Page 13 of Rebel (Devil’s Boneyard MC #14)

Rebel

The industrial park loomed ahead like a graveyard of concrete and steel. Moonlight caught on broken windows, casting jagged shadows across cracked pavement. I led our flank on my bike, the engine’s rumble beneath me vibrating up through my bones. Ahead, Dmitri’s transport rolled silent and dark, no headlights to announce our approach. I checked my watch -- the synchronized timepiece Alexei had given me. Two minutes to zero hour. My grip tightened on the handlebars. Tonight, the Morettis would learn what happens when you piss off both the Devil’s Boneyard and the Bratva.

Alexei rode beside me, his massive frame somehow balanced perfectly on a club bike we’d provided. Behind us, four more riders -- two Russians, two of ours -- formed a tight V formation. The warehouse district sprawled around us, abandoned factories and storage facilities creating a maze of blind spots and choke points. Perfect for an ambush. From either side.

I tapped the comm unit at my wrist. “Team Two in position,” I reported, voice low despite the privacy of our channel.

“Team One ready,” came Havoc’s clipped response.

“Team Three in position,” Jackal confirmed.

A pause, then: “Team Four moving in sixty seconds.” Charming’s voice, steady as always. “Commence on my mark.”

I signaled to Alexei, who nodded once. The Russians’ military precision was unnerving but reassuring in equal measure. These men didn’t fuck around with their operations, and tonight, that discipline would work in our favor.

The warehouse that served as the Morettis’ processing center stood three stories tall, a hulking shadow against the night sky. Two guards patrolled the perimeter -- sloppy, predictable patterns. One smoked, the cherry of his cigarette a beacon in the darkness. Amateur hour.

“Northeast corner has a loading dock,” I murmured to Alexei. “Secondary entrance through the office wing on the west side.”

He assessed the building with cold efficiency. “How many inside?”

“Intel says fifteen to twenty. Mostly muscle, two lieutenants.”

Alexei nodded, then spoke in Russian to his men. I didn’t need to understand the words to get their meaning. They were dividing responsibilities, assigning kill zones.

I spotted movement at the main entrance -- a third guard emerging to talk with one of the patrolling men. A brief exchange, then laughter. They had no idea what was coming.

My comm unit buzzed. “All teams.” Charming’s voice was steel. “Execute.”

Everything happened at once. The transport truck surged forward, smashing through the chain-link fence surrounding the facility. The guards spun, reaching for weapons, but they were already too late. Silenced shots dropped them before they could raise the alarm.

I revved my engine, leading our flank around to the loading dock as planned. Alexei and two others peeled off toward the office entrance. Two stayed with me. We abandoned the bikes fifty yards out, continuing on foot. The weight of my AR-15 felt good in my hands -- familiar, an extension of myself.

“Dock doors are down,” I whispered, scanning the area. “Control panel there.” I pointed to a box mounted beside the large metal door.

One of the Russians -- Ivan, I thought -- moved forward, attaching a small device to the panel. He pressed a sequence of buttons, and the box sparked. The dock door began to rise, grinding upward with a mechanical groan that seemed deafening in the night air.

“Move,” I ordered, crouching low as I approached the widening gap. I had maybe three seconds before someone inside noticed the door’s movement.

Two… the gap reached knee height.

Three… waist height now.

I dropped to my stomach and rolled under, coming up with my AR-15 raised and scanning. The loading area was dimly lit, pallets of packaged product stacked in precise rows. Two men stood near a forklift, heads turning toward the rising door, expressions shifting from confusion to alarm.

I squeezed the trigger twice. Two bodies dropped. Clean.

“Clear,” I called softly as my teammates rolled in behind me.

From somewhere deeper in the warehouse came the muffled pop of silenced gunfire. Alexei’s team making entry. Good.

We moved forward in a practiced formation, covering each other’s blind spots. The processing area opened up ahead -- a vast space with assembly tables where workers would normally cut and package product. Tonight, it was staffed by a skeleton crew of armed men, their attention now focused on the commotion at the far end where Alexei had entered.

“Six targets,” the Russian beside me counted. “High ground at the observation platform.”

I nodded, spotting a seventh man on the metal walkway overlooking the floor. “I’ll take the high man. You sweep left, your partner right.”

No debate, no questions. Just three nods and we moved.

I slipped between pallets, using the cover to approach the stairs leading to the observation platform. A burst of gunfire erupted from the far side of the warehouse -- no longer silenced. The element of surprise was officially gone.

“Contact,” crackled through my comm. “Heavy resistance at the north entrance.”

The guard on the walkway shouted something in Italian, gesturing wildly to the men below. I aimed, exhaled half a breath, and squeezed. His head snapped back, body crumpling against the railing before sliding down in a heap.

“Moving up,” I reported, then sprinted for the stairs.

The warehouse exploded into chaos. Gunfire echoed off concrete walls. Men shouted in three different languages. From my elevated position, I could see Alexei’s team pushing through from the west, methodically dropping Moretti soldiers who scrambled for cover.

My teammates had split as planned, flanking the main floor from opposite sides. The Russians fought with ruthless efficiency -- two shots per target, no wasted ammunition. Our club members brought a more aggressive approach, but the results were the same. Bodies hitting concrete.

I tracked movement below -- a Moretti lieutenant I recognized from surveillance photos. Marco, Salvatore Moretti’s nephew. He was shouting into a phone, presumably calling for backup.

Not today.

I lined up the shot, but a burst of gunfire forced me to duck behind a metal filing cabinet. Bullets pinged off the walkway around me. I rolled to a new position, came up firing, and caught a glimpse of my attacker dropping behind some equipment.

“Rebel, status?” Alexei’s voice in my ear.

“Pinned on the walkway. Target is Marco Moretti, northeast corner.”

A pause, then: “Moving to support.”

I risked a glance over the railing and spotted Marco again, now trying to access what looked like a safe built into the wall. Whatever was in there, we couldn’t let him retrieve it.

Ignoring the continued fire from my hidden attacker, I steadied my AR-15 and focused. Three breaths. In. Out. In.

I squeezed the trigger. Marco jerked, stumbled. But he wasn’t down. My shot had caught his shoulder instead of center mass. Fuck.

He looked up, spotted me, and dove behind a concrete support pillar. The man was wounded but still dangerous.

Movement caught my attention -- Alexei appeared at the far end of the floor, moving with startling speed for someone his size. He fired twice as he advanced, dropping a Moretti soldier who popped up from behind a processing table.

My hidden attacker chose that moment to make another attempt. He rose from cover, assault rifle raised toward me. I twisted, brought my weapon to bear, but he had the advantage.

A single shot cracked through the warehouse. The man’s chest exploded in a spray of red, his finger twitching on the trigger and sending a harmless burst into the ceiling as he fell.

I glanced toward the source of the shot. One of our guys -- Chaos -- nodded once from his position by the loading dock before turning to engage another target.

“Thanks,” I muttered, though he couldn’t hear me.

Below, Alexei had reached Marco’s position. The wounded Moretti lieutenant fired wildly with a handgun, forcing Alexei into cover. I used the distraction to descend the stairs, moving quickly but carefully, keeping my rifle trained on Marco’s last position.

“He’s trying to access the safe,” I called to Alexei as I reached the bottom of the stairs.

Alexei nodded once. “Important?”

“Must be. Documentation, maybe cash, perhaps client lists.”

“We take it,” he decided.

Marco chose that moment to make a desperate move. He lunged from behind the pillar, firing rapidly as he tried to reach a door marked “EXIT.” Two shots went wide. The third caught one of the Russians in the leg. He went down with a grunt but continued firing from his kneeling position.

I stepped out, planted my feet, and put multiple shots center mass into Marco’s chest. He staggered, looked at me with genuine surprise, then collapsed face-first onto the concrete floor.

“Clear this section,” Alexei ordered, moving toward the safe.

The warehouse had gone quiet except for the methodical sound of our team checking bodies and securing rooms. I approached the safe, examining it while Alexei covered me.

“Electronic lock,” I noted. “Beyond my skill set.”

Alexei pulled a small device from his tactical vest and attached it to the keypad. “Step back.”

I didn’t need to be told twice. I moved behind a pillar as the device hummed to life. A soft beep, then a click as the safe door swung open.

Inside were stacks of cash, several thumb drives, and a leather-bound ledger.

“Jackpot,” I murmured, collecting the items and stuffing them into my backpack.

“Team Two secure,” I reported into my comm. “Primary target eliminated, secondary objective acquired.”

The responses came in rapid succession:

“Team One secure.”

“Team Three secure.”

“Team Four engaged. Five minutes to completion.”

I checked my watch. Twelve minutes since we’d breached the warehouse. Efficient.

Alexei surveyed the carnage with clinical detachment. “Cleanup?”

I nodded toward the center of the warehouse floor where gallons of accelerant were being positioned by our teammates. “Fire solves many problems.”

He nodded, apparently satisfied with the solution.

We worked quickly, gathering our wounded -- just the one Russian with a leg wound, thankfully -- and confirming each Moretti soldier was dead. No survivors, as ordered. The intel we’d recovered went into a secure bag that Alexei handed to one of his men.

“Your club President will want copies,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

“Only seems fair to receive shared intelligence,” I reminded him.

A thin smile crossed his face. “Of course. Dmitri will honor the request.”

I didn’t completely believe him, but now wasn’t the time to press the issue. We had minutes before the fire would draw attention, and we needed to be gone.

“Move out,” I ordered our team, helping support the wounded Russian as we headed toward the loading dock.

Behind us, flames began to lick at the processing tables, consuming evidence and bodies alike. By the time emergency services arrived, there would be nothing left but ash.

Outside, the night air felt clean compared to the gunpowder-thick atmosphere of the warehouse. I inhaled deeply, feeling the familiar post-battle surge of adrenaline beginning to ebb.

“Good work,” Alexei said as we reached our bikes.

Coming from him, it felt like high praise. I nodded once, then tapped my comm. “Team Two heading out. Rendezvous at point Alpha in twenty.”

As we rode away, I glanced back once at the warehouse. Orange light glowed from inside, the fire growing hungry. Smoke billowed from broken windows, carrying with it the message we’d come to deliver:

This was what happened when you crossed the Devil’s Boneyard and the Bratva.

And it was just the beginning.

Point Alpha was the abandoned barn ten miles outside of town. It had been decided we’d rendezvous there on the off chance we were followed. No sense having a tail back to the compound.

We arrived to find Havoc’s team already there, their faces grim but satisfied in the harsh glow of tactical flashlights. Blood spattered across their cuts told its own story.

“How’d it go?” I asked, dismounting my bike with muscles that had started to stiffen. The post-adrenaline crash was coming, but I pushed it back.

“Clean,” Havoc replied, lighting a cigarette. The flame briefly illuminated the fresh cut above his eye. “Fifteen Moretti soldiers down, plus one of their captains. Found their shipping manifests. They’ve been moving product through three states.”

I nodded. “We got their ledger and some drives. And Marco.”

Havoc’s eyebrows shot up. “Salvatore’s nephew? Fuck, that’s a statement.”

“That was the point.” I scanned the gathering. The Russians clustered near their transport, speaking in low tones. Our guys mingled nearby, weapons still visible, bodies still humming with battle energy.

I spotted Alexei conferring with another Bratva soldier, their expressions intense. Their conversation ended abruptly when Alexei caught me watching. He said something to his companion, then approached me with measured steps.

“Your club fights well,” he said, his accent thicker now that the adrenaline was wearing off. “Disciplined. Not what I expected.”

I wasn’t sure if I should be insulted or flattered. “We’re not just weekend warriors playing dress-up.”

His lips twitched -- almost a smile. “No. You are soldiers. Different uniform, same heart.”

Before I could respond, engines rumbled in the distance. We all tensed, hands moving to weapons until we recognized the distinctive sound of Harley-Davidsons approaching. Team Three rolled in moments later, their formation tight despite the darkness.

Jackal dismounted first, blood streaking one side of his face. His gaze found mine across the barn. “Warehouse?”

“Burning,” I confirmed. “Yours?”

“Same. Six Morettis down, plus we found three civilians.” Something dark crossed his face. “Workers. Girls. Young.”

My stomach tightened. Human trafficking. We’d suspected the Morettis were branching out. If there was one thing we didn’t tolerate in our town, it was the sale of women and children.

“The girls?” I asked, already dreading the answer.

“Alive. We got them out before we torched the place. Rooster and Irish took them to a safe house.” Jackal’s fingers drummed against his thigh -- a nervous habit he only showed when truly disturbed. “They’ll need medical attention. Psychological help. One of them can’t be more than sixteen.”

“Jesus,” Havoc muttered, grinding out his cigarette beneath his boot.

I’d seen a lot of ugly shit in my years with the club, but trafficking always hit different. Made the violence we’d just unleashed feel not just necessary but righteous.

Alexei’s face hardened as he listened. He said something in Russian to his men, the words sharp and cold. Their expressions shifted, a collective darkening that made my skin prickle. The Bratva might be ruthless criminals by most standards, but even they had lines. Children were one of them. Well, at least that was true for Anatoly’s men. I couldn’t speak for all of the Bratva.

“This changes priorities,” Alexei said. “Dmitri will want to know.”

I nodded. “Charming too.”

As if summoned by his name, my comm unit crackled to life. “Team Four en route.”

Looked like the plan had been a success.