Page 11 of Wings
Theparkinggaragesmelledlike piss and motor oil, with an undertone of something dead rotting in the walls. I killed the Harley's engine and checked my phone again—Level 3, beneath the burned-out security light, where the cameras had a blind spot Doc promised would give us privacy. The concrete structure pressed in from all sides, dawn filtering through gaps in the walls like light through broken teeth.
My left leg screamed as I swung off the bike. The prosthetic's socket had been chafing since mile one, sweat pooling where carbon fiber met flesh. Three years and I still hadn't found the perfect fit. Some days were better than others. Today wasn't one of them.
I leaned against a concrete pillar and hiked up my jeans, adjusting the liner sock that had bunched during the ride. The relief was immediate but temporary. By the time I got back to the clubhouse, I'd be limping. But prospects didn't get to bitch about discomfort. Prospects shut up and did the job.
The phone screen glowed in the pre-dawn gloom. "K. Mitchell, surgical scrubs, auburn hair." That was it. No photo, no age, no other identifying details. Doc believed in operational security to the point of paranoia. Said the less we knew, the less we could spill if things went sideways.
I pocketed the phone and did a slow 360, cataloging the space. Three exits—the ramp I'd come up, a stairwell door chained shut, and the elevator. Two cars besides mine, both empty, both with enough dust to suggest they'd been abandoned. The security camera mounted in the corner had wires hanging loose like exposed nerves. The one by the elevator was spray-painted black.
Perfect spot for all kinds of business. Drug deals, murders, clandestine medical supply exchanges. The Heavy Kings had spots like this all over the city, places where the straight world's rules bent enough to let us operate.
A rat scurried along the wall, pausing to regard me with beady eyes before disappearing into a crack. Even the rats moved like they had somewhere better to be. Can't say I blamed them.
I checked my watch. 6:04. She was late, but not enough to worry. Hospital shifts didn't end on neat schedules. Some patient coding at the last minute, some doctor needing one more thing, some supervisor on a power trip.
The Heavy Kings needed those medical supplies. Gunshot wounds and knife fights didn't heal themselves, and hospitals asked too many questions. This pipeline Doc had set up kept our guys alive and out of prison. Important work. Noble, even, in its own twisted way.
My reflection stared back from a puddle of something I didn't want to identify. Three months as a prospect and I looked the part—leather cut with no patches yet, just the promise of belonging if I proved myself. The beard helped hide the babyface that had gotten me carded until I was twenty-five. The tattoos helped too, wings spreading across my arms like armor.
The elevator groaned to life somewhere in the building's guts. Old cables straining, mechanical protests echoing off concrete. I straightened, running through my mental checklist. Observe exits—done. Identify potential threats—none visible. Maintain professional distance—
The doors pinged open.
She moved like prey that had learned to survive. Quick steps but not running, messenger bag held tight across her body, keys threaded between her fingers. She checked corners without seeming to, stayed in the middle of the driving lane where she had room to move. Every motion screamed of someone who'd been hurt and refused to be again.
Ceil blue scrubs, just like Doc said. Auburn hair escaping from a messy bun, catching the weak light like copper wire. She was thin—too thin, the kind that came from forgetting to eat rather than trying to diet. Even from thirty feet away, I could see the shadows under her eyes.
Something familiar in her gait made my chest tighten. The way she held her shoulders, defensive but defiant. The slight favor of her right side, like she was protecting an old injury. Memory stirred, reaching through years and distance.
She stepped into the circle of flickering fluorescent light, and the world stopped.
Those jade eyes with gold flecks that used to light up when she laughed. The way she tucked that stubborn strand of hair behind her ear. The constellation of freckles across her nose that she'd hated and I'd thought were perfect.
Ki.
Not Mitchell. Santos. Kiara Santos, who used to color at diners while Alex and I talked bikes. Who'd sketch butterflies in margins while pretending to study. Who'd look at me sometimeswhen my brother wasn't watching, her eyes asking questions I couldn't answer.
The girl I'd left behind to protect from wanting what I couldn't have.
"Ki?" The name escaped before I could stop it, raw and desperate as a prayer.
She went rigid like I'd shot her. The messenger bag slid from her shoulder in slow motion, hitting the oil-stained concrete with a sound like the world ending. Glass shattered inside, the distinctive tinkle of medical vials giving way. Supplies scattered across the garage floor—gauze packets skittering into puddles, syringes rolling toward the drain, amber bottles catching the sick fluorescent light.
Her face was a movie reel of emotions, each frame hitting me like a physical blow. Shock first, her mouth forming a perfect o of surprise. Then fear—not the cautious wariness from before but real, bone-deep terror that made her take an involuntary step back. Something else flickered across her features, gone before I could name it. Longing? Recognition? Whatever it was, she killed it fast, face shuttering closed like storm windows.
I moved without thinking, instinct overriding three years of distance and good intentions. My first step was fine. The second caught wrong, prosthetic hitting an uneven patch where the concrete had buckled. The carbon fiber blade skittered sideways with a sound like fingernails on metal.
I stumbled, catching myself on pure muscle memory. Not a fall, just a graceless lurch that would have been nothing on two good legs. But the familiar click-thunk rhythm of my recovery seemed to break her paralysis. Her eyes tracked the movement, and I saw the exact moment she understood what she was seeing.
"Gabe?" Her voice came out small and broken, nothing like the girl who used to argue with Alex about everything from pizzatoppings to motorcycle brands. "What are you—is this about Alex? Is he—"
"No." The word came out harder than I intended, and I raised my hands in what I hoped was a calming gesture. Something I'd learned approaching wounded soldiers—make yourself smaller, less threatening, show empty palms. "I haven't seen Alex in three years. I'm here for . . . I'm with the Heavy Kings now. Doc sent me for the pickup."
The words hung between us like smoke from a burned bridge. I watched understanding dawn in her eyes, followed immediately by something that looked like betrayal. Of course. In her mind, I'd gone from the brother who got out, who chose the Army over this life, to just another biker running contraband in parking garages.
"The pickup," she repeated, voice flat. "You're the new security protocol. You’reWings?"
"Yeah." What else was there to say? That I'd thought about her every day in Afghanistan? That I'd enlisted partly to escape the guilt of wanting my brother's girl? That seeing her now, thin and haunted and beautiful, made my chest feel like someone had reached in and grabbed my heart with a fist?
