Page 18
Rio
I stood in the dingy back room of the clubhouse, sweat beading at my temples despite the chill from the air conditioner. Shade hunched over his keyboard, his fingers moving with practiced precision across the keys. The blue glow from the bank of monitors cast harsh shadows across his face. I shifted my weight, the floorboard creaking beneath my boots, but Shade didn’t look up -- too lost in his digital world to notice anything as mundane as another human being.
“How long?” I asked, my voice sounding rough even to my own ears.
Shade held up a finger, asking for silence without bothering to speak. Five screens surrounded him, each displaying different information -- maps, code windows, spreadsheets filled with numbers that meant nothing to me. The constant hum of cooling fans provided a mechanical backdrop to our mission. With everything going on, Charming had insisted he move everything the clubhouse. And since Shade didn’t want half the club at his house, he’d readily agreed.
I moved closer, gripping the edge of the table beside his workstation. My knuckles went white with tension. Three days had passed since I’d exacted justice, and we were running out of time. By some miracle, the assholes hadn’t been missed yet.
“Almost there,” Shade muttered, pushing his glasses higher on his nose. Despite being in his sixties, his fingers moved with the agility of someone half his age. I knew he’d been working on this issue off and on since I got back to the compound after dealing with Ellis and Denton. “Digital breadcrumbs. That’s the key.”
“In English, Shade.”
He finally turned to face me, the screens reflecting in his hazel eyes. “We need to make it look like they left of their own accord. Ticket purchases. Hotel bookings. ATM withdrawals in strategic locations.” He pointed to one screen showing a global map with red dots scattered across several countries. “Non-extradition countries where our targets supposedly fled.”
The clubhouse walls seemed to close in around me. Somewhere in the main room, music played and people laughed, but back here, in Shade’s digital cave, the world narrowed to just us and the problem we needed to solve.
“Show me again,” I said, pulling up a chair.
Shade nodded and clicked on one of his spreadsheets. “These are the targets. Your two Army assholes. Ellis and Denton. If they show up dead, you’re going to be at the top of the list of suspects. You have a connection with them, a rotten history, and you have military training. I don’t think even the best lawyer in the country could get you out of this one.”
I leaned closer, studying the name. “What’s the timeline?”
“I’ve already started laying the groundwork.” Shade clicked to another screen showing airline booking confirmations. “Twenty-four hours ago, Ellis supposedly bought a ticket to Venezuela. Used his own credit card too.” He smirked, the closest thing to emotion I’d seen from him today. “But, there’s a chance people will be watching for him. So I’m going to do a bit more work. We need them to think Denton paid someone under the table to use a private jet to leave the country. Anyone searching may assume Ellis went with him.”
“Can they trace it back to you? Or what about security footage wherever this plane is supposedly located?”
Shade gave me a look that made me feel stupid for asking. “I’ve been doing this for decades, kid. Trust me, they’ll find exactly what I want them to find. As for cameras, it’s such a shame they won’t be operational the day of the supposed flight.”
I nodded, not entirely convinced but knowing I had no choice. “What about the bodies from the warehouse that first time we went up against the Morettis? Did you do something similar?”
His fingers flew across the keyboard, bringing up more booking confirmations. “Two to Thailand. One to Belize. Two to Morocco. And another to Montenegro.” He pointed to the center screen. “Different departure times, different airlines. Some took connecting flights. Makes it harder to track. And by the time anyone goes looking, I’ll have scrubbed any airport footage. And to answer your other question, I do this type of thing more often than you probably think.”
“And these countries wouldn’t send them back?”
“No.” Shade paused his typing to take a sip from a mug of coffee that had probably been sitting there since morning. “But they won’t need to, because these seven men aren’t actually in those countries. We just need the law to believe they are.”
I tightened my grip on the table edge. “And the evidence?”
Shade’s eyes gleamed with something like pride. “I’m fabricating digital trails as we speak. Hotel check-ins. Restaurant charges. Even social media activity that looks like it’s coming from those locations.” He pulled up a program I didn’t recognize. “This little beauty spoofs IP addresses. To anyone checking, it’ll look like our guys are posting from Internet cafes in Caracas or Bangkok.”
“What about CCTV? Airport cameras? How are you handling those? You said you’d scrub the footage, but I don’t know what that means.”
He gestured to a screen running what looked like facial recognition software. “I’ve got programs searching for people who look similar enough. They won’t hold up to serious scrutiny, but it should be enough to create reasonable doubt. And where I can’t find any, I’ll just make sure the footage is damaged during those times.”
The weight of what we were doing pressed down on me. “What if there are real criminals there?”
“I’m also checking for that while scanning faces. If anyone pops up who’s on a wanted list somewhere, I’ll know about it. Then I’ll figure out something else.”
“And what about…”
He held up a hand to stop me. “Go. I need to concentrate.”
I stood to leave but hesitated. The thought of fabricating evidence made my stomach turn. But I also knew it was necessary. The men who’d died were all evil bastards. We had nothing to feel guilty about. Right?
“One more thing,” he said before I could leave. “I’ve planted a few mistakes. Small ones. Intentional.”
“Mistakes? Like shit that will come back to haunt us?” I asked.
He just stared for a moment not answering my question.
“Why the hell would you do that?” I pressed.
Shade leaned back in his chair, the springs creaking. “Perfect cover stories raise red flags. People make mistakes. They get drunk and use their credit card at the wrong place. They forget to turn off location services on their phone. These little errors make the story believable. These two, if they really did flee like this, might get sloppy along the way. Planting those mistakes makes it more believable.”
I nodded, understanding his logic but not liking it. “How big are these mistakes?”
“Small enough to be written off as human error. Big enough to be found by someone looking.” He turned back to his screens. “It’s a balancing act.”
Just as I reached the door, Shade called out, “Rio.”
I turned. “Yeah?”
“If anyone asks, I’ve been teaching you poker strategies all afternoon. We never discussed this.”
“What’s my tell?” I asked.
His mouth twitched. “You touch your left ear when you’re bluffing.”
I fought the urge to reach for my ear. “Good to know.”
Shade returned to his work, already forgetting my presence. I watched him for a moment longer before stepping back into the main part of the clubhouse.
“Wait,” he called just as I opened the door. I turned back one last time.
Shade didn’t look up from his screens, but his voice was deadly serious. “I’ll rig it so they look like they’ve defected to non-extradition countries but remember -- if the feds dig deep enough, this house of cards could collapse.”
I nodded, the gravity of his words settling on my shoulders like a physical weight. “How long will it hold?”
“Long enough,” he said, his fingers already back to dancing across the keyboard. “Sooner or later, they’ll shuffle these off to a cold case file and focus on the next big thing.”
The rhythmic clicking of Shade’s typing followed me out the door. In the hallway, I paused to collect myself, straightened my shoulders and headed toward the main room. How the hell did these men do this? It was my first time and I was a nervous wreck. If I had to do this too many times, I’d likely have a heart attack.
* * *
I spotted Rebel, leaning against the wall near the hallway junction, his gaze finding mine with laser focus. Something in his expression made my breath catch -- a determination that hadn’t been there this morning. Without a word, he pushed off the wall and jerked his head toward one of the rooms. I followed.
“What’s going on?” I asked as we stepped into one of the rooms that had once been a bedroom. When I’d asked about them before, Rebel had told me there had been a time everyone stayed at the clubhouse. Back when the club was still new-ish.
“Something that can’t wait,” he said, his words clipped.
Rebel gestured for me to sit, but I shook my head. Whatever this was, I’d face it standing.
“Spit it out,” I said, crossing my arms. “What’s so urgent?”
He ran a hand through his hair -- a nervous gesture I’d rarely seen from him. Rebel didn’t do nervous. He was cocky, borderline arrogant, with the fighting skills to back it up. Seeing him this way set my nerves on edge.
He opened his palm, revealing a small silver ring. It wasn’t new or flashy -- the band was worn in places, with a simple design etched into the metal. It looked old, possibly vintage.
“What is that?” I asked, though I had my suspicions.
“It was my grandmother’s,” he said, turning it between his fingers. “One of the few things I have from before… everything. My mom wore it until the day she died. When Dad died, I found it in his dresser drawer.”
He rarely talked about his past, but I knew the broad strokes -- enough to understand what this ring represented to him.
“Rebel --” I started, but he cut me off.
“Dixon,” he corrected softly. “It’s just us here.”
“Dixon,” I tried again. “What are you doing?”
He stepped closer, close enough that I could smell the leather of his cut and the faint scent of his soap. “What I should have done the moment you agreed to be my old lady.”
My heart hammered against my ribs. “Are you doing what I think you’re doing?”
A sardonic smile crossed his face. “You know how I take my coffee, which side of the bed I sleep on, and that I talk in my sleep sometimes.”
“That’s not --”
“You know I check my gun twice before I holster it. You know I can’t stand the taste of cilantro.” His voice dropped. “And I know you sleep with a knife under your pillow. I know you sing in the shower when you think no one can hear. I know you’re braver than half the patched members in this club.”
His words wrapped around me, uncomfortably accurate. The intimacy between us had crept in during our time together -- in shared meals, in quiet conversations in the early morning hours, in the way he always seemed to appear when my anxiety was spiking.
“This isn’t about romance,” he continued, though his eyes said otherwise. “But to be clear, I care about you a lot.”
I glanced at the ring again. “And what exactly does that mean in club terms? Charming already ordered a property cut.”
“It means you’re officially mine. Not just in the eyes of the club. But also in the eyes of the law.” The possessiveness in his voice should have bothered me, but instead, it sent a different kind of shiver down my spine.
I swallowed hard. “And what does the club think about this sort of thing?”
“Most of the couples are married. Although, to be fair, Shade learned a few bad habits from Wire and Lavender over at the Dixie Reapers. He has a tendency to hack into vital records and marry people without their knowledge.”
That surprised me. Not so much Shade’s hacking skills, but the fact most of the couples were actually married.
“There are other benefits,” Rebel added. “Legal protections. If something happens to me, you’d be entitled to my share of club earnings, my bike, my place. And the life insurance money. Yes, I have a policy. It’s not a million bucks, but it’s enough.”
“Don’t.” The word came out sharper than I intended. “Don’t talk about you dying.”
His expression softened. “It’s the reality of this life, Rio. You know that.”
I did know. Had known every time he’d left on club business with a gun tucked into his waistband. Had known when I’d stepped into the fray with him.
“What about what I want?” I asked, needing to assert some control over what felt like a runaway train.
His confidence faltered for the first time. “What do you want?”
That was the question, wasn’t it? Once my dream had been a military career. Of course, that would have been easier if the men in charge of such things hadn’t found ways to hold me back. Then I’d been discharged and decided to travel. Now I was living in a motorcycle club compound, helping in any way I could, and contemplating tying myself permanently to a man who walked the edge of the law daily.
And yet, the thought of a mundane law-abiding life seemed impossible. Hollow.
“I want…” I started, then stopped, searching for the right words. “I want to not be afraid anymore. To not be alone.”
Rebel stepped closer, close enough that I had to tilt my head to maintain eye contact. “I promise to always keep you safe,” he said, his voice low and intense. “To be by your side as long as I can. Whatever it takes.”
The sincerity in his eyes made my chest ache. “You could go out on a mission tomorrow and not make it back.”
“That’s why I said for as long as I can.” He took my hand, his calloused fingers warm against mine. “I’m not asking for forever, Rio. I’m asking for however long we’re both alive. Forever is just a fairytale. This is real life.”
The ring caught the light again as he held it between us. It was nothing like I’d ever imagined for myself -- no diamond, no proposal on one knee, no romantic setting. Instead, it was a worn silver band, a promise of protection, and a man whose dangerous life had become intertwined with mine through circumstance and choice.
“Yes or no?” he asked, the confidence back in his voice but vulnerability in his eyes.
I looked at the ring, then at him. This was my reality now -- this club, these people, this man. Somewhere along the way, I’d started to fall in love with him. Even if I hadn’t said the words yet. I’d not been the sentimental type since I’d lost my mom. I’d tell him one day. I held out my left hand. “Yes.”
The relief that washed over his face was almost comical, like he’d genuinely expected me to say no. He slid the ring onto my finger -- it was slightly loose, but not enough to fall off.
“We can get it sized,” he said, noticing.
I shook my head. “It’s perfect.”
He lifted my hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to my knuckles just above the ring. The gesture was surprisingly tender from a man I knew could break another man’s jaw with a single punch.
“We should tell Charming,” I said. “Isn’t this the sort of thing he needs to know?”
Rebel nodded but didn’t release my hand. “In a minute.”
He pulled me closer, one arm sliding around my waist as his other hand cupped my cheek. His kiss was gentle at first, then deepened with a hunger that matched the urgency of everything else that seemed to happen to us, or around us.
When we finally broke apart, I rested my forehead against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath his shirt.
“So,” I said, trying to regain my composure. “Mrs. Rebel. That has a certain ring to it.”
His laugh rumbled through his chest. He tilted my chin up. “It’s Mrs. Morreli, but you already know that. Though if you want to keep your name, I won’t stop you.”
My fingers found the ring, turning it on my finger -- a new habit already forming. Mrs. Morreli. I liked it.
“Come on,” Rebel said, taking my hand again. “Let’s go find Charming.”
As we headed back toward the stairs, the ring on my finger caught the light once more -- a small but significant weight, a tangible symbol of how completely my life had changed since I’d arrived here.
Rebel led me back to the main room, my hand firmly clasped in his. The noise hit us like a physical wall -- music cranked to eleven, laughter, the clash of bottles and glasses. He paused, his gaze searching mine. “Ready?”
I nodded, my fingers instinctively touching the silver band on my left hand. The celebration rolled over us like a wave. Judging by the smiles and knowing looks, someone had tipped them off. Of course they had. Nothing stayed secret in this clubhouse for long.
The main room of the Devil’s Boneyard clubhouse pulsed with energy. Bodies pressed together, the smell of leather, whiskey, and cigarettes creating the distinctive scent I’d come to associate with safety. The speakers blared rock, though the melody was nearly drowned out by the roar of voices.
“There they are!” someone shouted, and suddenly all eyes turned our way.
Rebel’s hand tightened around mine. For all his cockiness, I could feel the tension radiating from him. This was a big step for him too. In the club’s world, what you loved could be used against you. And I could tell, without him saying anything, he loved me. It might not be the fairytale kind some women dreamed of, but I didn’t need all that. All I needed was Rebel.
A path cleared through the crowd as Charming approached us. He stopped a few feet away, looking between us before his gaze dropped to my hand.
“So he finally did it,” Charming said, his deep voice carrying even over the noise. “About damn time.”
A cheer went up from the gathered members. Rebel’s chest expanded beside me, pride straightening his spine.
“You got something to say to me about it?” Rebel challenged.
Charming’s mouth twitched. “Yeah. Your taste in women is better than your taste in bikes.” He turned to me. “You sure about this one, Rio? Not too late to upgrade to someone who doesn’t snore like a chainsaw.”
The laughter that followed eased some of the tension in my shoulders. This was how they showed acceptance -- rough humor and gentle ribbing.
“I’ll take my chances,” I replied, squeezing Rebel’s hand.
Charming nodded, then his expression shifted to something more serious. “We got business to handle first,” he said, glancing around the room. “Everyone’s here?”
A chorus of affirmations rang out.
“Good.” He turned back to us. “Shade filled me in on the timeline. We’ve got moves to make tonight, but before that --” He gestured to a table near the bar where something lay folded. “We’ve got a proper welcome to give.”
Rebel guided me forward, his hand moving to the small of my back. The crowd parted again, giving us a clear path to the table. As we got closer, I saw what waited there -- a leather cut, smaller than the men’s versions but unmistakably a Devil’s Boneyard vest.
My breath caught. I hadn’t expected this. Not today anyway. They’d said I’d have it quite a while ago, but one thing after another happened and it kept getting pushed off. I’d honestly forgotten about it. It made sense something like this would have been at the bottom of their to-do list.
Charming picked it up, holding it so I could see the front. Devil’s Boneyard MC . And under that, my name. Then he turned it around. The club’s emblem -- a stylized skull with horns -- was embroidered in the center. Unlike the men’s cuts, this one said “Devil’s Boneyard” on the top rocker and “Property of Rebel” on the bottom one.
In the recent past, I might have bristled at the word “property,” but I understood the club culture enough now to know what it really meant -- protection, respect, belonging. It didn’t mean he owned me. But it did mean I would be cherished by Rebel.
“In the years I’ve led this club, and the ones prior to that as a patched member,” Charming said, his voice carrying across the now-quiet room, “I’ve seen members come and go. I’ve seen old ladies stand by their men through hell itself. But there’s only ever been one that was close to the same fire as you.” His eyes met mine. “You’ve proven yourself loyal. You’ve earned your place.”
He extended the cut toward me. “This marks you as one of us. Anyone messes with you, they mess with the entire Devil’s Boneyard MC. Welcome to the family.”
My hands trembled slightly as I reached for the cut. The leather was soft, well-worked, with the weight of significance behind it. Rebel stepped back, giving me space for this moment.
I slipped the cut on over my T-shirt, feeling the leather settle on my shoulders. It fit perfectly -- someone had taken care to get my measurements right. The room erupted in cheers and whistles as I adjusted the front.
Rebel moved back to my side, his arm sliding around my waist, possessive and proud. “Looks good on you,” he murmured in my ear.
The formality broken, members surged forward. Hands clapped Rebel on the back, voices called congratulations, bottles of beer and shots of whiskey were thrust toward us. The celebration hit full swing, raw and unfiltered.
“Never thought I’d see the day,” said a gruff voice to my left. I turned to find Shade, who had apparently emerged from his digital cave for the occasion. “Rebel officially settling down. Hell must be freezing over.”
Rebel flipped him off good-naturedly. “Just because you’re married to your computers doesn’t mean the rest of us can’t find happiness with actual humans.”
Shade raised his beer in acknowledgment, then locked eyes with me. “You need anything, electronic or otherwise, you come to me. You’re family now.”
The simple words hit harder than I expected. Family. I’d been alone for so long. Now things were different.
A throat cleared behind us, and I turned to find Samurai standing there. The Japanese member was one of the more intimidating figures in the club, not just for his physical presence but for his quiet intensity. His tattooed arms were folded across his chest, his expression as stoic as ever.
“Samurai,” Rebel acknowledged with a respectful nod.
The man’s gaze moved from Rebel to me, then to the ring on my finger, and finally to the property cut I now wore. Something shifted in his expression -- the barest softening around his eyes.
“You chose well,” he said to Rebel, his voice measured. Then to me: “And so did you.”
He raised his glass in a silent toast before drifting back toward the bar. From Samurai, those few words were equivalent to an hour-long speech from anyone else.
“Damn,” Rebel whispered. “High praise.”
Music surged louder as someone cranked it a few notches. The celebration shifted into higher gear, taking on the feeling of stolen time -- joy snatched in the midst of danger. Everyone in the room knew that after tonight, things would move fast. Shade might have thrown people off with his digital breadcrumbs, as he’d called them, for Ellis and Denton. But I had a feeling things with the Morettis and Vata weren’t completely over. And who knew what else would head our way?
But for now, there was this moment.
Charming reappeared at my elbow, pressing a shot glass into my hand. “Club tradition,” he explained. “New family drinks with the President.”
I took the glass, sniffing it cautiously. Tequila.
“To family,” Charming said, raising his glass. “And to outlasting our enemies.”
Rebel and I echoed the toast, and we all downed our shots. The liquor burned a trail down my throat, settling warm in my stomach.
“Now,” Charming said, all business again as he set down his empty glass. “Shade tells me we have an hour before he should have things wrapped up with his latest trails for Ellis and Denton. After that, you should be in the clear.”
I nodded. I leaned against Rebel’s solid warmth.
His arm tightened around me. “Welcome to club life, babe. Never a dull moment.”
A loud crash from the bar drew our attention as two younger members started wrestling, knocking over stools in their enthusiastic celebration. Their laughter rang out as others egged them on.
“Should we stop them?” I asked.
Rebel shook his head. “Let them blow off steam.”
Another member approached, this one with a camera. “Gotta document the historic moment,” he insisted. “Rebel finally claimed.”
Rebel pulled me against his side, his hand possessively on my hip. I felt the eyes of the room on us -- some curious, some approving, some calculating. My left hand came up instinctively to rest on Rebel’s chest, the silver ring catching the light.
The flash went off, immortalizing the moment.
“One for the wall,” the photographer said, gesturing to the clubhouse wall where dozens of photos chronicled the club’s history.
I looked at that wall -- fights won, brothers lost, celebrations and mourning captured in faded photographs. Soon our picture would join them, marking this night as significant enough to be remembered.
Rebel kissed my temple, his lips lingering. “No going back now.”
I turned to face him fully, my hands coming up to rest on the leather of his cut, fingers tracing the patches that told his story in the club. “I don’t want to go back. I’m right where I belong.”
His eyes darkened, and he lowered his head to capture my lips in a kiss that drew whistles and catcalls from around the room. I didn’t care. Let them watch. This was my family now, my world -- for better or worse.