Sheriff Ramsey arranges protective custody at the clubhouse until Judge Flores can be arrested. The Damned Saints work with him reluctantly. Not because they trust the law, but because they hate the same enemies.
I give my statement to a team of feds the sheriff called in, trembling but steady, with Havoc’s hand firm at my back. I tell them everything: the bribe, the hotel suite, the suitcase full of cash. The faces of the cartel men. The faces of the men who grabbed me. The attempted cover-up. I don’t sugarcoat it. I don’t hold anything back.
One of the agents just nods and takes notes. Another clenches his jaw.
Sheriff Ramsey paces behind them. “We’ve been trying to nail Flores for years,” he mutters. “If this helps sink him, I owe you.”
“She did your job for you. You owe her,” Havoc says, voice flat and lethal. “And you also owe me safe passage if I have to cross county lines to kill that bastard.”
Ramsey sighs. “I can’t give you a green light to go vigilante.”
He meets Havoc’s stare, then adds, “But if I had to pull over for coffee, or...take a piss...I might not notice who crossed behind me.”
That night, Judge Flores makes another move.
He sends more men. Bigger guns. Flashier vehicles. He thinks leather and brick can’t stand up to power and money. He thinks wrong.
Viper sets traps along the perimeter like it’s a goddamn jungle op.
Ghost positions himself on the rooftop with a long-range rifle and makes it rain hell.
Mercenary moves like a general. Quiet, calm, deadly, coordinating prospects with hand signals and clipped commands.
And Havoc?
Havoc moves through it all like a force of nature. Controlled. Precise. Brutal. A living storm in black denim and fury. He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t flinch. He simplyremoves threats, one after another, until silence falls over the clubhouse again.
I watch from the window, heart in my throat, fists clenched.
I’ve never felt so scared, and so protected.
Soclaimed.
By dawn, it’s over.
And by sunset, so is Judge Flores.
He’s found in his home, tied to a chair in the middle of his kitchen. His guards are unconscious. His hands are zip-tied behind him. Laid out neatly on the table: photos, bankstatements, ledgers, videos. Everything tying him to cartel money and rigged trials.
Havoc and Ghost are already gone by the time the feds arrive.
I don’t ask how they got in. I don’t ask how they got out. I don’t ask if Flores begged.
I don’t want to know.
Back at Havoc’s cabin, the door shuts with a solidthunk. The lock clicks under my hand. This time, it’s me throwing the bolt. Me securing the space.
Havoc stands in the center of the room, watching me with that unreadable stare. He hasn’t taken his cut off yet, but his shirt’s damp at the collar, his knuckles still bloodied. He looks like war.
I step closer, my pulse kicking harder with every step.
“Strip,” he says, voice low and rough.
I shake my head once. “No.”
His brow lifts. “No?”
“Not yet.” I walk right up to him. “You’ve been bleeding for me. Fighting for me. Tonight, I get to take care of you.”
