Page 81 of Rebel
Allura cuts in. “You’re not going alone.”
I stopped following orders the second she got in the van. “Then who the hell else is left?”
The silence stretches long enough for an engine to fade in the distance. Then Divine speaks, quieter this time.“There might be one person who can get you inside.”
I know who she means before she says it.
“Bones,” I mutter.
“Last sighting put him near Long Beach docks two nights ago,”Divine explains.“Somebody saw a man matching his build trading with a crew that runs guns to Baja. He’s not wearing his patch, not clean, but he’s alive.”
Allura exhales. “If you find him, don’t kill him. Yet.”
“Copy that.”
The city’s underbelly smells like diesel, brine, and regret.
The Long Beach docks stretch out under flickering lights, cranes frozen like skeletal giants. A half-sunkfreighter groans against the pier. I kill the engine, roll the bike into the shadows, and move on foot.
There’s a bar tucked behind a row of abandoned containers. The Rusted Anchor. The kind of place where men sell lives for cash and forget names for whiskey.
Inside, it’s dim. Neon beer signs sputter, voices low and mean. I spot him instantly.
Bones sits at the back booth, hair longer, beard rougher, eyes hollowed by something that looks like guilt. No cut. No colors. Just a bottle and a thousand-yard stare.
He looks up before I can speak. “Well,” he rasps. “Didn’t expect the Harlots’ pet soldier to find me first.”
“Didn’t expect to find you breathing,” I fire back.
He smirks, humorless. “Guess we’re both full of surprises.”
I toss Rebel’s cut onto the table. The blood on it is dry now, but the sight of it punches him in the chest.
“She’s gone,” I say. “Vultures took her.”
His hand tightens on the bottle. “Where?”
“Somewhere east of the basin. Compound, heavy guard, Cartel ties.”
Bones leans forward, eyes gone dark. “You got a plan?”
“Find her. Kill everyone who touches her.”
Bones downs the rest of the bottle in one swallow, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “You think I’ve been hiding,” he mutters. “I’ve been waiting for a reason.” He studies me for a long, quiet beat. Then he stands, tucking a knife into his belt. “Then we'd better move.”
I arch a brow. “Just like that?”
“She’s not just your war,” he says. “She’s mine too.”
We walk out into the night without another word. The engines roar to life. Mine and his, side by side again for the first time in too long.
Two men who hate each other. Two ghosts chasing the same fire. For Rebel Slade.
22
REBEL
The world comes back in fragments, starting with sound, then heat, and finally pain. A hum throbs through the floor beneath my feet, steady and mechanical, like the pulse of something alive.
