"Go to hell, Marcus." Tyler was on his feet now, weapon raised, standing shoulder to shoulder with me.
Cross's eyes found mine. "You'll regret this. Both of you. I promise you that."
The thunder of engines announced Hawk's arrival.
The reinforcements poured over the ridge like a wave—ten Phoenix members on bikes and in trucks, guns blazing, turning the Wolves' ambush into a two-front disaster. Hawk was at the front, his face carvedfrom granite, laying down covering fire as his men spread out to flank the enemy position.
The tide of battle shifted in seconds. What had been a controlled assault became a desperate scramble. Wolves who'd been advancing moments ago suddenly found themselves caught between two forces, exposed, outgunned.
"FALL BACK!" Cross's voice cut through the chaos. "Everyone fall back! NOW!"
The Wolves broke. Those who could still move retreated toward their vehicles, dragging wounded comrades, abandoning the dead. I counted at least six bodies that weren't getting up—Wolves we'd dropped between the six of us, before Hawk's cavalry arrived.
Cross went with them, one hand pressed against his bleeding shoulder, his face twisted with fury. But not before he found Tyler in the chaos one last time.
Their eyes met across the battlefield—former partners, former lovers, now enemies. Cross's expression held a promise that made my blood run cold. Not just anger. Something colder, more calculating. The look of a man who'd just added new names to his list.
Then he was gone, disappearing over the ridge with his surviving men, engines roaring into the distance.
The silence after battle was always the worst part. I stood in the middle of the kill zone, weapon still raised, ears ringing, trying to process what had just happened. Bodies lay scattered across the asphalt and sand—Wolves we'd killed, contractors we'd dropped before the ambush. Smoke rose from Declan's destroyed truck, black and acrid against the morning sky. The air smelled of cordite and blood and burning rubber.
"Sound off." Hawk's voice was rough, strained. "Everyone sound off. Now."
The names came through the comm one by one. Tyler—alive, cuts and scrapes from the dive we'd taken together. Axel—alive, already repositioning to cover any secondary attack. Blade—alive, cleaning his knife on a dead man's jacket. Irish—alive but hurt, the shrapnel in his leg had gone deep and he was losing blood fast. Declan—alive, burns on his arms and face from the RPG explosion, cursing steadily in a mix of English and something that might have been Irish Gaelic.
Three of our reinforcements had taken hits. Reno, the prospect who'd been watching the south perimeter at the warehouse, had caught a round in the shoulder—through and through, painful but not fatal. Marco had taken fragments from a near miss. Santos was limping but mobile.
We'd been lucky. Cross's ambush should have killed half of us. Would have, if Hawk's reinforcements had been thirty seconds slower.
"The transport." Tyler's voice cut through the chatter. "Sarah's still in the van."
I turned. The transport van sat where it had crashed, tilted at an angle, rear doors still closed. Bullet holes pocked its sides, but the armored construction had held. Through the small windows, I could see shadows moving inside.
The marshals. Still alive, still trying to protect their prisoner from a threat they didn't understand.
Tyler was already moving toward the van, bolt cutters in hand. I fell in beside him, covering his approach, watching for any Wolves who might have stayed behind.
The doors came open with a grinding shriek of stressed metal. Inside, two marshals pressed against the walls, weapons raised, faces tight with shock and adrenaline. Professional stance, good trigger discipline—these weren't rookies.
"Federal marshals! Hands where we can see them!"
Tyler and I held position, weapons trained but not firing. Behind us, the sound of Phoenix reinforcements spreading out, securing the perimeter.
"Look around you." I kept my voice calm, authoritative. "Count the guns pointed at this vehicle. Then make a smart decision."
The lead marshal—a woman, mid-thirties, sharp eyes that were rapidly calculating odds—glanced past us. I knew what she was seeing. A dozen armed men surrounded the van. Bodies scattered across the desert. Smoke rising from destroyed vehicles. Her backup contractors were either dead or restrained.
Her partner's weapon wavered. Hers didn't. "Who are you people?"
"We're the reason your prisoner is still alive." Tyler's voice was ice. "Those contractors you were riding with? They were here to kill her. Check their ink when you get the chance—Iron Wolves MC. This whole transport was a setup."
The marshal's eyes flicked to the bodies visible through the open door. Something shifted in her expression—doubt, maybe the beginning of understanding.
"We're not here to hurt you," I continued. "We just want her. Lower your weapons, step out of the vehicle, and this ends without anyone else getting shot."
A long moment. The partner was clearly ready to comply, but the lead marshal held his gaze, making him wait for her decision.
Finally, she lowered her weapon. Her partner followed half a second later.
