Page 52 of Rebel
Silence stretches until the air feels thick. Outside, the Harlots’ engines rumble faintly as French, Raven, Calypso, and Sloane gear up for recon. Divine, Iris, and Allura are staying behind with us. Allura’s orders were clear. Sit tight until we verify the Vultures’ position.
But neither of us are good at sitting tight. I can feel it in the air between us, static, restless, thick with everything we’re not saying.
Rebel folds her arms, one hip cocked, that don’tbullshit me look she does better than anyone alive. “You’re going after him.”
I don’t answer right away. My hand’s already moving. Checking the mag, sliding a fresh clip into place with a clean, metallic click that says more than words ever could. The motion’s muscle memory, the kind you don’t waste unless you’ve already made a decision.
Divine curses under her breath. “I’m flagging the signal. It’s already hot. If you’re going to move, do it now.”
Rebel grabs her cut from the chair, fingers trembling but her voice steady. “Then we move.”
“Rebel.”
She cuts me a look that could slice bone. “Don’t even start. He’s family.”
“Family doesn’t make you bulletproof.”
“Neither does hiding.”
There’s no winning that argument. The woman’s fire wrapped in leather and grief. She’d run through the gates of hell barefoot if she thought someone she loved was on the other side.
I sling the pack onto my shoulder, run one last check on the sidearm, then glance at the map glowing faintly on Divine’s tablet. Vernon. The coordinates pulse red like a wound.
Rebel exhales slowly. “That’s a yes.”
“Already am,” I say.
Her jaw tightens. “I’m coming.”
“Not a good idea.”
“Neither was sleeping with me,” she fires back. “Didn’t stop you.”
That earns the smallest smirk out of me. “Fair point.”
I turn toward the door, half expecting her to block it. She doesn’t. She just watches me, arms crossed, eyes unreadable.
Then she says, quieter, “You think you’re protecting me.”
“I know I am.”
“No,” she says, stepping closer until her voice is low enough to burn. “You’re trying to protect what’s left ofhim. But Bones isn’t your penance, Bishop. And he sure as hell isn’t mine.”
That one hits harder than the loaded mag on my hip. I stare at her for a heartbeat longer than I should, then nod once. “Maybe not. But I’m still going.”
She smirks like she’s already ten moves ahead. “Then so am I.”
Rebel and I ride bar to bar down the freeway. The streets blur past in streaks of chrome and gray. Light rain slicks the asphalt, throwing back broken reflections of the city, headlights, ghosts, promises that died on contact.
By the time we hit the edge of Vernon, the air smells like ozone and gasoline. We park our bikes a mile back and head toward the warehouse on foot. The air stinks of rust, oil, and a setup. I can smell the trap before we see it.
Divine’s feed blinks red.Heat signatures: eight. Not friendly.
Divine’s feed overlays the map on my phone. Thermal blips moving in formation, converging around the warehouse cluster.
“Son of a bitch,” I mutter. “He’s already inside.”
Bones’ bike sits by the loading dock, keys still in the ignition. The fuel tank glints with bullet scars.
