# CHAPTER 12 ## THE TRAP
Coyote Pass smelled like diesel left too long in the sun. Sadie crouched in the shadow of an overturned cattle truck, boots wedged between splintered cedar posts, earpiece crackling with the low chatter of thirty killers pretending to be patient. Through the heat-shimmer rising off Highway 191 she watched the convoy snake north—three matte-black Suburbans, one refrigerated box truck with counterfeit Omaha Steaks logos, a silver Chevy Avalanche riding drag. Plate recognition had already confirmed the cargo: 42 kilograms of fentanyl-laced “Mexican Oxy” tucked behind legitimate beef sides, plus roughly eighteen million in cash vacuum-sealed in twenty-pound brisket bags. Lucía’s quarterly shipment—her opening bid to re-stake the border after little brother’s federal cage-slamming. Today the Iron Kings were going to steal it, burn it, film it, and feed her our boot heel.
“All stations, tighten sling,” Jace murmured from the ridge above her. His voice was calm smoke, but she could read the micro-quiver beneath—adrenaline polished to surgical. Sadie keyed her throat-mic once—two clicks: copy. Across the asphalt, Brush popped the primer on the flare gun, painted desert dusk with a lazy arc of red. Phase One: kill-box sealed.
The trap had taken four days, forty sleepless scouts, two blown transmissions, one rattlesnake bite (Youngblood’s calf still ballooned like a pink party balloon), and every dime the club could rake from bail-bond reserves. It looked simple on the napkin: 1) Divert convoy off I-10 onto county detour under construction. 2) Box vehicles between blast walls shepherds used for run-off control. 3) Kill engines with .50 cal snipe, breach doors, gas crews, film the bonfire. Simple. But the cartel had upgraded artillery since Victor’s arrest—RPG crates spotted near Douglas, belt-feds riding shotgun—so the Kings answered in kind: Smoke crouched behind a Mk 19 automatic grenade launcher swaddled in ghillie netting; Bear, ribs still taped, manned the Ma Deuce welded to an old Forest-Service fire-bed truck; two hobby-drone rigs buzzed invisible circles at six hundred feet, 4K cameras streaming to a hard-drive in Jace’s saddlebag.
Sadie’s role looked small on paper—ride pillion with Ryder, run the drone tablet, translate radio chatter the federales hadn’t bothered to encrypt. But everyone knew the real magnet sat in her pocket: Victor’s ledger flash-drive, Xeroxed and loaded into a burner laptop rigged to play on Mexican newsfeed the minute DEA links went live. Lucía would know within minutes that the Iron Kings possessed the crown jewels of her bookkeeping empire. The woman would come—or send enough sicarios to field a soccer team—because without those numbers, investors scattered and rivals moved in. Sadie was both bait and bullet.
“Convoy speed forty,” Sage called from the northern OP—female prospect tucked inside a concrete irrigation ditch with a rangefinder and a scoped AR. “Brush, stand by to close south. Smoke, on my mark.” Static.
The lead Suburban passed the first spike-strip slot. Sadie’s heartbeat felt like horse-kicks in her throat. One Mississippi, two Mississippi—
Brush yanked the pull-cord. A rattlesnake whip of chain link snapped across pavement, two-by-four studded with railroad spikes and welded re-bar claws. Front tire exploded like wet plywood; Suburban slewed right, broadsiding the second truck and plugging both lanes. Instant accordion-crash of composite metal, safety glass blooming silver in slanted sun.
Ma Deuce spoke before Jace finished the word “fire.” Bear traversed left to right—two-second burst, engine blocks chewed open, coolant hazing the air with sweet glycol mist. The Avalanche fishtailed, tried reverse, met Smoke’s first 40-mike-mike HE round. Grenade punched the grill, detonated behind the oil pan—truck lifted eight inches, settled in a gout of orange flame.
Sadie’s thumbs flew over the tablet: Drone Cam-2 lower, wide-angle. On screen, cartel shooters spilled from doors—four, six, nine—black polos, AK-Ps with underfolder stocks, faces younger than she’d expected. She tagged helmets with digital red crosshairs, data streaming to the Kings’ HUD eyepieces the club bought off a bankrupt paintball company.
Brush popped smoke—canisters arcing like green comets across blacktop. The world became cough-grey silence broken by automatic crackle.
Kings emerged from hidden burrows—leather duster flaps whipping in rotor wind, chrome pistols catching sun like signal mirrors. First blood: a kid—couldn’t be older than twenty—rushed Smoke with machete raised, looking for glory. Smoke’s kukri answered—upward slash under the rifle muzzle, blade sliding along clavicle, arterial spray catching dawn like crimson glitter. The boy folded wordless.
Sadie swallowed bile, kept recording. Later, the news would pixelate bodies, but raw footage served club purpose—cartel troops dying in high-definition terror, proof the Kings weren’t shooting blanks.
“Package two intact!” Brick’s voice boomed in her ear. He jogged toward the reefer truck, plate-carrier strapped hastily over beer-belly, shotgun dangling one-handed. The refrigerated unit had skidded sideways, doors intact—product locked behind stainless steel and lock-pins coded to Lucía’s private key. Kings wanted that load unspoiled until cameras rolled.
“Cover Bear on the fifty!” Jace barked. He sprinted down-slope in crouch, rifle tucked, boots kicking alkali dust. From the crippled lead Suburban a hulking shape clawed free—shirt shredded, body armor smoking—raised an RPG-7, tube wobbling as he fought concussion. Bear swung the heavy barrel too late.
Sadie screamed “Back-blast!”—useless, swallowed by gunfire. Tongue of white fire punched from the tube; the rocket skittered low, struck the hillside ten yards left of the Ma Deuce, detonated in a blossom of fire and iron. Granite shrapnel scythed. Bear spun, helmet starred, blood sudden as paint against khaki sand. He staggered two steps, dropped behind the gun truck, motionless.
Fury detonated in Sadie’s chest—white-hot, wordless. Her thumb stabbed the tablet: Drone Cam-1 dive, lock on RPG gunner. She toggled speaker feed to Ryder’s carbine-mic. “Three-five-eight bearing, black armor—send him to hell!” Ryder rose from cover like desert ghost, rifle cracking three-shot burst—head, head, chest—gunner folded, RPG clattering useless.
“Bear’s hit, Bear’s hit!” Youngblood yelled, sprinting uphill under fire, dragging Bear by drag-handle, leaving twin smears of red. Doc met them behind a slab of concrete culvert, shears slicing fabric, Quik-Clot packing wounds. Static blurred Bear’s rasp: “Fuckin’... scratched my glasses...” then wet cough.
Sadie tasted metal—raw fear seasoned with determined wrath. No one dies for my ghost today, she vowed, and keyed drone-zoom on the reefer truck again.
Brick breached the latch with breacher-shot—slug the size of a D-cell battery. Lock exploded; doors swung wide, breath of refrigerated air fogging desert heat. Pallets shrink-wrapped and labeled USDA CHOICE—only the Kings knew steaks fronted brick-sized parcels of counterfeit pills pressed neat as candy hearts. Cameras rolled—body-cams, drone, hand-held—catching Brick’s grin as he slit wrap, revealing vacuum bricks of pastel tablets stamped M-30. Enough death to erase a generation.
“Evidence logged,” Sadie narrated, forcing broadcaster-steady tone. “Product weight forty-two point six kilos, marking consistent with Silver Creed lab known colors.” She prayed Lucía watched somewhere, seething behind designer spectacles.
Gun-fire cracked sporadic—defiant yet desperate. From Suburban three, shielded behind engine smoke, a woman emerged—heels clicking asphalt though gun-thunder shook ground. Wide-brim sun-hat, ivory suit, twin gold Berettas held like extensions of manicured contempt. She removed shades—eyes obsidian, exact copy of little brother’s cruelty.
Sadie’s pulse stuttered. Lucía Valdez-Cortez—La Madrina—had come to protect product personally. Plan said she might appear; heart insisted she wouldn’t risk crown. Yet here she stood, fifty meters of kill-zone away, flanked by remaining sicarios laying suppressive fire.
Lucía spoke no English now—Spanish snapped like whip. “¡Matan a los bandidos! ¡Nuestra mercancía no toca tierra americana!” Her men surged, believing riches worth dying for. Kings answered in controlled hate—bullets walking methodic patterns across pavement, bodies folding in geometric precision.
Sadie’s earpiece crackled: Jace panting. “Sadie—stay low. I want her breathing if possible—feds need live trophy.” Sadie clicked twice: copy. Then Lucía’s gaze lifted—binoculars finding the drone, tracking video relay, seeing sun-flare off Sadie’s helmet shield. Recognition bloomed spiteful; Lucía smiled, aimed Beretta skyward, squeezed thrice. Drone Cam-2 shuddered, pixel-view spinning as rotors shredded. Screen went dead in Sadie’s hand.
Adrenaline spiked icy. She slammed the tablet into pack, swung off Ryder’s bike, drew the .38. “She saw me. I’m blown.” Ryder spat dust. “Stay on objective—keep footage rolling. Boss wants live queen.” Another round whined past, snapped into bike fender. He cursed, returned fire.
Across strip, Jace and Smoke leapfrogged barriers—two-man avalanche pouring hate toward Lucía guard. Grenade pinged off Suburban roof, burst among shooters—limbs rag-dolling slow motion. Smoke emerged blasting, but Lucía slipped flank, ivory suit still pristine, taking cover inside cracked SUV hull. Sadie tracked movement: woman pulling a long black case from floorboard—compact, hinged, too slender for rifles.
Recognition hit gut-level. “RPG—second tube!” Sadie shouted, breaking cover, sprinting diagonal toward higher berm for vantage. Gunfire plucked at dust around boots; she ran anyway—because Bear bled, because Maria waited, because fuck queens who peddled poison in steak-wrap.
Lucía assembled the launcher—single-shot AT-4, American surplus cartels loved. Tube rested across cracked window-frame—bearing centered on Kings clustered by reefer truck. Time measured heartbeats: three seconds to ignition, four to impact—enough to erase flesh, evidence, years of brotherhood.
Sadie reached berm, dropped knee, snapped sight picture like Luna drilled: front blade center-mass. She exhaled half, squeezed. .38 bucked. Bullet sparked off SUV door—miss. Lucía’s head whipped toward her—predator meeting new prey. She smiled—wolf recognizing lamb—then shifted launcher muzzles Sadie’s direction. Cold knowledge crystallized: I’m about to die, but it buys Jace two heartbeats. Fair trade.
Thunder cracked—not RPG. Sniper report echoed off hills. Lucía’s temple blossomed red comma. Launcher clattered unfired as body folded sideways, hat fluttering to asphalt like white flag too late raised.
Sage lowered rifle from culvert a hundred yards east—scope still wisping cordite. Female prospect—silent, steady—had fired the shot that changed cartel history. Sadie’s breath hitched: relief, horror, triumph braided inseparable.
Silence fell sudden as snowfall. Remaining sicarios threw weapons, palms skyward—defeat immediate when queen toppled. Kings zip-tied wrists, kicked rifles aside, voices hoarse with adrenaline aftermath.
Sadie jogged toward Lucía’s body, legs rubber, pulse roaring wind. Jace intercepted—caught her mid-stride, crushing her to armor-plated chest. “Told you insurance,” he muttered against helmet. “Live queen, but dead works too.” She felt his heart thunder through Kevlar—alive, alive, alive.
Behind them, flames licked sky as Smoke torched the reefer truck—crates of pastel poison curling black in gasoline bloom. Sadie lifted phone-camera steady, capturing inferno backdrop while brothers raised rifles, shouting Iron Kings howl that rolled mesa to mesa. They’d stolen death from dealers, offered it to desert wind; footage would hit Vegas by midnight, DEA server by morning. Message delivered: Kings protect their own, burn the rest.
Only then did medic cries penetrate—Bear hemorrhaging despite Doc’s clamps. Youngblood and rig-gers heaved wounded onto stretcher fashioned from ladder and leather. Sadie rushed, pressed gauze to Bear’s thigh where shrapnel sliced femoral branch—blood warm as coffee, slick as guilt. Bear caught her wrist, winked through pain. “Hell of wedding video, First Lady.” She laughed-cried, applied pressure, screamed at universe that heroes shouldn’t bleed. Doc jammed IV morphine; Bear’s eyes rolled white, but pulse held stubborn.
Evac bird—a decrepit Huey leased from crop-dusting outfit—thumped distant, inbound for dust-off. Prospects loaded product samples, cash bricks, body-cams; cartel survivors flex-cuffed in stinking cattle trailer, sweat mingling with fear. Kings would drop two prisoners at sheriff substation with anonymous tip, dump remainder at rival gang border—let Creed and Devils gnaw each other while Kings vanished.
When rotors finally whipped sandstorm, Sadie helped lift stretcher. Bear squeezed her hand once more—gratitude or goodbye, unclear until helicopter lifted and his mouth formed word: *ride*. She nodded, knowing hospital corridors waited, praying sutures stronger than desert gods.
Convoy formed for exodus—bikes first, then truck laden with half-million in crispy hundreds now club property, then tow-hauler dragging torched reefer shell destined for scrapyard cremation. Sun baked carnage behind them: SUV husks smoking, ivory suit fluttering like surrender flag no wind bothered to honor.
Sadie rode pillion, filming last frames of ruin shrinking in side-mirror. Wind dried tears to salt tracks. Her voice—recording for editors—spoke steady: “Seventeen sicarios deceased, one cartel principal neutralized, contraband destroyed, Iron Kings casualties—one critical evac, expected recovery. This concludes Operation Madrina. Desert reclaims the rest.”
She clicked stop, pocketed phone, slipped arms around Jace’s waist. Engine vibration syncopated heartbeats—two becoming single percussion. Against his spine she murmured vow neither would speak aloud until safe in loft sheets: Tomorrow we plant marigolds on Bear’s still-healing skin. Tomorrow we file marriage certificate, buy groceries, practice ordinary breathing. But tonight we ride through fire-made dusk—alive, together, ungovernable.
In chopper bay two counties north, surgeons would clamp and stitch Bear’s torn geography. In Las Vegas newsrooms, producers would queue footage of narcotics inferno, pundits would rave of vigilante justice. In federal holding cells, Victor would scream when guards slid newspaper under bars—sister’s corpse on front page, headline screaming CARTEL QUEEN SLAIN IN BORDER SHOOTOUT. Power broken, empire wobbling. And somewhere along desert two-lane, a woman wearing turquoise and gun-oil pressed cheek to leather-clad back, listening to her husband’s heartbeat hammer highway into future unwritten.
The trap had teeth. They’d bitten clean through. And the kings of iron rode on—into heat-shimmer, into marriage bed, into legend inked scarlet across thirsty sand.