Silence held the room. Then Hawk nodded slowly.
"Blade—you take the distraction team. Vans and SUVs, armored where we can manage it. You roll up hard, give them a target, then use the vehicles for cover. Keep them pinned, keep them focused on the front. Buy time." He turned to the rest of us. "Tank, Tyler, Axel—you're the insertion team. Find that drain, see where it leads. If you can get inside, radio that you're in position and hold. Just that, don’t reveal yourselves until you’re ready. Wait for my signal."
"Where will you be?" Blade asked.
"Overwatch." Hawk's jaw tightened. "I'll position on the ridge east of the warehouse with a clear line of sight. Sniper support—anyone gets too close to those vans, I put them down."
"And the signal?" Tank asked.
Hawk's smile was cold, predatory. "You'll know it when you hear it."
He looked around the table, meeting each man's eyes in turn. When he spoke again, his voice carriedthe weight of command, of years of leading men into battle and bringing them home.
"We roll out at 04:00, day after tomorrow. That gives us tomorrow to prep, rest, and say whatever needs saying." His palm came down on the table, firm and final. "Get ready for war. We end this. One way or another."
The room erupted into motion, men dispersing with grim purpose etched on their faces. Tank caught my arm as I rose, pulled me close enough to speak without being overheard.
"You did good in there."
"I just told them what I saw."
"You gave them a plan. Gave them hope." His eyes searched mine. "You're part of this now. Really part of it."
I thought about what it meant to belong somewhere, to have people who trusted you enough to follow your suggestions into battle. It was terrifying. It was also, maybe, exactly what I'd been searching for.
"Come on." Tank's hand slid down to lace with mine. "We've got one more night. Let's not waste it."
We walked out of the chapel together, hands linked, and no one said a word about it.
16
LAST LIGHT
TANK
The compound had gone quiet in a way that made my skin itch. Not silent—there was still movement, still the low murmur of voices and the occasional clang of metal on metal. But the usual noise was missing. No music from the clubhouse, no laughter spilling out of open windows, no prospects arguing over whose turn it was to man the gate. Just men moving with grim purpose, checking weapons, loading gear, saying things to each other that might be the last words they ever exchanged.
Axel was by the vans with three prospects, supervising the installation of makeshift armor plates—scrap metal welded to the doors and panels, not pretty but functional. It wouldn't stop a rifle round, but it might deflect something smaller, buy aman an extra second to find real cover. Every second mattered when bullets were flying.
Santos was running an inventory of ammunition at a folding table near the armory, counting magazines and boxes of shells with the grim efficiency of a quartermaster preparing for a siege. Marco sat beside him, field-stripping rifles and laying them out in neat rows, his movements mechanical, his eyes distant.
I stood on the porch and watched the sun bleed out across the western sky, painting everything in shades of red and gold. Beautiful, in a way that felt almost obscene given what was coming. Somewhere out there, Cross was preparing too. Getting ready to spring his trap. Thinking he had us exactly where he wanted us.
He was wrong. But being wrong didn't mean we'd all walk away from this.
"You should eat something."
Irish's voice pulled me back. He was sitting in one of the porch chairs, his wounded leg propped on a crate, frustration carved into every line of his face. Ghost sat beside him, crutches leaning against the railing, looking equally pissed about being left behind.
"Not hungry."
"Didn't ask if you were hungry. Said you should eat." Irish's jaw tightened. "Can't fight on an empty stomach, brother."
"I'll grab something later."
Ghost snorted. "You'll grab Tyler later, you mean. We've all seen the way you two?—"
"Finish that sentence and I'll break your other leg."
