**CHAPTER 13** **AFTERMATH**
The desert dawn after the shoot-out smelled of copper wire and burning plastic—the scent of victory, Sadie learned, was indistinguishable from grief.
She stood on the clubhouse porch at 05:40, dawn bruising the sky lavender, watching prospects hose coagulated blood off ambulance bay concrete. Pink water circled the drain like carnival slush. Inside, Bear screamed as Doc dug for the second piece of shrapnel—high on ketamine but still conscious enough to curse God, the government, and anyone within range.
Sadie’s hands shook around a mug of coffee long cold. She’d changed from battle gear into Luna’s borrowed sweats; marigolds still clung to her braid, petals bruised brown. The wedding ring—actually a strip of braided baling wire bent round her finger—cut into skin when she clenched. She couldn’t loosen her fist.
Behind her the chapel hummed: phones ringing, charters demanding sit-reps, lawyers on retainers already crafting press releases about “unknown assailants.” The ledgers were in the fed drop-box; DEA would raid six cartel fronts by noon. Kings had done the impossible and were about to drown in the blow-back.
Boot-steps scuffed. Jace appeared, face streaked with dried blood that wasn’t his, limp subtle but present—thigh sutures pulling. He’d refused the gurney, insisted on riding sweep behind Bear’s evac. Grease and gun-oil clung to him like after-shave.
“News vans in Farmington,” he said without greeting. “Channel 7 chopper lifted at four. We got maybe three hours before satellite trucks park at our gate.”
Sadie swallowed. “They have footage?”
“Drone stream hit Reddit first. Blurred faces, no kuttes visible, but Vegas affiliates loopin’ reefer-torch like Fourth of July. Feds want statement. Locals want scalp. We’re background-check-deep already.”
He studied her trembling mug, pried it from fingers, set it aside. “You okay?”
She opened her mouth—closed it. Bear’s screams peaked, cracked, tapered to whimpers. The sound scraped bone.
“I feel… scraped raw,” she admitted. “Like sunburn on the inside. I keep seeing her—Lucía—hat lifting, red comma. I keep waiting to feel… triumphant. Instead I just feel heavier.”
Jace exhaled through nose. “First time I dropped a man, I puked in my helmet. Thought I’d feel justice for my mom. Felt dirt instead. Weight don’t mean wrong choice—means human.”
He leaned against post, weight off wounded leg. “We got decisions, tiny. Window’s closing. You need to make ’em while blood’s still wet.”
She met his eyes—grey gone steel in dawn-light. “What decisions?”
“Stay. Or go.” He said it flat, no inflection, like he was reading weather. “Feds’ll offer Wit-Pro to anyone cooperative. You’re wife on paper, civilian on ledger. Fed liaison already hinted—new name, Midwest zip, witness protection clean-slate. Cartel thinks you’re dead, maybe safer that way. Club can sell story you caught stray round, buried quiet. You take that out—nobody blinks.”
Sadie’s stomach bottomed out. “You offering me exit?”
“I’m offering choice,” he corrected. “Difference is freedom. You been running since Victor—maybe this is cleanest road you’ll get. I won’t ask you to stay in target practice range. You pick life, I ride you to bus myself. No shame.”
Bear screamed again—higher, frantic. Doc’s shouted “Hold him!” bled through walls.
Sadie folded arms, fingernails biting skin. “If I go—what happens here?”
“Same war, new fronts. Lucía’s death splits Creed—civil war down south. We mop border, expand transport, maybe buy legit freight company. Feds’ll hover, but evidence chain keeps us useful. Life continues—messy, loud, dangerous.” He paused. “Minus you.”
The word hung like a missing tooth.
She forced herself to ask: “And if I stay?”
He rubbed beard, gaze on distant mesa rather than her face. “Media IDs you sooner or later. Cartel remnants mark you primary—bounty, kidnapping, car-bomb territory. Club patch buys armor, not invincibility. You ride with targets on your spine. Kids in grocery store learn your face on Channel 5. Normal dies. That’s the price.”
“Is that what you want?” Her voice cracked. “Me staying?”
His eyes snapped back—feral. “Want you breathing. Want you free. Want you choosing this life, not sentenced to it. Can’t give you that if you stay because guilt chains your ankles.” He stepped closer, voice dropping. “I love you enough to let you walk. Not enough to beg you into cross-hairs.”
Tears pricked, surprising her. She swiped angrily. “You make it sound simple.”
“Simple ain’t easy.”
Across yard, prospect shut off hose—blood-dilute puddled pink around his boots. He glanced at them, quickly away. The whole compound moved like they’d been issued new scripts overnight: quieter, faster, eyes sweeping horizon for threats that now wore news-cameras instead of cartel colors.
Sadie’s thoughts pin-balled:
- Greyhound station in Farmington—ticket to anywhere. New name printed on plastic, no scar on passport, no scar inside. - Jace’s loft, cedar-smell at dawn, his hand sliding across sheets to find her heartbeat—home, fragile but hers. - Luna teaching her to bake peach pie while Bear’s kids played in sprinkler. - Victor’s ghost in every stranger’s glance—would running erase him, or just enlarge shadow? - Wedding wire around her finger—promise forged in firefight.
She pressed palms to eyes, forced slow breaths. “I need—space. Hour. Maybe two.”
He nodded immediate. “Take Scout pickup. Keys inside. No tail, no questions. GPS disabled. You point toward horizon—keep going if that’s vote you cast. Phone stays on you; call when direction feels true.” He reached inside kutte, slid a sealed envelope across rail. “Bus ticket cash, new prepaid cell, Wyoming address to wire if you need more. No strings.”
Her throat closed. “You planned this.”
“I planned choice,” he corrected. “Difference matters.”
Bear’s scream peaked, cut off by morphine syringe clatter. The quiet felt worse.
Sadie grabbed envelope, tucked it in waistband. “Two hours. I’ll call.” She started past, paused. Hand touched his chest—felt his heart hammer despite calm mask. “Whatever road—I love you back. Remember that.”
He caught her fingers, kissed knuckles quick, let go. “Choice is love. Go.”
She went.
*
The Scout rattled down ranch road, sunrise breaking across hood like spilled yolk. She drove without destination—instinct toward horizon rather than map. Each mile felt like shedding a skin: battle-smell replaced by sage, engine-roar by lark-call, copper memory by dust.
At mile-marker eighteen she pulled over, engine ticking in sudden hush. No houses, no fences—just desert rolling gold and empty toward heat-shimmered mesas. She stepped out, wind tugging hair, envelope heavy as brick in her pocket.
For long minutes she simply breathed—deep, deliberate, tasting creosote and freedom. Then she opened envelope:
– Ten grand in mixed bills. – Greyhound voucher from Farmington to Cheyenne, departure 14:00 today. – Pre-paid phone (ironically branded “Freedom”). – Folded note in block handwriting: *No goodbyes needed. Choose what lets you sleep. I’ll be riding either way. –J*
She sat on hood, paper fluttering, tears slipping sideways into hair. For the first time in years, no one monitored her location, no tracker hummed beneath chassis, no ghost breathed down neck. The enormity of it threatened to unhinge her—that liberty could feel as terrifying as captivity.
She dialed Luna on the club burn-phone she’d kept hidden in boot.
Answer on second ring—low, worried. “You breathing, child?”
“Yeah.” Voice small. “Jace give you script?”
“Nope. Just told me to pick up if you rang. Said you might need mama who’s buried kids and still made biscuits next morning.”
Sadie’s laugh cracked. “What if I keep driving—never stop?”
“Then you drive with love, not fear. Difference matters.” Luna paused. “You asking permission?”
“Asking… how you survive aftermath. How you keep choosing when choice weighs tons.”
Luna’s exhale carried years of loss. “You pick the life that lets you look in mirror without flinching. Sometimes that’s new town, new name. Sometimes it’s same porch new sunrise. Either way—you claim it deliberate. No half-measures. Guilt will ride your bumper for miles; you gotta decide which seat it sits in—passenger or driver.”
Sadie swiped face. “Bear?”
“Breathing. Metal pinned, prognosis decent. Kids are here drawing get-well skulls on his cast. He’s bitching—good sign.”
Silence stretched—wind singing through truck grill.
Luna spoke softer. “Whatever you decide, club stands. You earned family, not obligation. But know this: love that lets you leave is same love that keeps porch light burning if you come home. No expiration.”
They ended call. Sadie powered phone off, stared at horizon until tears dried salt on skin.
*
Scout idled outside Farmington depot at 13:10. She wore jeans, tank, flannel—nothing to mark her. Greyhound coach hissed diesel, passengers loading under bored driver supervision. Ticket in hand felt foreign—plastic freedom purchased by man willing to sacrifice want for her need.
She climbed steps, paused at aisle. Images slammed rapid-fire:
- Jace’s eyes when she said yes on courthouse lawn—sunrise in grey. - Sage teaching her night-sight through rifle scope, saying breathe between heartbeats. - First peach pie pulled from club oven—steam smelling like belonging. - Blood on concrete this morning mixing with Bear’s scream. - Wire ring cutting skin when she fired shot that saved Jace’s life.
Choice. Always choice.
She backed out, descended, handed voucher to waiting elderly man behind her. “Gift,” she muttered before feet carried her to Scout. Engine turned over, country station playing “You’re Free to Go.” She drove south—toward desert, toward aftermath, toward living not surviving.
Half-way she pulled over, dug scrap paper, wrote:
*I choose this life—all its beautiful brutality. I choose to fight instead of run, to build instead of hide, to love even when it costs blood. I choose you, and the patch, and the messy magnificent future we carve out of dust. No more ghosts in driver seat. See you at dusk.*
She texted photo of note to Jace’s private number, powered phone off, floored accelerator toward clubhouse. Dust plume chased like victory banner.
*
Bear was unconscious but stable when she arrived—morphine drip, metal rods in thigh, prognosis hopeful. She kissed his sweaty temple, whispered thanks for taking metal meant for family. He mumbled something about pie she pretended to understand.
She found Jace in chapel, sleeves rolled, phone glued to ear, haggling with some senator’s aide about jurisdiction. He looked up as she entered, conversation dying mid-sentence. Expression unreadable—fear, hope, exhaustion braided.
She crossed the room, aware of brothers watching, pulled envelope from pocket, dropped it on table. “Returned unused,” she said simply. Then louder for room: “I stay. I fight. I ride.”
Silence—thick, sudden—then Brick whooped, slamming table so hard phones jumped. Ryder whistled; prospects hollered. Noise crescendoed until Jace raised hand. He didn’t speak—just looked at her like she’d hung new moon.
Sadie tugged hem of flannel, exposing fresh ink on collarbone—small compass rendered in black, needle pointing toward club crest. She’d stopped at Doc’s trailer, needle buzzing therapeutic while Bear slept yards away. It hurt less than expected—maybe pain felt different when chosen.
Jace’s eyes shimmered—unshed storm. He closed distance, pulled her against chest, lips to ear so only she heard: “You just gave me world. I’ll spend forever earning it.”
Aloud he said, voice gravel-rough: “Iron Kings! Gather round! We got a queen who chose us—let’s give her kingdom worth fighting for!”
Cheers shook dust from rafters. Someone fired celebratory shot into sky; another cranked music. Celebration felt like exhale after drowning.
Later—after whiskey passed, after Bear woke enough to flip middle fingers, after Luna pressed marigold behind Sadie’s ear—they sat on porch step, thighs touching, sunset bleeding crimson across sand. Scout parked, keys returned, chapter closed.
“Regrets already?” Jace asked, voice soft beneath revelry inside.
She considered—Bear’s pain, news choppers inbound, cartel chaos brewing. Then considered empty horizon she could have driven toward.
“None,” she answered honestly. “Freedom isn’t distance—it’s choice. I choose this messy magnificent life with you.”
He threaded fingers through hers, lifted hand, kissed wire-ring circle. “Then we build something worth every scar. Starting now.”
They stayed until stars pricked indigo, watching desert reclaim daylight noises. Somewhere south Victor would scream into jail-phone when news reached him of sister’s death and widow’s choice. Somewhere north DEA agents would sip stale coffee preparing warrants. None of it mattered in this moment—two survivors choosing to stand instead of run.
Finally she stood, tugged him up. “Come on, husband. Wedding night awaits—even if honeymoon smells like antiseptic.”
He laughed—surprised, grateful—and let her lead him inside. Behind them porch-light stayed on—beacon not for return but for reclamation.
Desert wind carried murmurs: *choice, choice, choice*—until dawn when they’d armor up, ride out, face fallout together.
But for now—inside a kingdom of iron and flawed hearts—they lived, and loved, and chose again.