Page 9 of Harley's Hex
Hex didn’t want to get into the ins and outs of his relationship with Harley. “I know her well enough to know she’ll survive the initial struggle, but not long against a crew the size of the Dead Rabbits. Harley is stubborn, smart, and quick, but she’s alone in there.” Hex’s jaw tightened. “I’m worried about what will happen to her if we don’t get her out of there fast.” Hurricane nodded and gave the order to his men to be ready to leave in ten.
They moved through the prep room. Members of the Royal Bastards laid out weapons, checked comms, and packed gear. Hex grabbed a small backpack, a med kit, a flashlight, tactical gloves, maps of the docks, and a sidearm. All the basics he’d need to get his woman out of there, but nothing too flashy—just the tools he knew he could use.
One of Hurricane’s lieutenants pulled up footage from the street cameras. Hex leaned in, squinting at the grainy images. A white van pulled up late at night, two men in leather cuts dragging a woman inside. The camera feed was dark and grainy, but Hex recognized Harley immediately. Her hair was tied back, hoodie half-hanging over her face, but her stance was unmistakable.
“That’s her,” Hex said quietly, pointing at the screen. “That’s the van that took her the night—” He couldn’t finish what he was about to say. He was going to say that it was the night that he made her his, but that wasn’t for any of the other guys to know. That night was between him and Harley, and once he got her back, they were going to go over a few things about that night. Namely, the fact that she now belonged to him.
Hurricane stood behind them and nodded. “Good. We know where she went, and roughly how they move her in shifts. We hit them tonight. Quiet, precise, and no fucking heroics.” Hex’s stomach clenched. Heroics were exactly what he was planning, and he didn’t care how quiet he was when he killed a bunch of those fuckers.
They broke up into teams. Hurricane, Hex, and two seasoned RBMC members would go in through the main entrance. Another team would create a diversion near the rear, forcing any guards to scatter. Every exit was covered. Hex traced each route on the map.
“You sure about this?” one of the members asked, checking his rifle.
Hex didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. He only thought about Harley and the way she moved, the fire in her eyes, the stubborn grin she always gave him when she thought he couldn’t see her worry and insecurity. She was alive somewhere in those fucking warehouses, and he was going to get her back.
Hurricane clapped him on the shoulder. “You ready, Hex? This is your first time running ops outside your home turf.” He didn’t bother to remind the guy that he was in the military and running ops in unfamiliar settings was his life. Hurricane and the other guys would figure all that out soon enough.
Hex’s grin was tight and fierce. “Been ready since the moment they took her.” The clock ticked down, and with every passing minute, Hex felt the need to scream. This was takinga toll on him, not that he’d tell any of the other guys that. He wanted his woman back, and not leaving to get her was driving him crazy. Night would fall soon enough, though, and with it, Hex would cross into Dead Rabbits territory, every nerve alert, every sense sharp. He couldn’t fail. He wouldn’t—because Harley wasn’t just someone to save. She was his everything, and he was about to prove it.
As they geared up, Hex’s mind filtered through everything he knew about Harley. Her fire, her stubborn streak, the way she never gave up. He wasn’t going to lose her. Not now—not ever, if he had a say in it. When they finally pulled out into the dark streets of Yonkers, tires crunching on gravel, Hex kept his eyes forward, every muscle coiled for the fight that was about to come. And his every thought was on her—his Harley.
Night had swallowed the docks down by the river in Yonkers. Fog curled low across the pavement as the headlights cut through the mist. Hex crouched behind a stack of shipping crates, shoulder pressed against Hurricane’s, scanning the warehouse ahead. His heart felt as though it might beat right out of his damn chest. He had forgotten what it felt like to have that kind of adrenaline pumping through his body during a mission.
Two of the Dead Rabbits’ guards patrolled the perimeter, silhouetted against the dim floodlights shining down from the building. Hex counted their steps, memorized the timing. One wrong move, and the whole operation would blow sky high, and he couldn’t let that happen. This was his only chance to get Harley back, and he planned on it being a success.
Hurricane’s hand brushed his shoulder. “You ready?”
Hex swallowed hard. “Never been more ready.” They slipped between the shadows, silent as ghosts. Hex’s pulse hammered in his ears, matching the rhythm of his careful footsteps. Every crate, every metal door was a potential trap. He tightened his grip on his sidearm, fingers brushing the trigger, ready to do some damage.
Through a cracked side door, they slipped inside. The warehouse smelled of oil, metal, and dust. Shapes moved in the darkness around crates that were stacked haphazardly around the floor of the warehouse. Hex counted the shadows of men who were leaning against walls with their guns casually slung across their shoulders.
“Split up,” Hurricane whispered. “You take the left. I’ll take the right. Keep sharp and stay low.”
Hex nodded, pressing himself against the cold concrete wall. Every nerve in his overly tired body was alert. He crept along the edge, eyes scanning for any sign of movement, while listening for anything out of the ordinary. The sound of his own breathing even sounded amplified.
And then he heard her. A muffled voice calling out softly. “Hex?”
His chest tightened. “Harley,” he breathed.
He ducked behind a crate and peered around it. She was there — bound but struggling, guarded by two men. Her hair was a mess, her clothes wrinkled, but her eyes burned with fire. Relief surged through him, but there was no time for that.
Hurricane hand-signaled for Hex to slide out of cover, silent as a shadow, and close the distance. One guard turned just as Hex grabbed him, twisting him behind a crate. The other guard froze, gun raised — and Hurricane struck from the opposite side, knocking him unconscious with one swift, precise move.
Hex ran to Harley, kneeling beside her. “It’s me,” he said softly, cutting the ropes at her wrists. “I’ve got you.”
She blinked, “Hex.” Her voice trembled, but relief and tears filled her eyes.
“Quiet,” he whispered, helping her to her feet. “We’re not out of this mess yet.”
They moved together, sticking to the shadows, Hurricane covering the main route. Every step was careful, and every corner was checked. Hex kept a hand on Harley’s back, guiding her, steadying her trembling. Outside, the diversion team had set off a series of timed bangs and smoke. The Dead Rabbits were shouting, running around confused, and some were even scrambling. The warehouse exit was clear, just as they hoped it would be.
Hex led Harley into the fog, every muscle coiled for one last sprint. When they hit the edge of the docks, breathing in the cold night air, he finally let himself look her over. She was shaking, but alive, and alive was all he needed her to be right now.
Hurricane clapped Hex on the shoulder, a rare grin on his face. “Good work,” he praised. “That was clean, fast, and now you got your girl back. She’s yours now.”
He could tell that Harley wanted to tell the big biker that she wasn’t his, but he didn’t allow it. He was thankful that she still seemed to have some of her fight left, though. Hex didn’t wait for her to say anything. He wrapped his arms around Harley, pulling her close. “You’re safe,” he murmured.
She leaned into him, resting her forehead against his chest. “I was worried that you wouldn’t come,” she whispered.
