that made men back down. “Three days. If he’s alive, it’s because the Morettis are trying to get information, or possibly hoping to make a trade.”
No one argued with that. We all knew what it meant if the Morettis were interrogating Java. It meant pain. It meant names. It meant all of us were at risk. Except I didn’t think he’d crack.
“Get me the secure line,” Charming said.
Gator moved quickly, retrieving a satellite phone from a locked cabinet behind the bar. He handed it to Charming with a nod of understanding.
Charming took the phone and stepped toward the back office. “Scratch, Viper -- with me. Everyone else, start gearing up. If Anatoly’s in, we move fast.”
I pushed off from the wall, my beer forgotten. Around me, the clubhouse came alive. The waiting was over. Whatever came next, it would at least be action.
Charming paused at the door to the office, his hand on the knob. He looked back, and this time his eyes found mine directly.
“Rebel,” he said. “You’re with us for this call.”
I felt every eye in the room on me as I crossed the floor. Some curious, some envious, some concerned. I kept my face neutral, though my pulse quickened. Being called into Charming’s inner circle for something this big wasn’t normal for someone who wasn’t an officer and hadn’t been around as long as some of the others. Especially since I didn’t have a special skillset that would make me an asset right now.
The office door closed behind us, sealing in a different kind of tension. Charming sat behind his desk, Scratch and Viper taking positions on either side. I remained standing, back to the wall, watching as Charming punched in a number from memory.
He put the phone on speaker and placed it in the center of the desk. The dial tone seemed to stretch forever before a click, followed by silence.
“Identify,” a heavily accented voice demanded.
“Charming, for Anatoly. Priority one.”
More silence. Then a different voice, deeper, smoother but with the same undercurrent of steel and ice.
“Halden. It has been some time.”
Charming’s jaw tightened at the use of his given name. “Anatoly. I need assistance.”
“Business or family?”
“Both.” Charming’s eyes flicked to each of us before returning to the phone. “One of mine is missing. Three days. We have reason to believe the Morettis have him.”
A long pause. I could almost hear the calculation happening on the other end.
“The Morettis,” Anatoly finally said, “have been making moves that concern my associates. Expanding where they should not. Taking risks that invite attention.”
“Then our interests align,” Charming said. “We need to find Java and shut down whatever the Morettis are planning.”
“You are asking for Bratva involvement in your American motorcycle club business. This is not a small request, Halden.”
“I’m aware of the cost,” Charming replied, and something in his tone made me glance at him sharply. “But Java is one of ours, and he lost enough defending this damn country.”
The silence stretched longer this time.
“You have a location?” Anatoly finally asked.
“We have three potentials. Need manpower and hardware to hit them simultaneously.”
Another pause. “I’ll send Dmitri. He’ll arrive tomorrow. You will provide details then.”
“That’s not soon enough,” Charming pressed. “Java might not have until tomorrow.”
“Then pray he is a strong man, da ? Dmitri comes tomorrow. With a team. Equipment. This is the best I can do.” The line went quiet for a moment. “Halden. If your man is already dead, what happens next will be war. Are you prepared for this?”
Charming’s eyes met mine, then moved to Scratch and Viper. In them, I saw the weight of what he was about to commit us to.
“We’re prepared,” he said.
“Then we’ll speak tomorrow.” The line went dead.
Charming sat back, running a hand over his face -- the first sign of fatigue he’d shown all night.
“You think Anatoly will come through?” Viper asked.
“Dmitri will,” Charming replied. “And that’s better. Anatoly sends Dmitri when he wants a message sent, not just a job done.” He looked at each of us. “Get some rest. Tomorrow, we go to war.”
As we filed out of the office, I felt the shift in the energy of the clubhouse. The quiet desperation had transformed into something harder, more focused. Men were checking weapons, reviewing maps, making calls. Preparing.
I watched them, these men I’d sworn brotherhood with, and knew that whatever happened next would change us all. Some wouldn’t make it back. That was the reality of war. But we’d go anyway, because Java was one of us, and in the Devil’s Boneyard, we never left our own behind.
Not while there was still a chance they were breathing. And sometimes, not even then.
* * *
I knew trouble had arrived when the ground beneath my feet trembled with the heavy approach of the military-issue truck. The massive vehicle growled outside our compound like a beast announcing its territory. Twenty-four hours. That’s all it had taken for Dmitri to respond to Charming’s call. I set my jaw, feeling the familiar weight of my gun against my hip as I moved toward the main hall, each step measured, each breath controlled.
The rumble cut through the usual background noise of the clubhouse. Conversations halted. Bottles stopped clinking. Even the air seemed to thicken, waiting. I’d heard that sound before -- the distinctive thunder of a Russian military transport.
“They’re here,” someone muttered unnecessarily.
I positioned myself near the wall, giving me clear sight lines to both the entrance and Charming. Our President stood with his feet planted wide, hands loose at his sides -- a casual stance that fooled no one. Every Devil’s Boneyard member in the room knew what that posture really meant: ready for anything.
The engine died outside, followed by doors slamming. My pulse quickened, not from fear but anticipation. When Charming had announced we were calling in the Bratva, opinions had split. Some said we were desperate. Others said we were smart. Me? I thought we were finally getting serious about ending the Moretti problem once and for all.
The main door swung open hard enough to bang against the wall. A man I assumed was Dmitri stepped through the threshold and fuck me if he didn’t command the room instantly. Six-foot-four of pure intimidation in a black leather jacket that probably cost more than my bike. His face was all sharp angles -- high cheekbones, straight nose, jaw that could cut glass. His gaze swept the room in one calculating glance, missing nothing.
“Charming,” he said, voice deep and accented. Just that one word carried weight.
Behind him filed in six men, each one built like they ate small children for breakfast. They wore identical black coats, and I knew without needing to check that they all carried at least three weapons each. The Bratva didn’t fuck around, and these weren’t regular soldiers -- these were Dmitri’s personal enforcers.
I watched Dmitri’s movements closely. The way he held himself screamed military training, but there was something else there too -- a predatory grace that couldn’t be taught. He moved with absolute confidence, each step purposeful. His eyes -- cold blue, almost gray -- scanned faces, exits, positions. I’d met men who thought they were dangerous before. Dmitri didn’t think it; he knew it. And so did everyone else.
“You made good time,” Charming said, stepping forward to meet him.
“When you said Moretti has expanded operations into your territory, I decided time was critical,” Dmitri replied, his accent thickening certain words. “Show me what you have.”
Around me, our club members shifted positions. Hands moved toward weapons, not to draw but to reassure themselves the hardware was there if needed. The Russians noticed. Of course they did. Their eyes tracked every movement, assessing threats, calculating response times.
I caught Havoc’s gaze across the room. He gave me the slightest nod -- our silent language for “stay alert.” We’d fought alongside the Bratva before, but alliances in our world were as stable as nitroglycerin. Useful but volatile.
Charming gestured toward the meeting room. “Maps and intel are ready. My guys have been tracking their movements for three weeks now. Just didn’t realize the shitstorm that was going to happen during that time.”
“Your men are prepared?” Dmitri asked, his gaze sweeping over us again. When that cold gaze landed on me, I didn’t flinch. I stared right back.
“My men are always prepared,” Charming answered, steel in his voice. There was history between these two -- respect, but also boundaries that needed maintaining.
Dmitri nodded once, apparently satisfied. He followed Charming toward the back room, but paused to speak quietly to one of his men who immediately turned and stationed himself by the door, scanning us with flat, emotionless eyes.
The rest of us remained where we were, watching as Dmitri’s men spread out through our space with practiced efficiency. No one said it, but we all felt it -- our clubhouse had just become shared territory, at least temporarily.
“Fucking Russians,” Gator muttered beside me, low enough that only I could hear.
“Better the devil you know,” I replied, keeping my voice equally quiet.
“That what we’re calling it now?” Gator’s hand twitched near his knife. “Because I’m counting at least six devils I don’t know standing in our house.”
“Relax. We need them.”
“Need’s a strong word, Rebel.”
“You got a better idea how to hit the Morettis across all their locations simultaneously?” I asked.
Gator didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. We both knew the math. From what Shade had found, the Morettis had expanded aggressively in the last six months, pushing into territory that belonged to both us and the Bratva. Rio showing up on our doorstep had pushed up our timeline. I’d planned to take my time figuring this shit out when Charming had asked for my help. Separately, neither of us had the numbers to hit back effectively. Together? We could send a message written in blood.
Twenty minutes later, the door to the meeting room swung open. Charming emerged first, his expression grim but determined. Dmitri followed, immediately flanked by two of his men as if they’d been waiting for precisely this moment.
“We move out tonight,” Dmitri announced, his voice cutting through the room. No preamble, no explanation. Just the directive, delivered with absolute authority.
Charming nodded. “Four targets, simultaneous hits. We split into teams -- mixed groups, our guys and theirs on each team.”
“Four?” Ripper asked. “Thought there were three.”
Charming sighed. “Anatoly put his tech people on the issue. Found another location in our area.”
I noticed the slight twitch in Ripper’s jaw at that. None of us liked the idea of splitting up our strength, but the strategy made sense. Keep the Russians divided so they couldn’t turn on us, while ensuring each strike team had enough firepower.
“My men have the heavy weapons,” Dmitri added. “Your local knowledge guides us to the targets.”
Charming’s eyes found mine. “Rebel, you’re with Team Two -- the warehouse district. Havoc leads Team One at the docks. Jackal, you’re on Team Three, hitting their distribution center. I’ll take Team Four to their local headquarters.”
I nodded, already mentally cataloging what I’d need. My AR-15, my Glock, two knives, extra ammunition, night vision if we had it to spare. The warehouse district was a maze of abandoned buildings and blind corners -- perfect for ambushes.
“Each team has four hours to prepare,” Dmitri said. “My men will brief you on communication protocols. No phones once we leave. No messages that could be intercepted.”
The reality of what we were about to do settled over the room. This wasn’t a skirmish or a warning. This was a coordinated attack to eliminate the Moretti presence completely.
One of Dmitri’s men approached me, tall and solid with a face that had taken more than a few hits in its time. His eyes were dark, assessing.
“You ride point with me,” he said, his accent thicker than Dmitri’s. “I am Alexei. You know the streets, yes?”
“Every pothole and blind alley,” I confirmed.
He nodded once, apparently satisfied. “Good. You will need this.” He handed me a small device that looked like a watch. “Communication. Secure channel. Press here for team, here for all teams.”
I strapped it to my wrist, feeling the weight of it. More than just a device -- it was commitment. Once we started, there would be no backing out.
Around me, the clubhouse transformed into a staging area. Weapons appeared from hidden compartments. Maps were spread across tables. The Russians produced equipment I’d only seen in military documentaries -- thermal imaging, signal jammers, armor-piercing rounds.
Charming and Dmitri stood at the center of it all, two leaders with different styles but aligned purposes. Charming caught my gaze again and beckoned me over.
“You good with this?” he asked quietly when I reached him.
“All in,” I replied. “The Morettis crossed lines they can’t uncross.”
“Once we start, we finish it completely,” Charming said. “No survivors, no witnesses, no trace leading back to us.”
I nodded. “Understood.”
Dmitri’s cold gaze assessed me. “Your President says you know the warehouse district better than anyone.”
“Used to live there,” I said. “Before I joined the club.”
Something that might have been approval flickered in his expression. “Then you are valuable tonight. Do not waste yourself on unnecessary risks.”
Coming from him, it was practically a warm embrace. I nodded again, more to Charming than to Dmitri. “I’ll get it done.”
As I turned to prep my gear, I felt the energy in the room shift. The usual club chaos had transformed into something focused and lethal. We were hunters now, gathering our weapons, checking our armor. Four hours to prepare. Then we’d paint the town red with Moretti blood.
I caught my reflection in a window -- eyes hard, mouth set in a grim line. I barely recognized myself. But then, nights like this weren’t about who we were in the daylight. They were about who we needed to become in the darkness.