They slip away from the group with practiced ease, their movements fluid and silent as they position themselves.
Winchester crouches by a cluster of bushes, his broad frame surprisingly stealthy. His eyes are on the main gate, fingers flexing around the grip of his weapon, ready to unleash hell if need be.
“Winchester’s set,” he confirms, his tone low, barely above a whisper, yet clear as day in my ear.
“Good. Justice?” I prompt, knowing full well the man can hear me.
“I’m good to go,” Justice replies, and even though I can’t see him, I can picture the smirk on his face.
“Let’s show ’em how the Bastards party,” Reaper growls.
And with that, we move, a single entity driven by purpose and the unbreakable bonds of brotherhood. The hunt is on.
Reaper’s signal cuts through the haze, a clenched fist raised high. No more waiting, no more schemes. It’s go-time.
My hand tightens around my piece. Adrenaline pumps through my veins. This is what we bleed for—the rush of the ride, the fight, the brotherhood. Fingers is right beside me, a silentshadow that knows tonight is not just about muscle—it’s about intel.
Metal clanks and chains snap. We’re through the gate, storming the inner sanctum of the enemy. With Justice’s handiwork, all the security systems are down before they knew what hit them.
“Let’s light ’em up,” someone yells, and the morning explodes into chaos.
“Taking point,” Winchester’s voice crackles through, calm amidst the chaos.
“Flank secured,” Justice confirms, just as steady.
Gunfire erupts, bullets singing a deadly lullaby. We move together, fluid and relentless. The Crimson Wheelers scramble, caught off guard by our early-morning strike.
We’re inside now, tearing through their defenses.
It’s mayhem.
It’s madness.
It’s a Royal Bastards’ raid in all its glory.
The compound is ours, room by room, hall by hall. Their resistance crumbles beneath our onslaught. Winchester and Justice hold fast outside, keeping any would-be heroes from interrupting us.
Fingers moves into a room that has a computer with me keeping watch.
“Crimson Wheelers’ secrets will soon be ours,” Fingers states as he hacks away while I lay down cover.
I’m perched behind an old couch and an upturned table, my eyes fixed on Fingers as he frantically types away on a battered laptop. The staccato clack of keys blends with the relentless chatter of gunfire. I squeeze the trigger once, twice, sending Crimson Wheelers to the floor, their bodies crumpling like rag dolls.
“Cover me, Highway!” Fingers shouts without looking up, hisfingers dancing across the keyboard.
“Got your back,” I reply, reloading in a flash.
My hands are steady, even as adrenaline pumps through my veins. Another Wheeler pops out from behind a door, but he’s met with a bullet that sends him spiraling backward.
A Royal Bastard never stands alone. That’s our creed. To my left, Feral lays down a curtain of bullets, his face an impassive mask as he kills anyone who dares to oppose us.
“Highway, three o’clock!” Winchester’s voice cuts through the sound of screams and gunfire.
I pivot, sighting down my barrel. Three Wheelers think they’ve got the drop on us. They’re wrong. My finger hugs the trigger, and three shots ring out. The first man staggers forward, a trickle of blood moving down his face as dead eyes stare at me. The second howls in pain, clutching his chest, and then he falls. The last man falls backward, eyes and mouth open as though he can’t believe he got out-gunned.
“Nice shooting.” Winchester smirks, reloading his weapon. His eyes are alight with the thrill of the fight, a predator in his element.
We move as one, the Royal Bastards, fueled by the need to protect our own. I watch as one of us takes a hit, goes down, but not out. Tank, built like the machine he’s named after, is back on his feet in seconds, bloodied but unbowed. His roar is feral as he charges, taking the fight to the enemy.
