Or worse.
Solveig has been planning this for years.
She's not going to let her prize go easily.
"We go now," Runes says finally. His voice is rough, like he's fighting to keep it steady. "But we do it smart. Vanir, what do we have for vehicles?"
"Three trucks, eight bikes. We can move about twenty men."
"Make it happen. I want everyone armed and ready to roll in fifteen minutes." Runes turns to Tor. "You're with me. I want everything you know about how Freya operated—entry points, defensive positions, anything that might help."
Tor nods, his face grim. "Whatever you need. I owe Dalla that much."
Runes looks at me last.
His expression is complicated—anger, fear, respect, all tangled together.
This is the man who's wanted to kill me since the moment he saw me with his daughter.
Now he's trusting me to save her life.
"You're point on this," he says. "She's your woman. You lead the breach."
"Understood."
"And RJ?" He steps closer, lowering his voice so only I can hear. "When we find Solveig—she's yours. You do what needs to be done. Make it hurt."
I think about Dalla's blood in the dirt.
Her bag, torn from her shoulder.
The way they carried her limp body into that van like she was nothing.
Like she was cargo.
Like she was merchandise to be processed.
I think about the pregnancy test in my pocket.
The baby she was going to tell me about tonight.
"I intend to."
The next fifteen minutes are controlled chaos.
Prospects scramble to prep vehicles, loading weapons and ammunition into the trucks.
Club members emerge from every corner of the compound, their faces grim, ready for war.
Word has spread—the president's daughter has been taken.
And the Raiders of Valhalla are going to get her back.
I watch them gather, these men who barely know me, who have no reason to trust an outsider from Dublin.
But they're suiting up anyway.
Checking magazines.
