“Fuck,” Creed exhales, long and slow, a whistle cutting through the still air.
“Present from Camilla Sanchez.” Boris beams. His eyes crinkle at the corners, and there’s this glint of triumph in them.
“Jesus,” Reaper says, his voice low and thoughtful. He’s eyeing a rocket launcher like it’s Christmas morning, and he’s ten years old again.
“Sanchez?” Creed’s brow creases into a frown, his voice rough like gravel. “How?”
Boris’ smile doesn’t falter as he runs a finger across his thick neck—a universal gesture that needs no translation. The Russian’s eyes glint with dark humor, and there’s a hint offinality in the move that sends a shiver down my spine.
Gifts like these come with strings. But right now, they look a lot like opportunity. And we’re in no position to turn down any advantage.
“Very generous,” Boris agrees, nodding enthusiastically. There’s an eagerness in his stance, like he’s waiting for applause.
“Let’s get this party started,” Creed announces, and something like relief washes over Boris’ face. Maybe he wasn’t so sure of his welcome after all.
He digs deep into his coat pocket—so deep I find myself tensing, ready for anything. But it’s just a phone he pulls out, sleek and black, the screen catching the light as he hands it to Creed.
“You ring,” Boris says, pushing the device into Creed’s palm.
Creed’s fingers close around the phone. He scrolls through the contacts, but there’s only one entry, a number without a name. He looks up at us, a silent question in his eyes. Reaper nods, his expression set in stone. I give a slight tilt of my head. No turning back now.
The call button is pressed, and the speakerphone is engaged. We gather around, the tension coiling between us like a live wire.
“Creed,” comes the voice of Lev Ivanov from the speaker. There’s a coldness to it that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
“Lev.” Creed’s voice is steady, giving nothing away.
“We’ve taken over the Diablos,” Lev states matter-of-factly as if discussing the weather. “Consider these weapons a measure of good faith.”
“Good faith,” Creed echoes, skepticism lacing his tone. His eyes scan the arsenal before us, then flick back to the phone.
“Yours to do with as you wish,” Lev continues, and the line crackles with the weight of those words.
“Understood.” Creed’s reply is clipped, and he ends the callwith a decisive thumb press.
“Looks like we’re back in business,” Reaper murmurs, but his eyes are wary, watchful.
“Let’s load up,” Creed says.
This is more than a gift—it’s a game changer. And in our world, change is rarely bloodless.
“Damn,” I mutter under my breath.
“Let’s move out,” Creed barks as he pockets the phone.
Reaper nods, his eyes scanning the horizon like he’s expecting trouble to roll up on us at any second. “Wheels up,” Reaper yells, facing the woods.
Creed approaches Justice and points at his bike. “Move her off the road. Make sure she’s hidden.”
“Will do,” Justice replies, his voice low as he walks toward Creed’s pride and joy. He’ll stash the bike where God himself couldn’t find it.
Creed hoists himself up into the truck, then jangles the keys in his hand. “Let’s move.”
My bike roars to life, and we move into formation, Reaper and I falling in behind the truck. The convoy rolls out, engines thundering as we put miles behind us.
***
Our procession slows as Creed takes the truck through our compound gates. I downshift, easing off as Reaper and I roll to a stop outside the gate.
