Page 71 of The Street Disciples
Sirens wailed in the distance, too slow, too late. The porch light flickered, casting everything in sharp flashes: shattered glass, blood smears I couldn’t even tell were his or mine, and that empty driveway where my baby should’ve been.
The SUV was gone. My baby was gone. And something inside me snapped clean in two.
Ro pressed his forehead to mine, voice low and raw. “I’m gettin’ her back. I don’t care who bleeds. I’m gettin’ her back.”
His words didn’t feel like a promise. They felt like judgment. Someone just lit a fuse, and he was the firestorm.
Engines rumbled low in the distance before they came into view—Street Disciples pulling up one by one, their bikes crawling onto the block like armored predators. Headlights cut through the mist, chrome glinting under porch lights that flickered weakly, too scared to hold steady. One by one, men parked, boots thudding on asphalt, leather cuts heavy with patches that carried decades of blood and reputation. They didn’t speak. They didn’t ask. They stood in a loose circle aroundme and Ro, forming a wall between us and the neighbors still peeking through curtains. The Crest had gone silent except for the soft growl of Harley engines cooling down, smoke curling up like incense at a wake.
Saint emerged from the darkness like a ghost with a mission. He didn’t walk—he glided, slow, deliberate, umbrella in one hand like it was a sword, other hand buried deep in his coat. His stare cut through the chaos, eyes sharp enough to gut a man without drawing a blade. The street itself seemed to make room for him, neighbors ducking back behind curtains as if they knew this wasn’t a scene they were allowed to witness.
He crouched low next to us, his calm presence cutting through my shaking fury. “Ro,” he exhaled, voice steady as if this wasn’t the scene of a kidnapping but a chessboard. “Look at me.”
Ro did, jaw tight, vision swimming with rage. Saint’s face was unreadable. “You’re breathin’,” he reminded him. “That’s all that matters right now. You’re breathin’. That means we can fix this.” He didn’t raise his voice, but his words owned the night. The Disciples shifted, every man within earshot straightening as if Saint’s calm was an order, and his authority didn’t need a patch. He didn’t just command respect; he harvested it.
Trigger wasn’t here, but his absence screamed louder than his presence ever could. Saint and the Disciples moved like a unit I didn’t control, but they wrapped us in a wall of leather and chrome that made one thing clear: this wasn’t just an attack. It was war.
He extended a hand, gripping Ro’s shoulder hard enough to ground him. “Pick her up, Ro,” he said, nodding at me, shaking so bad I couldn’t stand. “Pick her up, get her inside. This block ain’t safe.” His eyes didn’t blink. They scanned everything—rooflines, alley mouths, cars that hadn’t left in days. Saint wasn’t just here. He was hunting.
Tino’s bike roared in next, pipes growling like thunder. His face was tight, controlled fury, and his commands came fast. “Lock it down,” he snapped. “Every alley, every rooftop, nobody moves till we find her.”
The Disciples scattered like wolves on a scent, bikes peeling off, engines echoing through Lyon Crest. I clung to Ro’s shirt, tears soaking through it, my hands shaking so hard I could barely hold on.
Saint straightened, eyes sharp and calculating. “They ain’t ghosts. They left a trail,” he said flatly. “And we’re gonna find ‘em.”
The block was quiet, but it wasn’t peace. It was a coffin lid closing.
The Street Disciples didn’t need to roar or threaten. Their silence said it all: snatching one of ours wasn’t just a crime—it was an invitation to war.
Lyon Crest was about to remember what happens when the wolves come hunting.
To Be Continued
