The flat-screen flickers on in the background, someone put cartoons on for the kids. The volume's low, just enough to drown out the tension humming under everything.
I settle deeper into the couch, Jax crawling into my lap now, head on my chest. I wrap an arm around him automatically.
TWENTY-ONE
LUCKY
The church doorshuts with a finality that settles in my bones. Mason stands at the head of the long table, map spread out, scarred knuckles planted like he’s holding the whole damn thing down. Dagger’s to his right, arms crossed, jaw set. Ghost leans against the wall, silent as ever. Blade sits in the corner, flipping that knife of his open and closed like it’s a nervous tic. Switch is drumming his fingers on the table. Riot’s leaning back in his chair with that cocky half-smirk and Tank is standing like a brick wall by the door.
Mason doesn’t waste words. “Sergei Volkov’s at the old canning plant on the river. Satellite shows three SUVs, roof sentries, at least eight inside. He’s got a midnight meet with the northern Russians. We hit at twenty one hundred. Cut the power, go in dark, and end this all tonight.”
Dagger taps the map. “Ghost scouted the back dock, there’s a blind spot, one camera. We cut the fence there. Blade and Switch take the roof. Tank and I clear the main floor. Riot, you’re with Ghost on the interior sweep. Lucky, you’re with me on Sergei.”
Ghost’s voice is ice. “Roof guards are mine.”
Mason nods once. “Volkov’s mine.”
No one argues. Mason’s claim is law when he speaks it like that.
We gear up in the armory. Vest strapped tight, Glock on my hip, suppressed .45 in the small of my back. Extra mags, knife, flashlight. Ghost hands out fresh suppressors. Riot’s humming some old rock song under his breath. Tank checks his AR like it’s an extension of his arm. Blade’s already got brass knuckles on over his gloves.
I step outside for thirty seconds of air. Through the clubhouse window I see Savannah on the couch, Jax asleep on her chest, laughing at something Bella said. She looks soft. Safe. Mine.
I pull my phone, thumb open her last text.
Firecracker: Be careful. Come home to me.
Me: Always
Two blacked-out vans. No pipes, no colors. Ghost drives lead with Riot. I’m in the second with Mason, Dagger, Blade, Switch, and Tank. We park a quarter mile out, move on foot. Gravel crunches under boots. Ghost and Riot vanish ahead. Thirty seconds later Ghost’s voice in the earpiece, “Roof clear. Dock open.”
We slip through the cut fence. Blade and Switch peel off for the roof access. Tank and Dagger head for the main floor. Mason, Riot, Ghost, and I hit the loading bay. Smells like dead fish and rust.
Two of Volkov’s guys are at a card table. Ghost drops one with a suppressed shot to the throat. I take the second center mass, twice. They slump.
Up the metal stairs. Russian voices are laughing and counting cash.
Mason kicks in the door.
Four men are there with Sergei Volkov at the head of the table, stacks of bills everywhere. One of the men reaches for his piece but Blade comes through the side door like a demon, knife buried in the guy’s neck before the gun clears his jacket. Switch drops another with two quick shots. Ghost takes the third and fourth between the eyes.
Volkov stands slow, hands raised just enough to look cocky, not surrendered. His smirk twists when his eyes lock on Mason.
“You,” he spits, accent thick and mocking. “The Reaper who thinks he can end me. After all these years, you finally crawl out of your hole.”
Mason doesn’t stop walking. Gun steady, barrel aimed dead center at Volkov’s forehead. The room’s gone quiet except for the drip of water somewhere in the rafters and the faint rustle of cash under Volkov’s boots.
“You’ve been bleeding us for years,” Mason says, voice low and even. “Sending your dogs to harass our families. Thought you could keep poking until we broke.”
Volkov laughs, short and ugly, the sound scraping like gravel. “You broke the second Dagger put a bullet in my brother’s head. That arms deal? Your VP pulled the trigger first. My brother was negotiating. You turned it into a slaughter.”
Dagger steps forward from the doorway, Glock still warm in his hand from the last kill, smoke curling lazy from the barrel. He stops just inside the room, boots planted wide, eyes locked on Volkov like he’s measuring the distance for another throw.
“Your brother didn’t get a bullet,” Dagger says, voice flat and cold. “Your guy jumped Sledge, locked him in a choke, jammed a gun to his head. Finger on the trigger, knuckle white. I saw it. I threw. Knife went between his eyes before he could squeeze. Dropped him clean. Saved my brother. That’s what happened.”
Volkov’s smirk flickers, just a twitch at the corner of his mouth, but it’s there. He leans forward a fraction, hands still half-up like he’s mocking the whole standoff.
“You saw what you wanted to see,” he says. “My man was holding him steady. Talking. Your VP panicked, threw steel instead of talking back. My brother trusted your word. Iron Reapers word. Worthless.”
