Dagger’s jaw ticks once. He doesn’t raise the Glock, doesn’t move closer, just stares.
“Talking?” Dagger repeats, low enough that only the guys nearest him catch it. “Guy had Sledge’s windpipe in a vise and a barrel kissing his temple. I saw the finger curl. Reflex. Knife flew. End of story. Your brother wasn’t the one who died that night because he was negotiating. He died because one of yours decided to escalate first.”
Volkov’s eyes narrow, the smirk gone now, replaced by something darker, rawer. “Reflex. Convenient story. My brother bled out on that concrete while you loaded your crates and ran. You started this war with a blade, Reaper. Not us.”
Mason’s voice cuts in sharp from beside Dagger. “Your guy started it the second he touched Sledge. We finished it. You’ve been bleeding us ever since because you can’t admit your own man fucked up the deal.”
Volkov spits on the floor between them. “Then finish it now. Or keep pretending your VP’s throw was noble. Either way, my cousins up north will burn everything you love. Starting with the women you hide behind your gates.”
Dagger’s fingers flex around the Glock grip, but he doesn’t lift it. “Keep talking about our women. See how fast reflex turns into choice.”
Mason steps in front of Dagger, gun leveled again. “Enough. Tonight it stops. No more messages. No more bodies. No more threats to our women, our kids, our club.”
Volkov opens his mouth for one more jab but Mason pulls the trigger. The suppressed crack echoes as Volkov’s head snaps back, blood and bone spraying across the cash stacks. His body crumples, chair tipping, thudding to the concrete.
The room goes dead quiet for one heartbeat. Then everything goes to hell. A hidden door in the back wall bursts open. Three more guys pour in, guns blazing. One clips me in the chest, the impact knocks me back like a sledgehammer. Pain explodes hot and wet as blood soaks through my shirt. My knees hit the concrete.
“Lucky!” Mason barks.
Riot’s already moving, diving through the chaos toward a side room. Tank lays down suppressive fire. Ghost drags me behind the table while Switch returns fire.
I cough. Blood on my lips. “Go… finish it.”
Mason puts two more rounds into the last standing Russian, then kneels beside me. “You’re not dying tonight, brother.”
Riot’s voice crackles over comms. “Found something. A girl. Russian. Locked in a back room. She’s chained and terrified. I’m getting her out.”
Mason’s jaw tightens. “Copy. Bring her. We extract now.”
They haul me down the stairs. My boots scrape concrete. Blood trails. Outside the vans are waiting. They shove me into the back. Tank keeps pressure on my chest, hands slick red. Riot climbs in last, a woman cradled against him, dark hair, wide terrified eyes, speaking rapid Russian. She clings to his cut like he’s the only solid thing left in the world.
“Easy,” Riot murmurs to her. “You’re safe now. I’ve got you.”
Dagger guns it. Tires scream. Switch keeps talking to me. “Breathe Lucky. In through your nose, out slow. You’re not dying in this van.”
I cough again. “Savannah…”
“She’s waiting,” Mason says from the front, voice tight. “You hold on for her. You hear me mother fucker!”
The ride blurs. Pain throbs with every heartbeat. Lights streak. Mason’s on the radio, “Hospital ten minutes out. Trauma team standing by.”
I fade. See her face. Honey-hazel eyes. The way she threw herself at me after I told her everything.
Tank’s voice cuts through. “Eyes open, brother. You got a woman who’s gonna kick your ass if you bleed out here.”
I force them wide. “Tell her… I’m sorry…I love her.”
“Fuck that,” Riot growls from the other side, still holding the woman who’s whispering thank you over and over in broken English. “You tell her yourself.”
The van screeches into the ER bay. Doors fly open. White coats swarm. They yank me onto a gurney. “GSW chest, BP dropping. Trauma one, now!”
They wheel me fast. Mask over my face. Oxygen. Needles. Cold metal.
Last thing I see is Riot carrying that Russian girl through the doors behind us, her arms still locked around his neck like he’s her lifeline.
Then it all goes black.
I wakeup to the beeping. It's too slow. Too irregular. Every few seconds the machine stutters like it's deciding whether to keep going or quit. The room smells like bleach and death. Sharp enough to burn the back of my throat. My chest isn't just heavy. It's on fire. Every breath feels like sucking air through broken glass. Thick bandages are taped so tight I can barely expand my ribs. An IV line snakes into my arm, cold and steady, but it doesn't touch the cold creeping up my legs.
