The Church doors opened. Axel emerged, expression unreadable.
"Decision?" Tyler asked.
Axel looked at him for a long moment. Then his gaze shifted to me, and something softened.
"You're in," he said to Tyler. "Probationary. One wrong move, and it's over. But for now—we work together."
Tyler sagged with relief. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet." Axel's expression hardened again. "We've got maybe a week to prepare for war, an FBI kill orderto neutralize, and a corrupt agent to expose. This is going to get ugly before it gets better."
"I can handle ugly."
"Good." Axel's hand found the small of my back, a gesture of comfort and possession both. "Because starting tomorrow, we're going on offense. And God help anyone who gets in our way."
I looked at my brother, at my lover, at the family I'd somehow stumbled into. A week. Maybe less. That's all we had. But standing there, surrounded by people who'd fight for me as hard as I'd fight for them, I realized something.
I wasn't afraid anymore. I was ready. Whether that made me brave or foolish, I'd find out soon enough.
10
BATTLE LINES
The clubhouse transformed overnight.
Gone was the easy camaraderie, the pool games and poker nights. In its place was something harder. More focused. Weapons appeared from hidden caches—shotguns, pistols, even a few assault rifles that I decided not to ask about. The garage became a war room, maps spread across workbenches, red markers circling Devil's Dust territories.
I stood at the edge of it all, watching men I'd come to care about prepare for violence.
"You okay?"
Tyler appeared at my shoulder, two cups of coffee in hand. He'd shed the Devil's Dust cut but still looked wrong in his own skin—like a man who'd worn a mask so long he'd forgotten his own face.
"Shouldn't I be asking you that?" I took the coffee, grateful for the warmth. "You're the one who just burned eight months of undercover work."
"Burned it for a good reason." His eyes found mine, and I saw the brother I remembered underneath the exhaustion. "You're worth more than any case, Kai. Always were."
We stood in comfortable silence, watching Tank run Jake through combat drills in the corner. Jake was improving—his movements sharper, more confident—but he still telegraphed his punches. Tank corrected him with gruff patience, adjusting his stance, demonstrating the proper form.
"Big guy's good," Tyler observed. "Military?"
"Marines. Two tours."
"Hmm." Tyler's gaze lingered on Tank a beat longer than casual—watching the way he moved, the economy of motion, the power coiled in that massive frame. "Competent."
I silently nodded, filing that away without comment.
"The others don't trust me," Tyler said, switching subjects. "Can't blame them. I'd feel the same way."
"Give them time."
"Time's the one thing we don't have." He took a long sip of coffee. "Kai, listen. The next few days are going to get bad. Worse than bad. And I might have to do things that don't make sense. Things that look wrong."
I turned to face him fully. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying trust me." His voice dropped, urgent and low. "No matter what. No matter how it looks. Can you do that?"
The intensity in his eyes made my chest tight. This wasn't casual reassurance—this was a man asking for something specific. Something he couldn't explain.
