Page 35 of Rebel
Alex has been a prospect for the RBMC for six months now. He tried to keep our friendship separated from the club, but sometimes it was hard. Like now, Alex received some intel on a shipment and needed my assistance without the club knowing about me. So, here we are, sitting on the rooftop, out of sight of the cameras so I can watch Alex’s back.
“They’ll come through the south gate, if they come at all,” Alex says, breath fogging. “Cartel’s too proud to sneak.”
“Then we hold the line,” I respond, adjusting my scope.
Alex smirked. “You sound like her.”
“Your sister?”
“Yeah. Always thinks she can stare a storm into backing down.” Before I could answer, headlights exploded through the rain.
A white cargo van roared out of the dark, engine screaming, and slammed straight into the gates. Metal twisted. The klaxon alarms cut loose. Then came the gunfire, automatic, deafening. Bullets ricocheted off the clubhouse façade, sparking against the roof edge.
“Down!” I barked. We dropped flat as rounds chewed through the parapet.
“They found us,” Alex growled, chambering a fresh round. “Vultures or Cartel, doesn’t matter.”
He leaned over the ledge and fired, clean and practiced. Two men went down before the rest scattered behind the van. I covered the blind side, returning bursts into muzzle flashes. Rain hissed around us, hot brass bouncing off ourboots.
Then the second wave hit. Gunmen fanning through the breach, one shouldering a grenade launcher.
“Back!” I yelled, grabbing Alex’s cut.
The grenade struck the roof edge and blew apart the vent. The blast lifted us both off our feet. Smoke, fire, ringing ears. I hit hard, rolled, vision swimming.
When I found him again, he was still on his knees, trying to reload. Blood darkened the patch on his chest, red blooming through the crown insignia.
“Alex!”
He pressed a shaking hand over the wound. “Get… the drive… inside…”
“Forget the drive!”
He shook his head, jaw clenched. “Tell Vic… I tried.”
The next volley ripped the air, and he went down before I could reach him.
I fired until the magazine ran dry, then dragged him behind the vent shaft as the RBMC’s reinforcements stormed the yard. Capone’s shotgun roared below, Torch shouting for medics, but by the time they reached the roof, I was gone.
I left through the maintenance hatch with blood on my hands and his dog tag in my pocket.
No one ever knew I’d been there.
They buried a brother.
I buried a promise.
The wind picks up, and rain starts. A slow, deliberatedrizzle that slicks the headstone and burns cold against my skin.
Gravel crunches behind me. Instinct pulls me halfway upright before the voice follows.
“Didn’t figure you for the sentimental type.”
I turn.
Bones.
The Royal Bastards’ patch member looms at the edge of the fence line, leather cut open at the throat, smoke curling from the cigarette between his fingers. He looks carved out of the same bad habits as me.
