Their Queenpin (The Ridge MC #6)

Chapter 24Rafe

Chapter Twenty-Four

Rafe

The surveillance van rumbled down a long stretch of highway somewhere in Oklahoma. We passed a single-exit town called Henryetta, and Wilde had the gas floored. The diesel engine bemoaned the strain, but we all were eager to get back.

The sun streamed through the windshield, casted long shadows across the flat plains, and painted everything gold. Wilde’s squinted eyes fixed on the road ahead, his knuckles white.

Graff sat in the passenger seat, staring blankly out the window. The air inside the van was thick—heavy with tension, exhaustion, and too many things left unspoken. I crawled into the back and curled up on the hard floor, my body spent after the adrenaline high.

Also, every bone in my body ached from the long hours on the road. All the bumps bounced the back end and made my muscles scream. But damn, I was tired. If I caught a few Zs, I could take over for Wilde.

The hum and steady rhythm beneath us started to lull me, my eyelids growing heavier with each passing mile. I didn’t want to let my guard down—but my body had other plans. My head rested against the floor, and the vibrations began to pull me into that half-conscious state, where memories and dreams blurred together.

The van, my brothers, and the surrounding road all disappeared, and I was back in Afghanistan. The sun was blinding, and the air was dry, filled with the taste of dust and something metallic. My team moved beside me, adrenaline coursing through our veins as we moved toward the rundown house.

After stopping to check that my men were in place, I kicked in the door of a sun-beaten house, the wood splintering under the force of my boot.

Shouts echoed through the narrow rooms, commands in English and Pashto bouncing off the walls. My heart pounded, my senses on high alert.

Then I heard them—screams, high-pitched and terrified. My gaze snapped to the source—a family, cowering in the corner. My mind raced, trying to make sense of the unexpected scene.

The intel had said one of the most-wanted terrorists in the al-Qaeda regime was holed up here. Our orders: get in, put a bullet in his head, and GTFO.

But all I saw was a mother in her burqa, holding her children close.

Then the flash of metal—the glint of a gun in the boy’s hands. He couldn’t have been older than twelve. Instinct took over, my finger squeezing the trigger before I even realized what was happening. The gunshot echoed, and the boy crumpled to the ground. His blood sprayed across the dingy wall and drenched the woman’s robes.

Beneath the precisely aimed bullet wound in his forehead, his eyes were frozen wide with shock, life leaving them before he even hit the floor. The mother’s scream sliced through the air, through me, piercing deeper than any bullet.

My eyes snapped open, my chest heaving as I tried to pull in a breath.

Did I scream? Or call out in the midst of my remembered horror?

I met Wilde’s gaze in the rearview mirror, and the way he looked away made me think I did.

My heart rattled against my ribs, each beat echoing in my ears. I sat up, gasping, trying to shake the images from my mind. Sweat beaded on my forehead, trickling down the side of my face. The air inside the van pressed down on me, and I clenched my fists, trying to steady myself.

It wasn’t real—not anymore.

The men I’d shot during the heist weren’t kids. They knew their role in the criminal world. But it didn’t matter, because the nightmare felt real. The terrified screams chased by devastated wails, the eyes—one with a fleck of gold in the iris—they always felt real.

I rubbed a hand over my face, breathing deeply, trying to steady the shaking in my hands. Wilde glanced over his shoulder at me from the driver’s seat, but he didn’t say anything.

Good man!

There wasn’t anything to say that would make it any better. The fortune the military spent on therapists proved that much. I’d even tried therapy after my discharge, but no matter how many breathing exercises they gave me or distraction techniques, the guilt and horror still haunted me.

All I could do was push the memories back down to where they belonged and focus on the road ahead. Let the yellow and white lines for mile after mile numb me with monotony.

I lurched forward, the ache in my back making me wince as I moved up to the front of the van and nudged Wilde on the shoulder.

“I got it,” I muttered, my voice rough as I jutted my head, telling him to pull over.

Wilde glanced back at me, his eyes red-rimmed and tired. He gave me a look—one that said he knew better than to argue—and nodded, easing off the gas. The van pulled over to the side of the highway, the tires crunching against gravel.

Wilde climbed out, stretching his arms above his head, his joints cracking. I slid into the driver’s seat, adjusting the mirrors as I settled in. Graff gave me a side-eye but kept his mouth shut.

His face appeared drawn, exhaustion etched into his features. I knew that look—the weight of what we’d done, what we’d seen. It weighed heavily on both of us, but there weren’t words that would make it easier.

The road stretched out in front of us, long and empty, and there wasn’t anywhere near the joy and freedom of flying down the pavement on a motorcycle. Still, I squinted and focused on keeping the van between the lines, hoping it would be enough to keep my mind from drifting back to the past.

For a while, the only sounds were the tires on asphalt and the occasional eighteen-wheeler roaring past. After a while, I glanced over at Graff.

He kept rubbing his hands, his fingers twitching as if he was trying to shake off something that would never wash away. His eyes were hollow, staring out the window but seeing something else entirely. He didn’t sketch. Didn’t wear headphones.

He wasn’t him.

We were both lost in what happened during the heist—what we had to do. But neither of us wanted to be the first to bring it up.

“You okay?” I asked, my voice booming in the silence, though I kept my eyes on the road.

Graff didn’t answer right away. He kept staring out the window, his jaw tight.

Finally, he spoke. “Yeah”—his voice lacked any real conviction—“just tired.”

Lie.

But sometimes the lies we told ourselves were the only things that kept us breathing.

I didn’t push. The mask he wore right now was the same one I saw in the mirror some nights. The kind of tired sleep wouldn’t fix. The kind of exhaustion that settled in a person’s bones and stayed there, no matter how hard they tried to shake it off.

I tightened my grip on the wheel, the silence snaking around us. We all had our demons and Graff was meeting his. I knew better than anyone that facing them alone was easier, even if it wasn’t better.

Wilde’s snores from the rear gave us another rhythm to focus on, and after hours on end, the lines on the road began to blur before my eyes. I blinked hard, but it didn’t help. My eyelids were heavy, and every breath felt like a chore.

I shook my head, trying to stay alert, but it was useless. The weight of fatigue on my chest was dragging me down.

Up ahead, I spotted the flickering neon sign—a roadside motel surrounded by a vast desert. We’d passed through Oklahoma and the Texas panhandle, and New Mexico, while the hills rolled gently and mountains rose from the horizon far to the north of us, had a whole lot of nothing to look at.

This motel, alone on the side of the road, was the kind of place that didn’t ask questions. They simply took your cash and gave you a key. I pulled off the highway, the tires crunching over the gravel of the parking lot. Sand kicked up behind the van.

The long building was rundown. The doors all faced the lot, which in turn faced the highway. The curtains in every room had been drawn tight over the windows. Not much, but enough.

“We need a few hours,” I said, my voice thick with exhaustion. Graff nodded, not arguing. Wilde was only half-awake in the back, his head resting against the window.

The motel clerk didn’t say much as they handed over a key after I slid some bills across the counter. The room was exactly what I expected—small, smelling like a dusty attic that hadn’t been visited in a decade, and two itty-bitty beds covered in thin, scratchy blankets.

Carpet, worn.

Walls, a dull and faded orange.

But it was a place to crash, and that was all we needed.

Wilde claimed one of the beds without hesitation, already kicking off his boots before he even hit the mattress. Graff took the other, sitting down heavily on the edge, his shoulders slumping forward. He looked like he barely held himself upright.

I didn’t bother with the beds. Instead, I nodded at Graff, then dropped to the floor with a grunt. Wilde threw me a blanket, Graff tossed me a pillow, and I pressed my back against the wall, positioning myself so I had a clear line of sight to the door.

Old habits died hard.

The cold from the floor seeped into my skin, but I didn’t care. It was better than trying to sleep on the mattress, where the springs would probably dig into my ribs and squeal every time I tossed or turned.

The noise would keep my brothers awake, and that defeated the purpose of the stop.

I closed my eyes, hoping for a few minutes of rest, but the images from my dream were waiting for me. The child’s eyes, wide with shock, the mother’s scream echoing in my head. I tried to force the images away, to push them back down where they belonged. But they lingered, like ghosts.

I opened my eyes, staring at a cobweb on the ceiling. Wilde and Graff’s breathing slowed, steady as they drifted off. It was familiar—being the only one awake, the only one who never found peace.

Shifting slightly on the floor, I sighed, trying to get comfortable. But sleep wasn’t coming.

Not tonight.

Not with those eyes and that golden fleck in a sea of brown staring back at me every time I closed my own.

Before I knew it, the first light of dawn seeped through the edges of the curtains, a dull glow that barely lit the room. Wilde stirred first, stretching and yawning, his joints cracking from the movement. He glanced over, frowning when he saw that I was still awake, sitting with my back against the wall.

“Didn’t sleep?” he asked, his voice rough from the night.

I shook my head, no.

The fatigue pulling at me didn’t run deep enough to override the horror and make me zonk out.

“I’m good,” I said, pushing up to my feet. “Let’s get moving.”

Wilde didn’t argue as he pulled his boots on, and his stoic presence seemed to take off the edge.

Graff had slept, tossing and turning, but he did settle after a while. Regardless, he still looked like he’d been ridden hard and put away wet.

“You tight?” I asked, worried that the shit back in Georgia might have broken our normally calm-as-water tattoo artist. The guy had thick muscles and had precise aim with a gun, but jobs like we just pulled didn’t suit him.

“Coffee would be supreme.” He scrolled through his notifications.

I spotted a message notification from Adelina, which he swiped away and put in his earbud. At least that much was a sign he was trying to get back to himself. But I worried that he was ignoring Adelina. I kept notifications turned off and hadn’t checked my phone, but I made a note to do that once we were on the road.

We got out of the room, the unexpectedly chilled morning air biting as we walked to the van. In the back, I sat forward until we each had coffee in hand and fuel in the tank. As Wilde pulled out of the truck-stop, Graff leafed through a spiral-bound notebook he’d purchased, popped in his second earbud, and started scratching a mechanical pencil across the lined paper.

Glancing at the map on Wilde’s phone mounted on the dash, I found our ETA. We’d be ten hours on the road today. So much better than the twenty-two we’d driven before stopping.

I slumped down in back, letting the road vibrations lull me as much as possible. Sleep still felt like it would be miles and miles away, so I took out my phone, needing something—anything—to distract me.

Checking my messages, I did find that Adelina had texted, so I drew a deep breath and opened the message window.

Yesterday, 10:16 a.m., Adelina: Graff said you guys are fine, but I still need to hear it from you. Just let me know, okay?

Yesterday, 2:03 p.m., Adelina: I know you’re busy, but please say something. I need to hear from you, Rafe.

Yesterday, 5:22 p.m., Adelina: You’re really making me chase this, huh? At least tell me how it’s going. Are you still on track?

Yesterday, 8:11 p.m., Adelina: I’ll stop bugging you, I promise. One word, please. I need to know everything’s still good.

Yesterday, 11:48 p.m., Adelina: I don’t care how late it is, wake me when you’re close. I’ll keep my phone on.

Today, 6:57 a.m., Adelina: Morning. Hope you got some rest. Are you heading back soon? I need to know when I can stop worrying.

I stared at the bubbles on the screen until they blurred, then blinked my eyes back into focus. Not much of a texter, I typed out a quick message.

Today, 8:19 a.m., Rafe: Good morning, tesoro. We’re about 10 hours out. Can’t wait to see you.

Another message came across as I started scrolling through the photos of Adelina, but my stupid brain wasn’t working enough to hold a conversation. The first words in her message that flashed across the top of the screen were, “Oh thank God!” so I ignored the rest and kept flipping through photos.

Almost every picture I’d ever taken was of her. There were pictures from years ago, back when things were simpler, though maybe not easier.

One caught my eye.

It had been her sixteenth birthday, but Adelina hadn’t wanted a party like others her age. I had escorted her and Caterina to Tivoli Village for a shopping day followed by some live music.

I remembered the day like it was yesterday. Adelina had been all smiles, her laughter carried by the wind. And, in the late afternoon, she and Cat had run across the street thrown off their shoes to dance in the fountain. I’d snapped the picture from some distance and zoomed in on Adelina.

Her hair had whipped around her face as she laughed and played in the water until the police chased them out. The photo showed her head back in a fit of laughter, a carefree moment frozen in time.

That day had been a turning point. Watching her, so full of life, so young and beautiful had stirred an urge I’d been denying for a long, long time. And then, at the concert that night, when she’d sat so close to me on the bench in the piazza a sheet of paper wouldn’t slip between us, I’d realized how dangerous it was for me to stay.

She had been sixteen. I had already grown into a man. The weight of what I felt for her was too heavy, too real. It was the kind of thing that destroyed people when let out into the open. The kind of thing that could’ve put me behind bars, with no chance of protecting her at all.

That’s why I’d made the decision to join the Marines, putting distance between us because all the efforts I’d made to keep her safe would’ve been tarnished if I’d stayed. It hurt like hell. But my leaving had protected her, even though it meant tearing myself away from the one person who made everything worth the battle.

With a deep breath, I swiped through more pictures.

Ones she didn’t know I’d taken. There was one of her at the warehouse in LA, laughing at something Graff had said, her eyes bright, her smile wide. She hadn’t known I was watching. She didn’t know that I still watched her like she was the only light in pitch dark.

And she was.

The one and only thing that mattered to me when everything else fell apart.

The whole damn world could burn, and I would still find her and shield her with my body. I would take the scorch marks.

For her.

I smiled, bittersweet. We’d found our way to one another. The situation remained complicated, but it was easing the more we worked through it. And we still had lots of shit to hammer out.

But we would be back soon, and I’d have her close again.

Hours passed in a blur, the hum of the road keeping my mind busy. Eventually, Wilde pulled into the underground garage of the Parisi Hotel and Casino. The place was waking up, getting ready for the evening crowds when all of Vegas came alive.

Wilde found a spot and parked, cutting the engine. For a moment, there remained the three of us sitting there in stagnant silence.

Graff didn’t say a word. He opened the door and stepped out, walking away from the hotel entrance without looking back. A frown tugged at my mouth as I watched him go with the notebook tucked under one arm. The job we’d pulled ate at him—something from the heist he needed to shake off.

I’d been there before, so I let him go without question.

Wilde did too.

Before stepping out of the van, I let out a long breath. We all had our battles, and sometimes, there was nothing to do but go to war alone.