“And when they do?” Tank asks.
Mason’s eyes go cold. “We’re ready.”
Silence settles, and it isn’t uncertain. It’s steady and ready.
“This isn’t a slow bleed,” Mason continues. “We move fast, and we hit multiple points, and we keep them scrambling until their operation collapses before they can steady it.”
“How long?” Switch asks.
“Two weeks,” Mason says. “And we make it hurt inside ten days.”
I feel the shift in my chest because this isn’t talk and it isn’t posturing. It’s a countdown.
“They’re gonna come at us dirty,” Riot says. “And they always do.”
Mason’s jaw tightens. “Which is why you lock your people down. Women and kids and families come first, and you change routines while you keep eyes on them.” The temperature in the room drops. “Trackers on vehicles,” Mason adds. “Phones and houses secured. I don’t want anyone easy to reach.”
A rumble of agreement rolls through the brothers, and it’s low and serious.
“They’ve already shown they’ll go after our families,” Tank says quietly.
“And if they try it again,” Mason replies, and his voice is flat, “we end it.”
Nobody questions what that means, and nobody needs to.
Mason straightens and looks around the table. “We move together, and nobody freelances. If you see something, youbring it here, and we handle it as a unit. We’re not losing anyone because somebody thought this was just business.”
Chairs shove back, and the room breaks into motion. Guys pair off while phones come out, and voices stay low and sharp as plans start locking into place.
Riot steps in close to me. “We’ll fix that door today.”
“I know.”
His hand clamps on my shoulder, and it’s solid and grounding. “Good. Handle your side, and we’ll handle the rest.”
This isn’t just another round with the Russians. This is the club drawing a line and daring them to step over it.
Riot followsme back to my house, and I swap the bike for my truck while he waits in the driveway. We don’t waste time talking. We just climb in and head for the home improvement store. I grab everything we’re going to need for the door, lumber and steel and a new frame kit, plus the tools to make it stick. Riot tosses a few extra things into the cart without a word, and then we load it all into the bed and head back to her place.
When we pull up to the curb, I catch movement in the window. The curtain shifts, and I see her fingers pinch the fabric as she pulls it aside to check who’s out front.
As soon as we park, her front door swings open, and she steps out onto the porch with her arms crossed tight over her chest. She stays there at the top step, watching us like she’s bracing for whatever we brought with us.
I huff a quiet laugh and lean back against the truck. “Yeah,” I say. “Nothing says curb appeal like splintered wood and a boot print.”
Her gaze drops to the door and then slides back to me. “It adds character,” she says, and there’s a spark of humor in it that wasn’t there this morning. “Very rustic. Very… dramatic.”
“Dramatic is one word for it,” Riot mutters as he starts unloading lumber. “Unsafe is another.”
She glances at him and lifts a hand in a small wave. “Hey, Riot.”
“Morning,” he replies, voice easy but brief before he goes back to hauling tools.
Her lips twitch like she’s fighting a smile, and she steps back to give us room when I grab the new frame and head up the walkway. Up close, the damage looks even worse. The wood around the lock is chewed up, the frame split where my boot hit it. A dull knot settles in my gut.
“I really did a number on it,” I say.
She leans her shoulder against the wall. “You were… enthusiastic.”
