Page 73 of Azrael

“Azrael!”Chaos’s voice barely reached me over all the noise.“They’re pulling back!”

Sure enough, Balal’s remaining forces were disengaging, climbing into vehicles or fleeing on foot.Not a retreat, I realized.A tactical withdrawal.Balal had seen enough to know he couldn’t take us all at once.He’d be back with more men, better intelligence.

I staggered back toward the clubhouse, the adrenaline fading enough for me to feel every wound.My brothers emerged from various positions, bloody and battered but still standing.We’d lost one, maybe two.Hard to tell in the chaos.

Ripper met me at the entrance, his face grim.“Two dead, three wounded bad enough they need a hospital.”

I nodded, surveying the destruction.Bodies littered the ground, mostly theirs, except two: one of the prospects and Shadow.The club would take the loss hard.Especially Shadow.He’d been with the club for over twenty years.There wasn’t a single man in the Devil’s Boneyard who didn’t have fond memories of him.Now that’s all we’d have left.

Looking around once more, I took it all in.The carnage.Destruction.Vehicles burned, casting an orange glow against the lightening sky.The rain continued to fall, washing blood into the gutters.

“He’ll be back,” I said, wincing as I probed the wound in my side.Not deep, but it needed stitches.

“For Mazida?”

“For all of us now.”I spat blood onto the pavement.“This wasn’t just about his sister anymore.This was a statement.”

Chaos looked across the devastated compound and nodded slowly.“What’s the play?”

I thought of Mazida, safely tucked away in Gator’s house.Thought of the fear that would consume her if she knew her brother had found her.Although, she’d likely heard all the commotion and put two and two together.Hopefully, Gator was keeping her calm.

“We don’t wait for him to come back,” I said, my decision crystallizing.“We find him first.And this time, we finish it.”

Sirens wailed in the distance, growing louder.The police would be here soon, not that they’d do anything but take statements and pretend to care.This part of town belonged to us, and everyone knew it.Still, we couldn’t be out in the open like this when they arrived.

“Get the wounded to the clubhouse,” I ordered.I couldn’t send them to a hospital without making sure it wasn’t going to cause trouble for us.We had a doctor in the club for a reason.“And get Doc over here.”

Chaos nodded and moved off to relay the orders.I took one last look at the battlefield that had once been our home.Balal had brought war to our doorstep, thinking to catch us unprepared.He’d underestimated us once.He wouldn’t make that mistake again.

* * *

Five hours later, I found Balal Quadir exactly where Shade said he’d be -- holed up in an abandoned textile factory on the edge of town.The rain had stopped, leaving behind a heavy mist that clung to the broken windows and rusted metal of the derelict building.I parked my bike three blocks away and approached on foot, my body still aching from this morning’s firefight.The fresh wounds I’d sustained hurt like a bitch, but pain was an old friend.What mattered was finishing what Balal had started.For Mazida.For my fallen brothers.For the promise I’d made to protect those under my care.

There were times I hated being right.This was one of them.After the failed assault on our compound, he’d retreated to regroup and call in reinforcements from Tel Aviv.But he’d made a critical mistake -- dismissing most of his surviving guards to lick their wounds, keeping only his most trusted men with him.Maybe he thought we’d need time to recover.Maybe his arrogance blinded him to the threat.Either way, it was the opening I needed.

I circled the building, noting the black Mercedes parked by a loading dock.Fresh tire tracks in the mud showed where other vehicles had come and gone.I counted two men patrolling the perimeter, moving with the practiced precision of professionals.Former military, probably Mossad.

I waited until the guards crossed paths, then moved.My knife entered the first man’s kidney before he registered my presence.I clamped my hand over his mouth as he sagged against me, lowering him silently to the ground.The second guard turned at the wrong moment, catching a glimpse of movement.He reached for his weapon, but I was already closing the distance.His gun cleared the holster just as I launched myself at him, my shoulder slamming into his chest, driving him against the factory wall.The breath rushed from his lungs in a pained gasp.I grabbed his wrist, twisting until something snapped.The gun clattered to the ground as I drove my knee into his groin, then my elbow into his temple.He dropped like a stone.

I picked up his gun -- a Jericho 941, Israeli-made.Fitting.I checked the magazine, then tucked it into my waistband as a backup.My own weapon felt more reliable in my hands as I approached the factory’s side entrance.

The door creaked as I eased it open, but the sound was swallowed by the cavernous space beyond.The factory floor stretched before me, populated by the skeletal remains of industrial looms and cutting tables.Weak light filtered through broken windows, casting long shadows across the concrete floor.The air smelled of rust, mildew, and cigarette smoke.

I moved from shadow to shadow, ears straining for any sound that didn’t belong to the settling building.A voice echoed from somewhere ahead -- Balal, speaking rapid-fire Arabic into a phone.I couldn’t make out the words, but the tone was clear.He was angry, demanding.

I followed the voice to a former office space overlooking the factory floor.Through a gap in the partially closed blinds, I could see Balal pacing, one hand gesturing emphatically as he spoke.A bodyguard stood by the door, arms crossed, expression bored.

I had two options: wait for Balal to finish his call and hope to catch him alone, or go in now and deal with both of them.The decision was made for me when Balal ended his call and barked an order at his guard, who nodded and left the office, heading in my direction.

I pressed myself against the wall, waiting until the guard passed my position before stepping out behind him.My arm locked around his throat, cutting off both air and sound as I dragged him backward into the shadows.He thrashed, an elbow catching me in the ribs where the bullet had grazed me earlier.Pain flared white-hot, but I didn’t loosen my grip.His struggles weakened, then stopped altogether as unconsciousness claimed him.I lowered him to the ground, checking to make sure he was still breathing before continuing toward the office.

Balal stood at the window now, his back to the door as he stared out at the ruined factory floor.The years had not been kind to him.His hair was streaked with gray, and his broad shoulders had begun to stoop.But the set of his stance still radiated the confidence of a man accustomed to being obeyed.

I pushed the door open slowly, wincing at the creak of hinges.Balal didn’t turn.

“I told you I didn’t want to be disturbed,” he said in Arabic, his tone clipped with irritation.

“Hello, Balal,” I replied in English, shutting the door behind me.

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