Warscared
Well-Known Member
- Jan 26, 2021
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Night had fallen over the city, but Eduardo was already awake. The dim light of his room did little to calm the storm in his mind. Across the capital, newsfeeds were ablaze. To read about a cartel squad decimating civilians was one thing—but to see it live, every shot, every scream, every desperate flight of people—it was another entirely.
Politicians were in panic. Security councils were convening in emergency. And in the midst of it, Valador, trembling, had been threatened. Even he—the stoic, unflappable Valador—had been tested.
Pablo de la Casa felt the pressure keenly. Calls came from every direction: governors, generals, shadowy politicians he barely trusted. And at the center of it all, the life of his daughter—Claudia—hung precariously, as if the city itself held its breath.
Meanwhile, Eduardo had become something of a legend overnight. His face, obscured in blood yet illuminated by glacial blue eyes, was already spreading across the nation. The NGOs screamed for trials, labeling him a murderer of prisoners. The newspapers debated morality as if their pens could outweigh bullets and bloodshed. Few gave the demands real weight.
But the native associations—the ones who had long remembered the heavy hand of De la Casa rule—saw a different truth. They saw a man risking everything to protect their village, something the government had failed to do for generations. For the first time, some of their harshest critics were forced to reckon with the honor and ferocity of the De la Casa bloodline.
Joseph, their young engineer, lay dead. His dreams of bridges, of futures unbroken, were ripped away in seconds. His name echoed in the village in the native tongue, a mourning chant that rose over the rooftops and down the streets. It was a sound heavy with grief, heavy with rage, and it cut Eduardo deep, igniting a cold fire in his chest.
The city waited. The politicians waited. The villagers waited. And Eduardo, awake in the darkness, felt the weight of every eye, every expectation, every silent prayer. The war had only just begun.
Eduardo’s voice was calm but resolute as he faced his father. “I need sleeping gas,” he said. “I’ll infiltrate the hotel and put everyone to sleep. I can get Claudia back alive.”
Pablo ran in anxious circles, the weight of the city and his children pressing down on him. “I have seventy elite men with me—and you…” he said, voice tight.
“I can do it, Father,” Eduardo replied steadily.
Pablo slammed his hand on the table. “I know you can! But what’s the point of my life if I lose both my children?”
Eduardo’s piercing blue eyes met his father’s. “That… is something we’ll have to debate.”
The pills were losing their effect, and memories he didn’t fully understand began surfacing—a home in the northeast of the United States, flashes of a life that felt both distant and intimate. Pablo’s guilt was evident.
“I saved your life,” he said softly. “I’ll explain everything to you… but right now, this is too dangerous. I can’t risk losing you.”
Eduardo’s tone hardened. “I can get Claudia out… or I can risk breaching in, hoping to kill them all before she’s murdered or raped.”
Pablo nodded, the weight of inevitability in his eyes.
Eduardo donned a facial mask, securing the sleeping gas canisters. Without a word, he slipped into the shadows. Pablo tracked him through heat goggles, every movement precise, every heartbeat measured. Even then, Eduardo seemed to melt into the darkness, almost invisible. How good was this kid blending into shadows? Pablo wondered.
Inside the hotel, Eduardo moved silently, releasing gas into the corridors, letting the operatives succumb one by one. The waiting was a test of patience, and he let it drag on until the last eyelids fluttered and fell.
But in the center of the dining hall, Wagyu stood—naked, a living testament to the cruelty of the Huesca. Eduardo’s eyes hardened. He drew his knife, every strike deliberate, every movement a calculated execution.
In less than twenty minutes, the Huesca operatives were neutralized. Those in the dining hall had their throats slit; some had their manhood removed and forced into their mouths—a dark retribution for the horrors they had planned.
“I’m so sorry, Wagyu,” Eduardo whispered, lifting Claudia into his arms. She wore a white dress, peaceful in sleep, unaware of the carnage surrounding her.
As the federales teams swept through the hotel, they carefully removed all six hostages. Wagyu, draped in a white sheet, was indistinguishable from the others, a shield against the cameras and the chaos outside.
From outside, Pablo ordered the spread of the news. The world would hear what had occurred tonight—not in whispers, but in clear, undeniable truth.
The next morning, Pablo de la Casa stood rigid, almost stoic, in the dimly lit study. The official declaration lay in front of him, the black ink sharp against the white paper. He read it aloud, voice steady at first, then trembling as the words sank in:
"Last night, citizen Eduardo de la Casa, despite being injured in a prior engagement, infiltrated the hotel and neutralized the Huesca cartel members. In the struggle to save his younger sister, he sustained severe injuries. He did not survive."
The paper trembled in Pablo’s hands. He staggered, disbelief clinging to his every breath, before the dam broke. The strong, unyielding man fell to his knees, convulsing with grief, his cries echoing through the halls.
Claudia remained unaware. Valador and Wagyu stood silently by her side in a nearby room, their expressions tight with tension. They did not dare tell her yet.
Later, as Claudia was escorted to the airport, reporters clamored for her reaction, voices pressing against the fragile veil of composure she tried to maintain. Then came the words she had hoped never to hear, carried across the broadcast: Eduardo… was gone.
Her knees buckled, and she crumpled to the floor, tears streaming freely as Valador and Wagyu wrapped their arms around her. The nation would bury another Eduardo de la Casa—a hero, a protector of his people, lost in the shadow of his deeds.
The De la Casa family, steadfast as always, refused the national graveyard. He would be laid to rest amongst his heroic ancestors, in the back of the house. As with every De la Casa who had served the country or fallen in childbirth, the soil of his lineage would cradle him, honoring the legacy of courage, sacrifice, and unyielding duty.
Wagyu sank into Valador’s arms, trembling, her voice barely above a whisper.
“In the end… I hated him,” she admitted, tears still streaking her face. “I called him a coward… as those ugly men had their way with me. I cursed him… for selling me out to save his sister. And now… my heart is empty.”
Valador held her tighter, his presence steady, grounding. He said nothing at first, letting her grief spill into the quiet between them.
After a long pause, Wagyu’s voice softened, almost a sigh: “He wasn’t perfect… but…”
Valador glanced at her, eyebrows raised, waiting.
“Almost perfect,” she finished, voice trembling with the faintest trace of a smile.
In that fragile moment, grief and admiration intertwined, and the room felt impossibly still, as if honoring both her loss and the memory of the man who had done everything to protect the innocent.
The plane touched down, tires skidding lightly on the tarmac. Claudia’s legs felt like lead as she stepped into the bright sunlight, Marcus and Ali flanking her, arms ready, eyes sharp. They became living shields in this moment of weakness, her protectors as the weight of the night pressed against her chest.
Valador’s gaze swept the group. “Rodriguez… and the two industrialist kids—where is Gonzalez?” His voice was calm, but the tension underneath was palpable.
Rodriguez swallowed, his face tight. “He… he wanted to catch a plane after you left. But something in his gut told him something would go wrong. His family… they locked him away.”
Claudia’s eyes widened.
“He screamed for you… Claudia. And when he heard of Eduardo’s passing, he cried. Since then… he hasn’t been seen.”
A heavy silence fell. Even the chatter of the airport faded into the background, leaving only the echo of loss, the unspoken weight of grief, and the absence of someone who had felt the danger before it struck.
Marcus tightened his grip on her arm. Ali’s jaw was set, unyielding. They were her armor, but they could not fill the emptiness left by Eduardo.
Claudia’s gaze fell to the ground, tears threatening again, and the reality of the night’s horrors pressed in.
When Claudia finally reached home, the walls of the De la Casa estate felt both suffocating and safe. For the first time since the chaos, she was allowed to grieve. No one rushed her, no one tried to console her beyond presence; silence and quiet understanding filled the halls.
A few days later, a small, solemn ceremony took place in the family’s private graveyard, where for centuries the heroes of the De la Casa line had been laid to rest. The marble stones glimmered faintly under the morning sun, the scent of fresh earth mingling with the faint aroma of incense.
Eduardo de la Casa was buried next to her great-grandfather, also named Eduardo de la Casa. It should have been her grandfather’s resting place, but fate had intervened cruelly. And it was her fault.
Had she been stronger… braver… he wouldn’t have had to breach the hotel alone. Worse still, he had carried her out, injured and bleeding, while she had slept, unaware of the mortal danger he faced. The weight of guilt pressed on her chest, suffocating in its intensity.
All family members were present. Cousins in uniform, some still active military, others veterans—each bearing the silent pride and stoicism of a lineage forged in combat. Friends of Eduardo, loyal and grim-faced, stood in solemn tribute. Even Ali, the Saudi prince, had come to pay his respects, his presence a quiet reminder of alliances and friendships that transcended borders.
Yet one conspicuous absence lingered in the shadows of the ceremony: Gonzalez. That rat. He had warned her once, but she had not heard, and now the consequences were permanent. She clenched her fists, the pain of loss mingling with the sting of betrayal, her heart both empty and burning.
The earth was silent, yet it seemed to echo with the weight of generations of warriors who had fought, bled, and died for their family and their country. Eduardo was home at last—but the world felt hollow without him.
Claudia was led down to the basement, a chamber dimly lit and heavy with history. In the center stood a massive round table, its surface intricately carved with the arms of the De la Casa family—a reminder that her lineage stretched nine centuries back to Galicia. The weight of generations pressed down on her, a legacy of warriors and heroes, of blood and duty.
And then she saw him. Gonzalez.
“What are you doing here?” she spat, her voice shaking with rage and grief. “Your family’s wars have cost me a brother, and you couldn’t even be bothered to attend his funeral? You dog… you rat… you worthless scum!”
A hand landed on her shoulder, firm but not violent. She froze, every breath hitching in her chest. The weight of it pressed deep, and the familiar scent made her heart stumble. Fear, disbelief, and hope tangled inside her. She dared not move.
And then she heard his voice—soft, measured, impossible to ignore.
“Claudia… relax. He only did what I asked of him.”
She turned, eyes wide, trembling, her voice barely a whisper.
“Eduardo?”
Warscared held Claudia tightly, feeling the tension in her body slowly ease. His voice was calm, measured, but carried the weight of everything that had happened.
“It’s alright… it’s over. I did my duty,” he whispered. Then, almost casually, he added, “By the way… my name is Warscared. Most just call me WS.”
Claudia froze. Shock painted her features, while Pedro exhaled, relief washing over his usually stoic face.
“I think you owe us all an explanation, my beloved friend,” Pablo de la Casa said, his tone both gentle and demanding.
Pablo began, his eyes dark with memory. “Twenty-one years ago… my wife gave birth to a child who did not survive. We still registered him, but in her desperation, we never told her what had happened. Three years later… Claudia was born. We had hoped she had forgotten the loss… but she had not. Since then, we sought an Eduardo to adopt, someone to carry the family’s mantle.”
He paused, the weight of history and blood pressing down on the room.
“i… rose to leadership in the federales. i did his work so well that every cartel or gang we dismantled seemed to birth a new, more ruthless one. Then, Maria—Claudia’s mother—was assassinated, a revenge strike for the twins’ cartels. Those remnants… they became the beginning of the Huesca cartel.”
Pedro listened, rigid but calm, as Pablo continued. “It was then that Gonzalez’s grandfather—the man himself—approached me. He offered condolences for my wife’s death and a proposal: he would equip and pay for a shadow army to help us exact vengeance on those beasts. In return… Sinaloa would be allowed to conduct business in the States. Even now, their operations are carefully managed. They maintain control, protect consumption among adults, and keep their territories largely in order, with minimal disruption.”
Claudia’s hands trembled as the pieces fell into place—the centuries of De la Casa legacy, the horrors of the past, and the invisible war waged in shadows that had brought her brother back to her alive.
Warscared’s eyes met hers, icy yet steady. “Everything I’ve done… all I’ve been… it was to protect you, Claudia. To protect our family’s honor.”
The room fell silent, the weight of revelation pressing on everyone present. The bloodshed, the secrets, the pain—all finally had context. And for the first time in decades, perhaps, the De la Casa legacy felt whole again.
Pablo leaned back, fingers drumming lightly on the carved wood of the table. “And in my travels, setting up squads in the United States, I encountered the boy—me and Maria had dreamed of him. Tall, blonde, unpredictable… a total lunatic at times, but with a mind sharp enough to scare even me. I knew then that this boy… he was something else entirely.”
His eyes darkened, remembering the chaos. “Three months after meeting him, I heard about a war in San Francisco. He was being hunted, cornered, almost finished. I called the boss himself… and that’s when Gonzalez stepped in. From there, things moved faster than anyone could imagine.”
Gonzalez took over the story, his voice calm but precise, each word painting the image of events WS had no memory of.
“Once your grandfather discovered just how much Pablo cared for this boy,” Gonzalez began, “he sent every team we had in the States as fast as possible. Normally, the Nortenos don’t take kindly to us, but since we operate as cartel squads, they were careful not to cross us.
“We found the two bikers on the rooftop—both critically injured, barely clinging to life. Connections were used, favors called in. Let’s just say that saving this… worthless piece of shit, who I now call a friend, cost us several million.
“Half of our teams in the Southwest were identified. We had to extract them through Canada and bring them back to Mexico. Never to return. At least… not by the regular means.”
WS listened, silent, absorbing every detail, the edges of his memory fraying and knitting together as the missing pieces of his past were laid before him.
Claudia listened, stunned, as the final pieces of her fractured family history came into focus.
“We put him in a trolley,” Gonzalez continued, “fully equipped with medical staff and gear. Establishing it was hell… but it returned safely, and no one was the wiser. While both bikers were being treated, Wilkes—the rider’s biker—woke up in the middle of the night and threw WS out of the boat. The men securing the vessel shot him on the spot. Three men jumped in to save him, but it was dark… he swam nearly two miles before reaching Baja California. After that, he was delivered to Pablo, but the situation raised too many questions. So Pablo came up with the story of his lost son, hidden away in Switzerland. Pedro disliked the deception, but once Grandmother saw his face, she embraced him.
“The first time he woke up, he didn’t know who he was. A cousin suggested pills to lock away painful memories. Eventually, he would recover his past, pills or no pills—but a transition period was necessary.”
Claudia’s voice trembled as she pieced it together. “So… when grandfather and grandmother returned to Mexico City, you stayed… hoping to heal your brother?”
“Yes,” she admitted. “Grandparents are old. My father and I barely know each other. I wanted to believe I had a brother.”
Her voice cracked. “But… why did you… why did you decide you had to die, Eduardo… I mean, WS?”
He looked at her, eyes steady, and his voice was calm. “You saw what I can do. There is video evidence… three Huesca prisoners. Connected to the MS-13 warehouse. It’s all documented.”
Claudia froze. Her face drained of color. “You… you did that?”
He nodded. “Do you truly believe Huesca could slip into a town full of Sinaloa sicarios and federal special forces and carry out something so clean? That’s my special talent.”
She swallowed hard, her mind racing to reconcile the brother she knew with the shadowed figure she now understood—a man who had walked through blood and chaos with surgical precision.
WS leaned back, rubbing his eyes. “Well… I can probably walk into the U.S. embassy and ask for a passport,” he said, half-joking.
Pablo slid a slim envelope across the table. “Here. Your American passport.”
WS raised an eyebrow, opening it, then paused as another envelope fell onto his lap. “Also… this one.” He frowned. “A Norwegian passport? I don’t even speak Norwegian… Edvard hjemme koselig… what the hell? A Scandinavian passport, and I don’t even get a cool UFO circle over the vowels. It’s like going to Spain and not eating paella.”
Gonzalez chuckled, shaking his head. WS rolled his eyes but laughed along. They embraced briefly, a silent acknowledgment of everything that had passed.
Turning toward Claudia, WS wrapped her in a long, firm hug. “Take care of yourself,” he murmured.
She clutched him tightly, not wanting to let go, but eventually, he pulled back.
Gonzalez leaned close, voice low. “So… now you’ll be our contact with the Angels. The national contract’s been made. MS to the border, Angels inside the U.S. Great money—but it’s been over a year. Think they’ll take you back?”
WS exhaled slowly, letting the weight of the question settle. “Not sure… I lost the cut, and… some things are still a bit confused.”
He pulled out a small notebook. “I’ll need the phones of a few lawyers in the States.”
After a few quick calls, he packed his things and moved toward Sinaloa, ready to spend some time laying low, sorting out connections, and untangling the threads left in the wake of the chaos.
WS sat back in the worn chair of his temporary Sinaloa apartment, flipping open his laptop. His trading accounts blinked back at him, numbers stark against the screen. Gone. Every peso missing.
He groaned. Nami. Of course. She must have secured the funds, done something smart, while he was away. Should he call her? Check in… see how she’s doing?
He paused. Her mom… how is she holding up? A quick mental check, then he went online. Facebook. Pictures. She was still single. No boyfriend. A year left until graduation.
Scrolling, his eyes lingered on snapshots with Ayuah, Robin, Bella, Nadjia… and Sasha. His chest tightened. Oh, Sasha… I’m coming home.
Vidal, miserable as ever, still officially dating Bella. Nojiko—her usual shadow behind her eyes—couldn’t hide it even in her pictures with Amber.
He checked the other accounts. The black cards were drained. Figures. He frowned, then typed fast, ordering a new Chinese black card, transferring what remained of his Mexican funds into it. Only twenty-seven thousand. FFS. He winced. Shouldn’t have spent so much on Wagyu.
Guilt pricked at him. Better if I’m truly dead, he muttered under his breath. The bridge material alone had cost him a fortune—and so much more than money.
By nightfall, he was in San Francisco. Stepping onto the street, the city hit him immediately—a stench, a chaos of decay. His boot squished into something warm. Human manure. Literally.
WS stopped, blinking at the street. The homeless… the forgotten… everywhere. A city of shadows, despair, and neglect. He shook his head. What the hell happened here?
The answer wouldn’t come immediately, but he already felt the gears turning, plotting the next moves, as always.
The door to the Oakland club chapter house slammed open with a kick that rattled the walls. WS strode in, boots heavy, eyes blazing, and yelled, “Where the fuck is the booze—and the whores?!”
“Who the hell is this crazy motherfu—” Robertson began, before his words caught in his throat.
“OMFG… WS?” Gregg’s voice cracked. Recognition hit them like a punch. Their eyes darted from his towering frame to the scars, the faint glint of his knife still at his side, and finally to his piercing, almost magnetic blue eyes.
Silence fell. For a moment, the club house seemed to hold its breath. This wasn’t just WS back—it was a storm incarnate, the man who had disappeared into legend and nightmare, standing in their midst.
WS’s grin was thin, sharp. “Boys… we have a lot of catching up to do.”
WS scanned the room, eyes narrowing. “Where the hell are Walt and Dalton?”
Robertson scratched his head, clearly impressed that WS even remembered their names. “Sir… their record’s clean for the past year. Still nomads, riding the Rider Angel border. Keeping it tight, sir.”
WS smirked. “Good. I want them back in Oakland. Jarhead, call Sacramento. Tell them my men report here in three days.”
“Who the fuck do you think you are?” came the gruff voice over the phone.
“I cleared the border, gifted you LA and SF. Who do you think I am?” WS snapped.
“And where the fuck is my nomad cut?”
The Jarhead leading Oakland came up behind him, hugging him roughly and rocking him in a mock embrace. “You worthless piece of shit… we assumed the fucking Mexicans roasted you and ate you up! But your cut? It’s right there, in the Mother Chapter honor table. If you need it, Oakland can patch you over.”
WS turned, raising an eyebrow. “Oakland isn’t strictly black, right?”
Even Greg, who always smelled like a mix of smoke and bad decisions, muttered from the corner, “Gotta use South Side SF.”
WS’s grin stretched wide, sharp as a knife. “Then I guess I’ll ask for an Arbor cut. Think they’ll take me in?”
The room went quiet. The Angels knew the answer—they weren’t sure anyone, anywhere, could handle WS the way he was now. But one thing was certain: if he walked in, he didn’t just join. He dominated.
The guys handed WS his cut from the drugs and weapons from the mission over fourteen months ago. As he stared at it, it hit him like a brick to the head.
“Fuck… I never celebrated my 18th birthday,” he muttered. Then his brain went on a rampage. “My 16th… the Gauntlet… seventy-three whores… nothing. Zero. Nada.”
Greg blinked at him. “Where the fuck have you been, WS?”
“Down in Mexico,” WS said, completely serious. “Extremely confused why I look like this, people assuming I’m Mexican… but the worst part?” He shook his head. “Not having a massive hard-on over my sister… and fuck… she was hot. God, had I known I would have drilled that sexy piece of ass… being an idiot, that’s what I mean being an Idiot.”
Robertson choked on his beer. “Incest… really?”
WS threw up his hands. “Not really! Not really! It’s… the absurdity! It’s like life handed me a slapstick script while everyone else was doing Shakespeare. Seventy-three whores, missed birthdays, almost dying in Mexico, everyone thinking I’m Mexican, my sister… fucking ridiculous!”
Greg and Robertson just stared. They had no idea whether to laugh, faint, or call a priest. WS, meanwhile, felt the weight of it all—the missions, the chaos, the “lost year”—but he couldn’t help seeing it all as one massive, twisted, comedic cosmic joke.
WS’s birthday party was long overdue. With half of his cut from the job fourteen months ago—$250,000—he threw a citywide biker blowout. Engines roared through the streets, neon lights danced across leather jackets, and bikers from every chapter rolled in to celebrate the man who had returned from the dead.
Three days into the celebration, Dalton and Walt arrived with three of their surviving squad members. One of their old comrades hadn’t survived the ambush, and WS raised his glass, voice steady, eyes burning: “To the fallen. Ride with us, always.”
Then came the loudest cheer of the night—Williamson had driven all the way from South California just to see him. WS grinned, clapping him on the shoulder. The party erupted into chaos again, engines roaring, bottles clinking, laughter and shouting filling the air.
Jezebel was returned to him—the bike that had survived more than most humans could—and the Arbour chapter patched him fully in, giving him the cut that marked his place among them. The jarheads had prepared an undercut too, a shadow cut for those who needed to know: “Warlord: Master of War.” A symbol of respect, a recognition of the chaos and skill he had unleashed, ready for anyone who cared to notice.
WS didn’t plan, didn’t strategize. He just reveled in being back, in the smell of exhaust and whiskey, in the roar of engines and laughter of friends who had survived alongside him.
Before leaving the party, he stopped by Emily’s apartment. She was alive, with a baby in her arms. “Crazy broad… guess you get to live,” he muttered. Jezebel’s engine roared as he left, leaving Emily shivering in the wake of it. WS wasn’t planning the next move—he was just back, enjoying it, gathering his old group, and leading them once more down the open road.
The crew roared south, the California sun glinting off chrome. WS wasn’t planning—he was simply back, alive, and savoring the ride. Their destination: Williamson’s wedding.
Williamson’s bride, radiant and laughing, had a belly showing—this would be their third child together. Thanks to WS’s profits, the celebration could happen without worry. Williamson, now a father and a husband, would stay in Southern California to raise his growing family.
WS couldn’t resist a little chaos of his own. He spotted Wendy Johnson, darting through the yard like a whirlwind, and gave chase. Memories of nearly two years ago flashed—her father had kicked him over a kiss. If that had drawn a beating, what would he do now if he saw WS running circles around his daughter? WS grinned, the thrill of mischief coursing through him.
For once, despite the chaos, the world felt lighter. Engines roared, tires screamed, and the road stretched south—toward weddings, family, and the rarest kind of peace WS had ever known.
Greg and Robertson had joined them, rounding the crew to eight once more. Outside California, Robertson’s presence—a Black man among mostly white riders—turned heads, but WS didn’t care. The crew was a mix now: five seasoned Nomads and three from San Francisco—an Arbour Asian who somehow looked more Scandinavian than Asian, a white rider from the South Side, and Robertson from Oakland.
They tore through highways and backroads, heading east. First stop: Texas, visiting chapters from their past, nodding to old allies, leaving their mark wherever they rode. Respect followed them like a shadow.
Finally, they reached Gabriel’s tomb. WS dismounted, helmet under his arm, and strode toward the grave. He wasn’t just visiting a friend; there were others he had to see, including Bern—the bastard who had caused more headaches than he could count.
The sun was low, the wind biting, but WS felt at peace. This was part pilgrimage, part reckoning. He touched the stone of Gabriel’s resting place, whispered a silent salute, and let his eyes scan the horizon. Roads, friends, unfinished business—everything he had left behind in the chaos of Mexico and California was coming together, one mile at a time.
On the way east, the road wasn’t just long—it was bloody. Every couple of days, WS and his crew hit small MS-13 or rival dens. No more storming the place in a hail of bullets; this time, they worked smarter. Sleeping gas. Doors kicked in, men snoring on the floor before they even knew who walked in. But small places didn’t bring big profits—sometimes ten grand, sometimes less. Still, it was enough to keep the wheels rolling and a message sent: MS-13’s drug trade wasn’t the same anymore. The new arrangement had shifted profits to the Angels, and everyone on the street was starting to feel it.
When they reached the tomb chapter, WS introduced his group formally. He stood at Gabriel’s stone, someone told the story of Cumberland Gap, where a 16-year-old idiot had started shooting at Ducks’ chiefs, daring them to act. His boys listened like kids at campfire. WS didn’t glorify it, it was just told straight: how chaos turned into a reputation that followed him everywhere.
They visited several chapters who had ridden with them back in those days. Old faces, scarred and weathered, shook his hand like he’d walked out of a grave. WS showed them his new cut, the “Warlord” underpatch hidden beneath the real one, and the jarheads grinned—like they already knew what he was made for.
South was tempting. Money, blood, a firestorm waiting. But he remembered the disasters, the messes he left behind. Worse, Robertson riding with them would raise too many questions—skin color still lit the wrong fires down there.
So after Cumberland Gap, WS turned the handlebars north. The road was calling, and so was unfinished business.
WS led the pack north, tires chewing highway and small towns alike. They dropped in on two more chapters, sharing drinks, war stories, and leaving whispers in their wake: he’s back.
But the easy ride ended quick. Three outer-ring chapters rolled up on them, engines snarling, a wall of chrome and leather blocking the road. This was Angel border country—nobody rode past without being known.
Walt and Dalton handled it smooth, locals through and through. They gave names, vouches, history. Still, all eyes slid to WS—strangers didn’t usually carry that kind of gravity.
Then he spotted a familiar face. One of the chiefs. Last time WS had seen him was at a Mother Chapter meeting, years back
ntroductions done, the tension broke. The blockade melted into an escort, and suddenly they weren’t intruders—they were being welcomed in.
They rode into Angel paradise, the kind of turf every brother dreamed of—safe, known, untouched by outside hands. Walt and Dalton found out the news they’d been waiting for: their records were clean. One full year with no heat.
For the first time in a long time, the two of them could go home.
WS kept his mouth shut, letting the mystery work for him. Walt and Dalton did the talking — locals with clean records, their return home was expected. Officially, they were shedding the nomad cut, reclaiming their old chapter patches.
And the story was simple: they’d brought along their riding brothers. Nothing more, nothing less.
The chiefs accepted it. Papers checked, nods exchanged, and the gate to the outer ring opened.
Inside, WS rode quiet. He didn’t need recognition. Not yet. For now, Walt and Dalton’s homecoming was cover enough.
Politicians were in panic. Security councils were convening in emergency. And in the midst of it, Valador, trembling, had been threatened. Even he—the stoic, unflappable Valador—had been tested.
Pablo de la Casa felt the pressure keenly. Calls came from every direction: governors, generals, shadowy politicians he barely trusted. And at the center of it all, the life of his daughter—Claudia—hung precariously, as if the city itself held its breath.
Meanwhile, Eduardo had become something of a legend overnight. His face, obscured in blood yet illuminated by glacial blue eyes, was already spreading across the nation. The NGOs screamed for trials, labeling him a murderer of prisoners. The newspapers debated morality as if their pens could outweigh bullets and bloodshed. Few gave the demands real weight.
But the native associations—the ones who had long remembered the heavy hand of De la Casa rule—saw a different truth. They saw a man risking everything to protect their village, something the government had failed to do for generations. For the first time, some of their harshest critics were forced to reckon with the honor and ferocity of the De la Casa bloodline.
Joseph, their young engineer, lay dead. His dreams of bridges, of futures unbroken, were ripped away in seconds. His name echoed in the village in the native tongue, a mourning chant that rose over the rooftops and down the streets. It was a sound heavy with grief, heavy with rage, and it cut Eduardo deep, igniting a cold fire in his chest.
The city waited. The politicians waited. The villagers waited. And Eduardo, awake in the darkness, felt the weight of every eye, every expectation, every silent prayer. The war had only just begun.
Eduardo’s voice was calm but resolute as he faced his father. “I need sleeping gas,” he said. “I’ll infiltrate the hotel and put everyone to sleep. I can get Claudia back alive.”
Pablo ran in anxious circles, the weight of the city and his children pressing down on him. “I have seventy elite men with me—and you…” he said, voice tight.
“I can do it, Father,” Eduardo replied steadily.
Pablo slammed his hand on the table. “I know you can! But what’s the point of my life if I lose both my children?”
Eduardo’s piercing blue eyes met his father’s. “That… is something we’ll have to debate.”
The pills were losing their effect, and memories he didn’t fully understand began surfacing—a home in the northeast of the United States, flashes of a life that felt both distant and intimate. Pablo’s guilt was evident.
“I saved your life,” he said softly. “I’ll explain everything to you… but right now, this is too dangerous. I can’t risk losing you.”
Eduardo’s tone hardened. “I can get Claudia out… or I can risk breaching in, hoping to kill them all before she’s murdered or raped.”
Pablo nodded, the weight of inevitability in his eyes.
Eduardo donned a facial mask, securing the sleeping gas canisters. Without a word, he slipped into the shadows. Pablo tracked him through heat goggles, every movement precise, every heartbeat measured. Even then, Eduardo seemed to melt into the darkness, almost invisible. How good was this kid blending into shadows? Pablo wondered.
Inside the hotel, Eduardo moved silently, releasing gas into the corridors, letting the operatives succumb one by one. The waiting was a test of patience, and he let it drag on until the last eyelids fluttered and fell.
But in the center of the dining hall, Wagyu stood—naked, a living testament to the cruelty of the Huesca. Eduardo’s eyes hardened. He drew his knife, every strike deliberate, every movement a calculated execution.
In less than twenty minutes, the Huesca operatives were neutralized. Those in the dining hall had their throats slit; some had their manhood removed and forced into their mouths—a dark retribution for the horrors they had planned.
“I’m so sorry, Wagyu,” Eduardo whispered, lifting Claudia into his arms. She wore a white dress, peaceful in sleep, unaware of the carnage surrounding her.
As the federales teams swept through the hotel, they carefully removed all six hostages. Wagyu, draped in a white sheet, was indistinguishable from the others, a shield against the cameras and the chaos outside.
From outside, Pablo ordered the spread of the news. The world would hear what had occurred tonight—not in whispers, but in clear, undeniable truth.
The next morning, Pablo de la Casa stood rigid, almost stoic, in the dimly lit study. The official declaration lay in front of him, the black ink sharp against the white paper. He read it aloud, voice steady at first, then trembling as the words sank in:
"Last night, citizen Eduardo de la Casa, despite being injured in a prior engagement, infiltrated the hotel and neutralized the Huesca cartel members. In the struggle to save his younger sister, he sustained severe injuries. He did not survive."
The paper trembled in Pablo’s hands. He staggered, disbelief clinging to his every breath, before the dam broke. The strong, unyielding man fell to his knees, convulsing with grief, his cries echoing through the halls.
Claudia remained unaware. Valador and Wagyu stood silently by her side in a nearby room, their expressions tight with tension. They did not dare tell her yet.
Later, as Claudia was escorted to the airport, reporters clamored for her reaction, voices pressing against the fragile veil of composure she tried to maintain. Then came the words she had hoped never to hear, carried across the broadcast: Eduardo… was gone.
Her knees buckled, and she crumpled to the floor, tears streaming freely as Valador and Wagyu wrapped their arms around her. The nation would bury another Eduardo de la Casa—a hero, a protector of his people, lost in the shadow of his deeds.
The De la Casa family, steadfast as always, refused the national graveyard. He would be laid to rest amongst his heroic ancestors, in the back of the house. As with every De la Casa who had served the country or fallen in childbirth, the soil of his lineage would cradle him, honoring the legacy of courage, sacrifice, and unyielding duty.
Wagyu sank into Valador’s arms, trembling, her voice barely above a whisper.
“In the end… I hated him,” she admitted, tears still streaking her face. “I called him a coward… as those ugly men had their way with me. I cursed him… for selling me out to save his sister. And now… my heart is empty.”
Valador held her tighter, his presence steady, grounding. He said nothing at first, letting her grief spill into the quiet between them.
After a long pause, Wagyu’s voice softened, almost a sigh: “He wasn’t perfect… but…”
Valador glanced at her, eyebrows raised, waiting.
“Almost perfect,” she finished, voice trembling with the faintest trace of a smile.
In that fragile moment, grief and admiration intertwined, and the room felt impossibly still, as if honoring both her loss and the memory of the man who had done everything to protect the innocent.
The plane touched down, tires skidding lightly on the tarmac. Claudia’s legs felt like lead as she stepped into the bright sunlight, Marcus and Ali flanking her, arms ready, eyes sharp. They became living shields in this moment of weakness, her protectors as the weight of the night pressed against her chest.
Valador’s gaze swept the group. “Rodriguez… and the two industrialist kids—where is Gonzalez?” His voice was calm, but the tension underneath was palpable.
Rodriguez swallowed, his face tight. “He… he wanted to catch a plane after you left. But something in his gut told him something would go wrong. His family… they locked him away.”
Claudia’s eyes widened.
“He screamed for you… Claudia. And when he heard of Eduardo’s passing, he cried. Since then… he hasn’t been seen.”
A heavy silence fell. Even the chatter of the airport faded into the background, leaving only the echo of loss, the unspoken weight of grief, and the absence of someone who had felt the danger before it struck.
Marcus tightened his grip on her arm. Ali’s jaw was set, unyielding. They were her armor, but they could not fill the emptiness left by Eduardo.
Claudia’s gaze fell to the ground, tears threatening again, and the reality of the night’s horrors pressed in.
When Claudia finally reached home, the walls of the De la Casa estate felt both suffocating and safe. For the first time since the chaos, she was allowed to grieve. No one rushed her, no one tried to console her beyond presence; silence and quiet understanding filled the halls.
A few days later, a small, solemn ceremony took place in the family’s private graveyard, where for centuries the heroes of the De la Casa line had been laid to rest. The marble stones glimmered faintly under the morning sun, the scent of fresh earth mingling with the faint aroma of incense.
Eduardo de la Casa was buried next to her great-grandfather, also named Eduardo de la Casa. It should have been her grandfather’s resting place, but fate had intervened cruelly. And it was her fault.
Had she been stronger… braver… he wouldn’t have had to breach the hotel alone. Worse still, he had carried her out, injured and bleeding, while she had slept, unaware of the mortal danger he faced. The weight of guilt pressed on her chest, suffocating in its intensity.
All family members were present. Cousins in uniform, some still active military, others veterans—each bearing the silent pride and stoicism of a lineage forged in combat. Friends of Eduardo, loyal and grim-faced, stood in solemn tribute. Even Ali, the Saudi prince, had come to pay his respects, his presence a quiet reminder of alliances and friendships that transcended borders.
Yet one conspicuous absence lingered in the shadows of the ceremony: Gonzalez. That rat. He had warned her once, but she had not heard, and now the consequences were permanent. She clenched her fists, the pain of loss mingling with the sting of betrayal, her heart both empty and burning.
The earth was silent, yet it seemed to echo with the weight of generations of warriors who had fought, bled, and died for their family and their country. Eduardo was home at last—but the world felt hollow without him.
Claudia was led down to the basement, a chamber dimly lit and heavy with history. In the center stood a massive round table, its surface intricately carved with the arms of the De la Casa family—a reminder that her lineage stretched nine centuries back to Galicia. The weight of generations pressed down on her, a legacy of warriors and heroes, of blood and duty.
And then she saw him. Gonzalez.
“What are you doing here?” she spat, her voice shaking with rage and grief. “Your family’s wars have cost me a brother, and you couldn’t even be bothered to attend his funeral? You dog… you rat… you worthless scum!”
A hand landed on her shoulder, firm but not violent. She froze, every breath hitching in her chest. The weight of it pressed deep, and the familiar scent made her heart stumble. Fear, disbelief, and hope tangled inside her. She dared not move.
And then she heard his voice—soft, measured, impossible to ignore.
“Claudia… relax. He only did what I asked of him.”
She turned, eyes wide, trembling, her voice barely a whisper.
“Eduardo?”
Warscared held Claudia tightly, feeling the tension in her body slowly ease. His voice was calm, measured, but carried the weight of everything that had happened.
“It’s alright… it’s over. I did my duty,” he whispered. Then, almost casually, he added, “By the way… my name is Warscared. Most just call me WS.”
Claudia froze. Shock painted her features, while Pedro exhaled, relief washing over his usually stoic face.
“I think you owe us all an explanation, my beloved friend,” Pablo de la Casa said, his tone both gentle and demanding.
Pablo began, his eyes dark with memory. “Twenty-one years ago… my wife gave birth to a child who did not survive. We still registered him, but in her desperation, we never told her what had happened. Three years later… Claudia was born. We had hoped she had forgotten the loss… but she had not. Since then, we sought an Eduardo to adopt, someone to carry the family’s mantle.”
He paused, the weight of history and blood pressing down on the room.
“i… rose to leadership in the federales. i did his work so well that every cartel or gang we dismantled seemed to birth a new, more ruthless one. Then, Maria—Claudia’s mother—was assassinated, a revenge strike for the twins’ cartels. Those remnants… they became the beginning of the Huesca cartel.”
Pedro listened, rigid but calm, as Pablo continued. “It was then that Gonzalez’s grandfather—the man himself—approached me. He offered condolences for my wife’s death and a proposal: he would equip and pay for a shadow army to help us exact vengeance on those beasts. In return… Sinaloa would be allowed to conduct business in the States. Even now, their operations are carefully managed. They maintain control, protect consumption among adults, and keep their territories largely in order, with minimal disruption.”
Claudia’s hands trembled as the pieces fell into place—the centuries of De la Casa legacy, the horrors of the past, and the invisible war waged in shadows that had brought her brother back to her alive.
Warscared’s eyes met hers, icy yet steady. “Everything I’ve done… all I’ve been… it was to protect you, Claudia. To protect our family’s honor.”
The room fell silent, the weight of revelation pressing on everyone present. The bloodshed, the secrets, the pain—all finally had context. And for the first time in decades, perhaps, the De la Casa legacy felt whole again.
Pablo leaned back, fingers drumming lightly on the carved wood of the table. “And in my travels, setting up squads in the United States, I encountered the boy—me and Maria had dreamed of him. Tall, blonde, unpredictable… a total lunatic at times, but with a mind sharp enough to scare even me. I knew then that this boy… he was something else entirely.”
His eyes darkened, remembering the chaos. “Three months after meeting him, I heard about a war in San Francisco. He was being hunted, cornered, almost finished. I called the boss himself… and that’s when Gonzalez stepped in. From there, things moved faster than anyone could imagine.”
Gonzalez took over the story, his voice calm but precise, each word painting the image of events WS had no memory of.
“Once your grandfather discovered just how much Pablo cared for this boy,” Gonzalez began, “he sent every team we had in the States as fast as possible. Normally, the Nortenos don’t take kindly to us, but since we operate as cartel squads, they were careful not to cross us.
“We found the two bikers on the rooftop—both critically injured, barely clinging to life. Connections were used, favors called in. Let’s just say that saving this… worthless piece of shit, who I now call a friend, cost us several million.
“Half of our teams in the Southwest were identified. We had to extract them through Canada and bring them back to Mexico. Never to return. At least… not by the regular means.”
WS listened, silent, absorbing every detail, the edges of his memory fraying and knitting together as the missing pieces of his past were laid before him.
Claudia listened, stunned, as the final pieces of her fractured family history came into focus.
“We put him in a trolley,” Gonzalez continued, “fully equipped with medical staff and gear. Establishing it was hell… but it returned safely, and no one was the wiser. While both bikers were being treated, Wilkes—the rider’s biker—woke up in the middle of the night and threw WS out of the boat. The men securing the vessel shot him on the spot. Three men jumped in to save him, but it was dark… he swam nearly two miles before reaching Baja California. After that, he was delivered to Pablo, but the situation raised too many questions. So Pablo came up with the story of his lost son, hidden away in Switzerland. Pedro disliked the deception, but once Grandmother saw his face, she embraced him.
“The first time he woke up, he didn’t know who he was. A cousin suggested pills to lock away painful memories. Eventually, he would recover his past, pills or no pills—but a transition period was necessary.”
Claudia’s voice trembled as she pieced it together. “So… when grandfather and grandmother returned to Mexico City, you stayed… hoping to heal your brother?”
“Yes,” she admitted. “Grandparents are old. My father and I barely know each other. I wanted to believe I had a brother.”
Her voice cracked. “But… why did you… why did you decide you had to die, Eduardo… I mean, WS?”
He looked at her, eyes steady, and his voice was calm. “You saw what I can do. There is video evidence… three Huesca prisoners. Connected to the MS-13 warehouse. It’s all documented.”
Claudia froze. Her face drained of color. “You… you did that?”
He nodded. “Do you truly believe Huesca could slip into a town full of Sinaloa sicarios and federal special forces and carry out something so clean? That’s my special talent.”
She swallowed hard, her mind racing to reconcile the brother she knew with the shadowed figure she now understood—a man who had walked through blood and chaos with surgical precision.
WS leaned back, rubbing his eyes. “Well… I can probably walk into the U.S. embassy and ask for a passport,” he said, half-joking.
Pablo slid a slim envelope across the table. “Here. Your American passport.”
WS raised an eyebrow, opening it, then paused as another envelope fell onto his lap. “Also… this one.” He frowned. “A Norwegian passport? I don’t even speak Norwegian… Edvard hjemme koselig… what the hell? A Scandinavian passport, and I don’t even get a cool UFO circle over the vowels. It’s like going to Spain and not eating paella.”
Gonzalez chuckled, shaking his head. WS rolled his eyes but laughed along. They embraced briefly, a silent acknowledgment of everything that had passed.
Turning toward Claudia, WS wrapped her in a long, firm hug. “Take care of yourself,” he murmured.
She clutched him tightly, not wanting to let go, but eventually, he pulled back.
Gonzalez leaned close, voice low. “So… now you’ll be our contact with the Angels. The national contract’s been made. MS to the border, Angels inside the U.S. Great money—but it’s been over a year. Think they’ll take you back?”
WS exhaled slowly, letting the weight of the question settle. “Not sure… I lost the cut, and… some things are still a bit confused.”
He pulled out a small notebook. “I’ll need the phones of a few lawyers in the States.”
After a few quick calls, he packed his things and moved toward Sinaloa, ready to spend some time laying low, sorting out connections, and untangling the threads left in the wake of the chaos.
WS sat back in the worn chair of his temporary Sinaloa apartment, flipping open his laptop. His trading accounts blinked back at him, numbers stark against the screen. Gone. Every peso missing.
He groaned. Nami. Of course. She must have secured the funds, done something smart, while he was away. Should he call her? Check in… see how she’s doing?
He paused. Her mom… how is she holding up? A quick mental check, then he went online. Facebook. Pictures. She was still single. No boyfriend. A year left until graduation.
Scrolling, his eyes lingered on snapshots with Ayuah, Robin, Bella, Nadjia… and Sasha. His chest tightened. Oh, Sasha… I’m coming home.
Vidal, miserable as ever, still officially dating Bella. Nojiko—her usual shadow behind her eyes—couldn’t hide it even in her pictures with Amber.
He checked the other accounts. The black cards were drained. Figures. He frowned, then typed fast, ordering a new Chinese black card, transferring what remained of his Mexican funds into it. Only twenty-seven thousand. FFS. He winced. Shouldn’t have spent so much on Wagyu.
Guilt pricked at him. Better if I’m truly dead, he muttered under his breath. The bridge material alone had cost him a fortune—and so much more than money.
By nightfall, he was in San Francisco. Stepping onto the street, the city hit him immediately—a stench, a chaos of decay. His boot squished into something warm. Human manure. Literally.
WS stopped, blinking at the street. The homeless… the forgotten… everywhere. A city of shadows, despair, and neglect. He shook his head. What the hell happened here?
The answer wouldn’t come immediately, but he already felt the gears turning, plotting the next moves, as always.
The door to the Oakland club chapter house slammed open with a kick that rattled the walls. WS strode in, boots heavy, eyes blazing, and yelled, “Where the fuck is the booze—and the whores?!”
“Who the hell is this crazy motherfu—” Robertson began, before his words caught in his throat.
“OMFG… WS?” Gregg’s voice cracked. Recognition hit them like a punch. Their eyes darted from his towering frame to the scars, the faint glint of his knife still at his side, and finally to his piercing, almost magnetic blue eyes.
Silence fell. For a moment, the club house seemed to hold its breath. This wasn’t just WS back—it was a storm incarnate, the man who had disappeared into legend and nightmare, standing in their midst.
WS’s grin was thin, sharp. “Boys… we have a lot of catching up to do.”
WS scanned the room, eyes narrowing. “Where the hell are Walt and Dalton?”
Robertson scratched his head, clearly impressed that WS even remembered their names. “Sir… their record’s clean for the past year. Still nomads, riding the Rider Angel border. Keeping it tight, sir.”
WS smirked. “Good. I want them back in Oakland. Jarhead, call Sacramento. Tell them my men report here in three days.”
“Who the fuck do you think you are?” came the gruff voice over the phone.
“I cleared the border, gifted you LA and SF. Who do you think I am?” WS snapped.
“And where the fuck is my nomad cut?”
The Jarhead leading Oakland came up behind him, hugging him roughly and rocking him in a mock embrace. “You worthless piece of shit… we assumed the fucking Mexicans roasted you and ate you up! But your cut? It’s right there, in the Mother Chapter honor table. If you need it, Oakland can patch you over.”
WS turned, raising an eyebrow. “Oakland isn’t strictly black, right?”
Even Greg, who always smelled like a mix of smoke and bad decisions, muttered from the corner, “Gotta use South Side SF.”
WS’s grin stretched wide, sharp as a knife. “Then I guess I’ll ask for an Arbor cut. Think they’ll take me in?”
The room went quiet. The Angels knew the answer—they weren’t sure anyone, anywhere, could handle WS the way he was now. But one thing was certain: if he walked in, he didn’t just join. He dominated.
The guys handed WS his cut from the drugs and weapons from the mission over fourteen months ago. As he stared at it, it hit him like a brick to the head.
“Fuck… I never celebrated my 18th birthday,” he muttered. Then his brain went on a rampage. “My 16th… the Gauntlet… seventy-three whores… nothing. Zero. Nada.”
Greg blinked at him. “Where the fuck have you been, WS?”
“Down in Mexico,” WS said, completely serious. “Extremely confused why I look like this, people assuming I’m Mexican… but the worst part?” He shook his head. “Not having a massive hard-on over my sister… and fuck… she was hot. God, had I known I would have drilled that sexy piece of ass… being an idiot, that’s what I mean being an Idiot.”
Robertson choked on his beer. “Incest… really?”
WS threw up his hands. “Not really! Not really! It’s… the absurdity! It’s like life handed me a slapstick script while everyone else was doing Shakespeare. Seventy-three whores, missed birthdays, almost dying in Mexico, everyone thinking I’m Mexican, my sister… fucking ridiculous!”
Greg and Robertson just stared. They had no idea whether to laugh, faint, or call a priest. WS, meanwhile, felt the weight of it all—the missions, the chaos, the “lost year”—but he couldn’t help seeing it all as one massive, twisted, comedic cosmic joke.
WS’s birthday party was long overdue. With half of his cut from the job fourteen months ago—$250,000—he threw a citywide biker blowout. Engines roared through the streets, neon lights danced across leather jackets, and bikers from every chapter rolled in to celebrate the man who had returned from the dead.
Three days into the celebration, Dalton and Walt arrived with three of their surviving squad members. One of their old comrades hadn’t survived the ambush, and WS raised his glass, voice steady, eyes burning: “To the fallen. Ride with us, always.”
Then came the loudest cheer of the night—Williamson had driven all the way from South California just to see him. WS grinned, clapping him on the shoulder. The party erupted into chaos again, engines roaring, bottles clinking, laughter and shouting filling the air.
Jezebel was returned to him—the bike that had survived more than most humans could—and the Arbour chapter patched him fully in, giving him the cut that marked his place among them. The jarheads had prepared an undercut too, a shadow cut for those who needed to know: “Warlord: Master of War.” A symbol of respect, a recognition of the chaos and skill he had unleashed, ready for anyone who cared to notice.
WS didn’t plan, didn’t strategize. He just reveled in being back, in the smell of exhaust and whiskey, in the roar of engines and laughter of friends who had survived alongside him.
Before leaving the party, he stopped by Emily’s apartment. She was alive, with a baby in her arms. “Crazy broad… guess you get to live,” he muttered. Jezebel’s engine roared as he left, leaving Emily shivering in the wake of it. WS wasn’t planning the next move—he was just back, enjoying it, gathering his old group, and leading them once more down the open road.
The crew roared south, the California sun glinting off chrome. WS wasn’t planning—he was simply back, alive, and savoring the ride. Their destination: Williamson’s wedding.
Williamson’s bride, radiant and laughing, had a belly showing—this would be their third child together. Thanks to WS’s profits, the celebration could happen without worry. Williamson, now a father and a husband, would stay in Southern California to raise his growing family.
WS couldn’t resist a little chaos of his own. He spotted Wendy Johnson, darting through the yard like a whirlwind, and gave chase. Memories of nearly two years ago flashed—her father had kicked him over a kiss. If that had drawn a beating, what would he do now if he saw WS running circles around his daughter? WS grinned, the thrill of mischief coursing through him.
For once, despite the chaos, the world felt lighter. Engines roared, tires screamed, and the road stretched south—toward weddings, family, and the rarest kind of peace WS had ever known.
Greg and Robertson had joined them, rounding the crew to eight once more. Outside California, Robertson’s presence—a Black man among mostly white riders—turned heads, but WS didn’t care. The crew was a mix now: five seasoned Nomads and three from San Francisco—an Arbour Asian who somehow looked more Scandinavian than Asian, a white rider from the South Side, and Robertson from Oakland.
They tore through highways and backroads, heading east. First stop: Texas, visiting chapters from their past, nodding to old allies, leaving their mark wherever they rode. Respect followed them like a shadow.
Finally, they reached Gabriel’s tomb. WS dismounted, helmet under his arm, and strode toward the grave. He wasn’t just visiting a friend; there were others he had to see, including Bern—the bastard who had caused more headaches than he could count.
The sun was low, the wind biting, but WS felt at peace. This was part pilgrimage, part reckoning. He touched the stone of Gabriel’s resting place, whispered a silent salute, and let his eyes scan the horizon. Roads, friends, unfinished business—everything he had left behind in the chaos of Mexico and California was coming together, one mile at a time.
On the way east, the road wasn’t just long—it was bloody. Every couple of days, WS and his crew hit small MS-13 or rival dens. No more storming the place in a hail of bullets; this time, they worked smarter. Sleeping gas. Doors kicked in, men snoring on the floor before they even knew who walked in. But small places didn’t bring big profits—sometimes ten grand, sometimes less. Still, it was enough to keep the wheels rolling and a message sent: MS-13’s drug trade wasn’t the same anymore. The new arrangement had shifted profits to the Angels, and everyone on the street was starting to feel it.
When they reached the tomb chapter, WS introduced his group formally. He stood at Gabriel’s stone, someone told the story of Cumberland Gap, where a 16-year-old idiot had started shooting at Ducks’ chiefs, daring them to act. His boys listened like kids at campfire. WS didn’t glorify it, it was just told straight: how chaos turned into a reputation that followed him everywhere.
They visited several chapters who had ridden with them back in those days. Old faces, scarred and weathered, shook his hand like he’d walked out of a grave. WS showed them his new cut, the “Warlord” underpatch hidden beneath the real one, and the jarheads grinned—like they already knew what he was made for.
South was tempting. Money, blood, a firestorm waiting. But he remembered the disasters, the messes he left behind. Worse, Robertson riding with them would raise too many questions—skin color still lit the wrong fires down there.
So after Cumberland Gap, WS turned the handlebars north. The road was calling, and so was unfinished business.
WS led the pack north, tires chewing highway and small towns alike. They dropped in on two more chapters, sharing drinks, war stories, and leaving whispers in their wake: he’s back.
But the easy ride ended quick. Three outer-ring chapters rolled up on them, engines snarling, a wall of chrome and leather blocking the road. This was Angel border country—nobody rode past without being known.
Walt and Dalton handled it smooth, locals through and through. They gave names, vouches, history. Still, all eyes slid to WS—strangers didn’t usually carry that kind of gravity.
Then he spotted a familiar face. One of the chiefs. Last time WS had seen him was at a Mother Chapter meeting, years back
ntroductions done, the tension broke. The blockade melted into an escort, and suddenly they weren’t intruders—they were being welcomed in.
They rode into Angel paradise, the kind of turf every brother dreamed of—safe, known, untouched by outside hands. Walt and Dalton found out the news they’d been waiting for: their records were clean. One full year with no heat.
For the first time in a long time, the two of them could go home.
WS kept his mouth shut, letting the mystery work for him. Walt and Dalton did the talking — locals with clean records, their return home was expected. Officially, they were shedding the nomad cut, reclaiming their old chapter patches.
And the story was simple: they’d brought along their riding brothers. Nothing more, nothing less.
The chiefs accepted it. Papers checked, nods exchanged, and the gate to the outer ring opened.
Inside, WS rode quiet. He didn’t need recognition. Not yet. For now, Walt and Dalton’s homecoming was cover enough.
