Highway
Justice is a silent statue beside me as we hide in the shadows of the warehouse. His eyes are fixed on the closed doorway. We wait for the Crimson Wheelers and the hell we will unleash on them.
“Any minute now,” Justice murmurs, the words barely a vibration in the cool night air.
A set of headlights pierces the darkness, and the growl of an engine cuts through the silence. The truck approaches. My hand rests on the cold metal of my piece, comfort in its familiar weight.
“Showtime,” I mutter under my breath as the truck’s brakes squeal.
One of the prospects, a wiry kid with more guts than brains, swings the doors open. His movements are eager and hungry. The truck rolls in, and we all hold our breath.
“Easy,” I breathe, eyeing the shadows where my brothers lie in wait. The Royal Bastards are a pack of wolves ready to strike. But we’re not alone in our hunt tonight. The tension is a living thing, coiling around us, ratcheting tighter with each passing second.
The rumble hits us first, a vibration through the concrete. Harleys, too many to count, their roar a challenge that splits the night. Headlights flash as the Crimson Wheelers ride into the warehouse.
“Shit,” I hiss, my fingers tightening around the grip of my Glock. They roll in, engines snarling, leather and chrome gleaming under the warehouse lights. These bastards are way too cocky.
“Stay down,” Justice commands, his voice barely above a whisper.
They dismount like they own the place, boots striking the floor with the arrogance only fools possess. One of them draws out a gun and shoves it in our prospect’s face. The driver’s door is flung open, and the driver is staring down the barrel of a gun.
“Outta the truck! Now!” one of the Wheelers bellows, a scarred brute with fists like hammers. He steps forward, gun waving wildly in the air, the authority of violence etched into his every scar.
“Keep cool,” I murmur, waiting and watching. It’s not time yet, but the itch to act is like a fire in my veins.
“Move it!” Scarface barks at the driver, who’s shaking so badly he can barely get his feet to function.
Justice’s hand twitches, a signal only I can read. Soon, very soon. The Royal Bastards won’t bow to these gutter rats.
“Hey, pretty boy!” Scarface sneers at the prospect, shoving the kid hard enough to make him stumble back. “Next time you open those doors, it’ll be the last thing you—” He cuts off, laughter dying in his throat as he catches sight of something beyond the truck. Something he didn’t expect.
“Too late now,” I whisper.
What comes next is the part I live for, the clash, the fight, the dance with death. We’re the Royal Bastards, and this is our turf. These Crimson clowns are about to learn what happens when you crash the wrong party.
Justice steps out, lean and lethal, his eyes all fire and fight. “Evening, fellas,” he drawls, stepping into the dim light.
The Wheelers freeze, their bravado flickering. It’s like they’ve seen a ghost, only this ghost has a blade glinting in his hand and a grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Drop ’em,” Creed’s voice cuts through the tension, sharp as the edge of Justice’s knife. No face, just the command echoingoff the warehouse walls.
Gunshots explode as the Crimson Wheelers fire blindly into the shadows. I hold my ground, heart racing, watching as Justice closes in on Scarface. The burly biker’s gun trembles and clatters to the concrete as Justice holds his blade to his neck.
“Easy now,” Justice murmurs, but there’s steel behind the soft words. The blade kissing Scarface’s throat draws a thin red line, a vibrant bloom of red against the paleness of his skin. Scarface’s eyes bulge, horror-struck, as his brothers crumple one by one in the dark.
“Didn’t have to be this way,” Justice says, almost gently.
But we all know it did.
We all know there’s no room for mercy.
Silence falls, pierced by the ragged breaths of the living.
I step over a still body, boots sticking slightly to the slick warehouse floor. The tang of gunpowder and blood hangs thick in the air, a scent that is all too familiar.
I move alongside Justice, my gaze darting from shadow to shadow. No movement. Just us and the bodies. The night’s chaos is settling into an eerie calm. My fingers loosen around the grip of my Glock, the metal warm from use. With a click, it finds its place at my side, nestled in its holster.
Justice’s grip on Scarface hasn’t eased. The burly man is trying to swallow, his Adam’s apple bobbing against the blade. His eyes are wild, flicking between his fallen brothers and the steel at his throat.
