The Bastion Outlaws MC: Saving His Cartel Princess

Kat The scent of copper and expensive cologne always meant someone was about to die. Tonight, the blood pooling on the Persian rug belonged to the only guard who had ever shown her an ounce of kindness. "Clean yourself up, princesa," her brother rasped, stepping over the body without looking up from his phone. "Father finalized the contract. You marry the Santana heir tomorrow." She forced a practiced smile onto her face. "Of course." But inside, the final string snapped. She went straight to her bedroom and got ready to run. Her go-bag was hidden where only she could find it. Tucked inside weren't jewels or designer dresses, but three fake passports, a burner phone, and a Glock stolen from her brother’s private armory. Her escape plan was ready, and so was she. Then the heavy oak door flew open. Before she could move, her father barged into the room and knocked her out cold. She woke up tied to a mattress, staring into the dark, sadistic eyes of the Santana heir she was set to marry. He thought he had bought a broken pawn, but she didn't snap. She forced her mind back to the training her only friend had given her before he died. Driven by raw survival and a suffocating fear for her life, she did what she had to do. She killed him. Leaving the Santana heir dead on his own bed, she fled. She ran for her life, never looking back as she cut through the perimeter wire and slipped into the blinding Mexican rain. She didn't look back when the engine of a stolen, rusted sedan sparked to life, either. Elena Reyes died in that compound. For three years, she became a ghost. She changed her hair, her name, her accent. Fear was her shadow, and the Reyes and Santana cartels were the sun, always hovering, ready to burn her alive if she stepped into the light. She thought three years was enough to blur the trail, ending up in a sleepy, grease-stained town run by a roaring motorcycle club. She remembered her father hated bikers; they carried too many guns and drew too much heat from the authorities. She thought it was the perfect place to bury her past. She was wrong. Just when she thought she was free from the vipers of her past, she crashed straight into the kingdom of a predator who refused to let her run. Six The rental truck's AC died at mile 94, letting the 116-degree Arizona desert choke the cabin with dust and hot iron. Six hadn't been back in five years. He’d left at seventeen, his father’s parting threat echoing in his ears: "You run from this, boy, you run forever." He’d run far enough to earn a new name. In eight different countries, they called him Six. Commander. The quiet, most deadly assassin their unit had ever seen. Then he hit the town limits. BASTION, AZ. POP. 1,184. A BASTION HEIR HOLDINGS TOWN. Under it, in King's old, familiar handwriting, were the faded letters: WE BUILT THIS. And directly beneath that, in fresh, angry red spray paint, someone had tagged: KING IS DEAD. Six stopped the truck. He stared at the paint for a long time, pulling out his phone to photograph it. Habit. Document the entry point. Main Street was exactly what he remembered, only now heavily branded. Every awning bore his father's mark: Bastion Heir Gas & Garage. Bastion Heir Diner. Bastion Heir Motel. King hadn't just run a motorcycle club; he had owned the entire damn town. The Gas & Garage was the first checkpoint. Three bikes out front were staged for a fast exit, sloppy. Two young prospects stood with terrible posture, hands too close to their pockets. No discipline. Six stepped out of the vehicle in desert boots, jeans, and a plain black T-shirt. No cut. No patches. No beard. Only Preacher, an old patch member and his father's VP, recognized him. "Jesus Christ," Preacher breathed. "Little Prince. They said you weren't coming for the funeral. They said you were..." "Working," Six said flatly. Preacher looked him over, noting the rental, the lack of a bike, and his plain tee; no cut. Disappointment flickered. "You ain't wearing it." "I'm not," Six said. "Where's my father?" "King's at the back. In the cooler. We kept him cold for ya." Of course, they did. Preacher lowered his voice. "Your old man left you everything. The Holdings. The charter. The whole goddamn Bastion. The boys... they ain't sure what that means. A lot of 'em wanted Dozer to take it." Dozer. His father's enforcer. A man who solved problems with brute force and a hammer. Six didn't need to ask why Preacher stepped aside; Dozer’s intimidation tactics spoke for themselves. Six just nodded once. He snatched his keys off the Tacoma's roof, never left inside, always in line of sight. "Get Dozer, and get everyone in the diner. Church in ten. On time." Preacher blinked. "Church? We don't do church till sundown. And always at the clubhouse. King always..." "King is dead," Six intercepted. "I'm not." He walked past the staged bikes, past the undisciplined prospects, and pushed open the door to the diner, his diner now. The bell overhead jingled. Every single head turned, and the room went dead silent. Outside, the desert wind began to howl. In some countries, they had a name for it. Here, they just called it dust.