Page 39 of Azrael

“You will need a passport,” he told me, covering the mouthpiece briefly.“And patience.Tel Aviv is not like here.We cannot just shoot our way in and out.”

“I’ve never been to the Middle East,” I admitted.

He gave me a grim smile.“Then you are in for an education.Anatoly will meet us at airport in Tel Aviv.After that” -- he shrugged expressively – “we improvise.”

Improvisation with Stripes usually meant blood and fire, but I kept that observation to myself.I still remembered what happened when he swooped in to rescue his woman.“I’ll be ready,” I promised instead.

Outside, the night air hit me like a splash of cold water.The clubhouse was set back from the main road, surrounded by enough land to give us privacy and security.The parking lot was filled with motorcycles and a few trucks, chrome gleaming under the security lights.My Harley sat waiting, a black shadow among its brothers.

I swung my leg over the seat, feeling the familiar comfort of the machine beneath me.For a moment, I sat there without starting the engine, letting the consequence of what was coming settle over me.Israel.A foreign crime family.A rescue mission with too many unknowns.And waiting for me at home, a woman whose reaction I couldn’t predict but whose trust I couldn’t bear to lose.

The photo of Zara pressed against my chest, tucked safely in my inner pocket.I reached up and touched the spot.A reminder of what was at stake -- not just Mazida’s life, but whatever fragile thing had been growing between her daughter and me.

I kicked the bike to life, the roar drowning out my thoughts momentarily.The road stretched before me, a ribbon of asphalt leading home to Zara and the conversation I didn’t want to have.Beyond that lay another road -- one that would take us across oceans to face an enemy we barely understood, in a land where our reputation and strength meant nothing.

I opened the throttle, letting the speed clear my head.One challenge at a time.First, I had to tell Zara what had happened to her mother.Then I had to convince her to let me handle it.

And then I had to make damn sure I came back alive.Because despite all my efforts not to, I’d given her something dangerous: a promise.And in my world, promises were kept, or you died trying.

The wind whipped past as I leaned into a curve, the bike responding to my body’s slightest shift.In that moment of perfect control, I found a sliver of peace.Whatever was coming -- whatever battles, whatever revelations, whatever pain -- I would face it.Not just because the club demanded it or because duty required it.

But because somewhere along the way, the avenging angel had found someone special, someone who made the blood on my hands feel like a price worth paying, if it meant keeping her world intact.

Chapter Eleven

Azrael

I wasn’t used to coming home to the smell of someone else’s cooking.For nearly a decade, my house had been a place to crash between jobs for the club -- somewhere to wash blood off my hands and catch a few hours of sleep before the next call came in.But within a day, Zara Colton had turned my barren space into something that resembled a home, and I wasn’t sure how I felt about it.Tonight, though, I had news about her mother, and that complicated everything.

As I walked through the door, the savory aroma of baked chicken hit me first.Then I saw her, moving with determined efficiency around my dining table, arranging silverware with precise movements of her slender fingers.The table -- a piece of furniture I’d used mainly as a place to clean my guns -- now had a tablecloth.Fucking tablecloth.Where had she even found that?

“You’re just in time,” Zara said, looking up.Those blue eyes of hers locked onto mine, a jarring contrast against her darker complexion.Half Middle Eastern like me, but where I was all hard edges, she was soft curves that my fingers itched to trace.

She was too young.Too innocent.Too fucking beautiful for a man with my history.

“I made dinner,” she added unnecessarily, gesturing to the spread with a nervous flutter of her hand.“I hope that’s okay.”

I nodded, dropping my cut on the back of a chair before sinking into a seat at the table.Until she’d come into my life, it had been ages since I’d sat at a table for a meal.

“Eat while it’s hot,” she urged, placing a plate of chicken, mashed potatoes, and green beans in front of me.

I stared at the meal.Who was the last person to cook for me?Probably my mother.Even my girlfriend hadn’t bothered.Even though her mother was in trouble, Zara was standing in my kitchen, serving me dinner like we were just your average couple.

“You find anything?”Zara asked, her voice casual, but I caught the tremor underneath.She’d been asking the same question every day since she’d shown up, begging for my help.

I took a bite of chicken to buy myself time.It was good -- seasoned perfectly with herbs I didn’t even know I had in my kitchen.“Eat first,” I said after swallowing.“Then we’ll talk.”

Her eyes narrowed, and for a moment I thought she’d argue, but then she sat across from me with her own plate.Smart girl.She was learning when to push and when to stand down.

We ate in silence for a few minutes.I watched her covertly between bites.Twenty-two years old, yet she carried herself with a gravity beyond her years.

“Is my mother alive?”Zara finally asked, unable to maintain the silence any longer.

I set down my fork and met her gaze directly.“Yes.”

The breath whooshed out of her, and her hand trembled as she reached for her water glass.“Where is she?”

“She’s being held at a place in Tel Aviv.From what we dug up, her brother is the one who took her.”I still didn’t know who “C” was on the postcard, the one warning her to run.That had proven to be a dead end so far.

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