Highway
The world is a murky gray that messes with your head and makes you wonder if you’re really awake or trapped in some twilight dream. I thumb the safety off my piece, the metallic click almost soothing against the distant hum of the early morning. We’re an hour out from dawn.
“Stay sharp,” Reaper whispers, his voice cutting through the silence.
My boots make almost no sound on the gravel, hushed and deliberate. This is the time when people are most likely lost in slumber—their guards are down and minds adrift. Dawn is perfect for a first strike.
Scanning the expanse of the Crimson Wheelers’ compound, nothing stirs, but that doesn’t mean squat. They could be lurking or waiting for us.
“Remember, no mistakes,” Winchester says.
We know the stakes and risks, and we’ve all accepted them without hesitation. This isn’t just a mission—it’s personal.
“Keep the line open,” I remind my brothers as I tap the earpiece I’m wearing because communication is our lifeline. One misstep could cost us everything, and I’m not about to let that happen. Not on my watch.
“Ready?” Reaper’s question hangs in the air, heavy with the weight of what’s to come.
Many of us nod.
The first glimmer of dawn bleeds into the sky. My heart hammers beneath my cut as we creep closer, our boots silent on the dew-slick grass.
We inch toward the compound’s outer fence, the metallicscent of impending rain mingling with the adrenaline that courses through me. Each breath is a cloud of mist, each step a calculated risk.
“Positions,” I signal, my fingers tight around the grip of my weapon. The others fan out, their forms blending into the half-light. We are the unseen, the unexpected.
With a nod, Reaper gives the signal. We surge forward, a wave of vengeance poised to crash upon those who wronged us. This is more than an attack—it’s retribution.
We are the Royal Bastards, and this dawn belongs to us.
Reaper turns his steely gaze to Fingers, who is clutching a laptop like it’s his lifeline. “You make sure you bleed their computers dry. Everything they’ve got.”
“Copy that,” Fingers replies, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. Though he’s more at home behind a screen, the glint in his eyes says he’s ready to throw down if necessary.
Winchester steps forward, pulling out a crumpled blueprint from his cut. Even in the dim light, I can see every mark, every notation he’s made.
“Main entrance is a no-go, wired up the ass with cameras. We hit the side gate here…” He points. “Low surveillance, easy pickings.”
“Escape routes?” I ask, scanning the layout.
“Back fence, over there…” he gestures off to the left, “… and a hidden passage through the garage.”
“Good. Stay sharp, stay silent. We do this clean,” Reaper commands. “Let’s carve ’em up.” Reaper smirks, the threat in his tone unmistakable.
Justice slinks ahead, a shadow among shadows. He moves like he’s part cat. I watch him dismantle an alarm with a few deft flicks of his wrist, his fingers steady as a surgeon’s.
“Clear,” he whispers, barely a breath on the wind.
“Copy that,” I reply, my voice just as low.
We edge closer to the compound with every muscle coiled tight, ready for what’s next. My heart drums against my ribs, but it’s not fear—it’s the thrill of the hunt.
I signal the rest of the Bastards with a swift hand motion, and like the ghostly riders of legend, we advance, unseen, unheard, and unstoppable.
“Stay sharp,” I murmur, my voice cutting through the hush. “Keep your heads on a swivel and your comms open. We’re not out for a Sunday ride… this is the real deal.”
“Roger that, Highway,” comes the static-laced reply over the earpieces. A chorus of agreement ripples through the group.
“Justice, Winchester, you’re up,” Reaper says through the comms.
