I yank the final hard drive from the port, heart hammering. The alarms scream to life. Red lights flood the room.
“Go!” Carter barks.
We sprint through the compound as the walls shake. Explosions ripple in the distance. Raven and Sloane are lighting up Barstow, French’s team torching East L.A. Flames climb the horizon, painting the night red.
Carter drags me behind an armored van just as another blast rocks the ground. The shockwave knocks us both flat. I clutch the hard drive to my chest.
“Tell me you got it,” he gasps.
“I got it.”
“Then let’s finish this.”
We reach the outer fence as gunfire erupts behind us. Bones’ voice cuts in over comms:“Barstow’s clear. Vault blown. Funds transferred. Allura’s orders are complete.”
I toss the drive to Divine through the van window. “Upload everything to federal servers. Let them choke on their own paper trail.”
Divine grins through the smoke. “Copy that.”
Carter grabs my hand. “What about the rest?”
I pull a Zippo from my pocket and strike it against the van’s steel. “We torch it.”
He doesn’t argue. Together we watch as the fire spreads, crawling across the stolen money, the servers, the lies. The flames roar high, devouring everything the Vultures built.
When it’s done, there’s nothing left but smoke and ruin. The comms crackle alive with cheers, ragged laughter, the kind that sounds like victory and grief all at once.
Allura’s voice cuts through it, steady.“All hubs destroyed. Every cent reclaimed or burned. The Vultures are done.”
Carter turns to me, soot streaking his cheek. “You did it.”
“No,” I say softly, looking at the fire. “Alex did. I just finished what he started.”
He pulls me close, pressing his forehead to mine. “He’d be proud.”
I nod, the ache in my chest sharp and hollow. “Let’s go home.”
As we walk back toward the bikes, the horizon glowsbehind us. Three fires burning in the dark, our vengeance written in smoke.
Justice served.
Vengeance complete.
But peace? Peace is still a ghost that doesn’t know my name.
24
CARTER
The fire still burns behind us when the engines are quiet. Three smoldering ruins dot the horizon like dying stars. Barstow, East L.A., and the basin. The air reeks of gasoline and victory, but the silence that follows feels heavier than any battle cry.
Rebel leans against my shoulder as I drive the club's SUV. She doesn’t speak. Neither do I. There’s too much between us now. Blood, loss, love, and the kind of peace that never comes easy. The highway hums beneath the tires, a low rhythm that sounds almost like breathing again.
By the time we reach the coast, the sky’s bruised with the edge of dawn. Gray light drapes over the ocean, soft and uncertain. I turn off the road onto a narrow dirt path that winds through a stand of wind-torn pines. The sea’s close enough to taste salt, oil, and the promise of rain in the air.
Rebel glances at me, brow furrowing. “Where are we?”
I kill the engine. “Someplace I come when I need to remember.”
