“Frankie,” Candace continues, “you know the city’s underbelly better than anyone. We need to know where a transport like that could be staged. Warehouses, private airstrips, anything.”
Frankie nods, her pen tapping a strange, rhythmic pattern against her sketchbook. “I’ll put out my feelers. The normal ones. But I’ll talk to Arden, my sister, and Leo. Between the shadows, the spirits, and the security feeds, something will talk back.”
Sloane shifts beside Maggie, her fingers picking restlessly at a loose thread on the couch cushion. Her usual calm is gone, replaced by a nervous, fidgety energy that makes my chest achefor her. She’s remembering something. Something she hasn’t shared.
Candace looks at me, her voice hard. “Darla, you and I… we’re the bait and the backup. We know what these girls are feeling. We know what to look for.” Her eyes meet mine, and in that moment, the bond between us solidifies.
“I’ll handle the medical,” Sloane adds quickly, her focus snapping back into a sharp, professional line, her voice grateful for the clear, defined task. “When you get them out, they’re going to need help. I’ll have a safe, clean place ready. Away from any hospitals.” She’s claiming her role, finding her strength in what she does best. Healing.
Maggie, who had been listening quietly, speaks up. “Your men will do everything they can to stop that truck. But you girls… you’re the ones who are going to make sure those girls have a safe place to land when the smoke clears.”
Her words hang in the air, a heavy, powerful truth. As I listen to them plan, the lie I carry feels heavier than ever. I think of East, and my throat goes tight. He’s putting everything on the line for me, for a version of the story that isn’t even true. And I can’t fix it. The guilt is a sharp, constant ache. But the thought of telling him, of watching the truth shatter the fragile trust we’re building, is even more terrifying. So I stay silent. For now.
We spend the rest of the night talking, planning, and holding each other up. It’s a war council held over wine and leftover chips, a sisterhood forged in the fires we’ve all had to walk through. As I sit here surrounded by them, I know that no matter what comes next, I am not alone. I have found my army.
Chapter 25
East
Theairinthewar room is thick enough to choke on. It smells of stale coffee and the cold, metallic tang of an impending fight. The full team is here: Malachi, Knox, Nash, James, Victor, me, and a handful of other trusted patched members. Kyle stands near the door, his posture rigid, absorbing every word, his eyes fixed on the map. The women—Darla, Candace, Ruby, Frankie, Sloane, and Maggie—stand near the back, a silent, resolute council of their own.
Malachi stands at the head of the table, his gaze sweeping over the satellite map of the Willowridge shipyards projected on the wall. “Victor’s source confirmed,” he growls softly. “Pier Four. A container marked with the Vassallo Foundation logo is being loaded onto a cargo ship. It leaves at 2300 hours.”
The room buzzes as the plan solidifies. My job is to lead a two-man team with Nash to breach the container while the others handle the perimeter. Simple. Except for the part where the success of the entire operation hinges on the women.
As the meeting breaks, a quiet, focused energy takes over the clubhouse. This is the transition from talk to action. The scent of gun oil replaces coffee as men gear up, the soft clicks of magazines and the rasp of leather the only sounds.
James and Knox approach Maggie and Sloane. “We need you two here,” Knox says, his voice low but firm. “If this goes sideways, those girls will need a medic and a safe place to land. Get a triage ready in the back.” Sloane just nods, her expression already shifting into professional focus.
Nash finds Ruby, his usual stoicism warring with a flicker of raw concern. “Ruby. Eyes on me,” he says, his voice tight. “This isn’t a brunch. No improvising. You stick to the plan.”
Ruby, for once, doesn’t have a snappy comeback. She just reaches out and places a hand on his arm. “Aw, you’re worried about me. That’s cute.” Then her expression turns serious. “Don’t worry, Sergeant-at-Arms. I’m a professional chaos agent. We’ve got this.” A small, reluctant smile touches Nash’s lips before he turns away.
I find Darla, my gut a knot of useless adrenaline. I hand her a small, discreet comms unit, my hand not as steady as I’d like.
“You, Ruby, Candace, and Frankie will be the diversion,” I say, my voice tight. “The four of you will be in Ruby’s ridiculously expensive sports car. Four rich girls, drunk and lost, arguing with the guards at the main access road. Create a scene. The second you hear my signal, you get the hell out of there. No questions.”
Her eyes hold mine, fierce and determined. “We can do that.”
“I know you can.” I show her how to use the comms, my fingers brushing hers. The contact is a spark of heat that only fuels my anxiety. Then I make my mistake. I look past her, my eyes finding Frankie’s. “Frankie. She listens to you. Make sure she gets out the second I give the signal.”
Darla’s entire body goes rigid. A flash of pure fury crosses her face before she masters it, her expression turning to ice. Seeing it is one thing, but I lack the time to fix it. An order was just given about her to her best friend, which, in her world, is the one unforgivable sin. She was just treated like a child who needed a babysitter.
The ride to the shipyard is a grim procession. No one talks. The roar of our engines is a single unified snarl cutting through the quiet night. Even though the air is cool, sweat prickles at the back of my neck under my cut. My focus should be absolute, but my mind keeps replaying the look on Darla’s face.
Half a mile out, we cut our engines, the sudden silence deafening. We coast the last stretch, our bikes moving like shadows, using the gentle downward slope of the road to our entry point. The shipyard is a graveyard of steel, silent and vast under a moonless sky. The air is thick with the smell of rust, salt, and diesel. In the distance, the skeletal arms of cranes reach for the sky, and the only sounds are the creak of metal on metal and the soft lapping of water against the pier.
Rider’s voice is a calm whisper in my ear from his perch half a mile away.“Overwatch is set. I have eyes on all eight targets.”
Then, just as we’re moving into position, I see him. Standing on the gangplank of the cargo ship, bathed in the harsh glare of a floodlight. Donovan Castiel.
A guttural sound rips from my throat. He’s right there.Rider has a clean shot. I could give the order. End it. End a decade of pain for Malachi.
Before I can even form the thought, the container we’re targeting—the one marked with the Vassallo logo—is suddenly illuminated by a new set of floodlights from the ship. Donovan’s not just leaving; he’s watching the load-out. He’s surrounded by at least four more guards on the deck, all armed with automatic rifles. It’s a trap.
“Donovan’s on the gangplank,” I hiss into my comms. “He’s bait. We’re meant to make a move. The girls are being sacrificed to draw us out. We hold. We stick to the mission. Get the girls. We don’t engage him.”
Letting him go, letting him stand there preening and untouched, tastes like acid in my throat. But he’s insulated himself with our objective. He knows we won’t risk the crossfire.Smart bastard.
