Outside, the compound was coming to life. Footsteps on gravel. The low rumble of engines being warmed up. Voices, too quiet to make out the words, but carrying the tension of men preparing for battle. In an hour, we'd be on the road. Several hours after that, we'd be crawling into a drainage pipe that might lead nowhere. And then?—
I pushed the thought away. Worry about three hours when three hours came.
Tyler stirred against me, and I knew he was awake by the change in his breathing, by the subtle tension that crept into his shoulders. Neither of us spoke. Neither of us wanted to break the spell.
I thought about all the mornings I'd woken up alone in this room. All the times I'd rolled out of bed with nothing to look forward to except another day of jobs and violence and trying not to think about the brother-shaped hole in my life. All theyears I'd convinced myself that this was enough, that the club was enough, that I didn't need anything more.
I'd been wrong about a lot of things.
Finally, I shifted. Tyler tilted his head up to look at me, his eyes clear and calm. No fear, at least none that showed. Whatever doubts he had, he'd made peace with them in the night. We both had.
The gray light caught the planes of his face, the stubble shadowing his jaw, the faint circles under his eyes from not enough sleep. He looked tired. He looked ready. He looked like the man I wanted to wake up next to for the rest of my life—however long or short that might be.
"Time to go to war."
He nodded. Kissed me once, brief and fierce, a promise and a prayer wrapped into one gesture.
The compound was bustling when we stepped outside, the pre-dawn air cool and sharp with the smell of exhaust and adrenaline. Blade was by the vans, making final checks, his face carved from stone. Axel was loading gear into a truck, moving with the efficient calm of a man who'd done this a hundred times before. Hawk stood in the center of it all, a tower of controlled fury, barking orders that everyone scrambled to obey.
Tyler's hand brushed mine—just for a second, just long enough to say everything we didn't havewords for. Then we separated, going to our assigned positions, becoming soldiers instead of lovers.
But even as I checked my weapons and loaded into the truck and prepared to crawl into a hole in the ground that might become my grave—even then, I could still feel the warmth of his hand in mine.
17
RENO
TYLER
The desert was still dark when we left the compound.
No headlights—we drove by moonlight and memory, the convoy of vehicles crawling through the pre-dawn gray like a funeral procession. Blade's team took the lead: three armored vans and two SUVs, their makeshift armor plates catching the faint light like the scales of some prehistoric beast. I watched them through a gap in our truck's canvas cover, these men I'd come to know over the past weeks—brothers heading into battle, some of whom might not come home.
Behind them, our truck—a nondescript pickup with a covered bed—hung back, waiting for the convoy to pull ahead before we split off toward the drainage pipe.
Tank sat beside me in the truck bed, his thigh pressed against mine in the cramped space. His warmth was the only comfort in the cold pre-dawn air, the only thing keeping me grounded as we bounced over the rough desert road. Axel drove, his knuckles white on the wheel visible through the small rear window. Declan rode shotgun with a rifle across his lap, his face carved from stone in the dim light.
In the back with us were Vega, Santos, and Marco—six men total for the insertion team, plus me. Seven of us to come up through the floor and hit Cross from behind. Seven to tip the scales while Blade's team drew fire at the front. It wasn't a large force, but it was enough to create chaos, to catch the enemy between two fronts, to turn an ambush into a slaughter. It had to be enough.
"Thirty minutes to target." Axel's voice came through the small window connecting the cab to the bed. "Radio check in fifteen."
No one responded. There was nothing left to say.
We'd said our goodbyes at the compound before loading up. Kai had been there, standing beside Rosa in the pre-dawn darkness, his face tight with worry he was trying to hide. He and Axel had embraced—not a quick back-slap, but a real embrace, the kind where you hold on because you're not sure you'll get another chance. Kai had whispered something against Axel's ear that I couldn't hear, and Axel had nodded, kissed him hard, and walked away without looking back.
Then Kai had found me, gripped my arm withsurprising strength. "Bring him back," he'd said, and I knew he meant Tank as much as Axel. "Bring them all back."
"I will."
"And come back yourself." His eyes had been fierce, the trauma surgeon showing through the quiet nurse's exterior. "I've got the infirmary ready. Rosa and I can handle whatever you bring us. Just... come back."
He'd stayed behind with Irish, Ghost, and the other patched members holding compound security. Part of the medic team now, as essential as Rosa. Ready to put us back together when we returned—if we returned.
Tank's hand found mine in the darkness, fingers interlacing. His palm was calloused, rough from years of gripping handlebars and wrenching engines, but his touch was gentle. I squeezed once—I'm here, I'm ready, I'm not going anywhere—and felt him squeeze back. The same message. The same promise we'd been making since last night, since we'd risen from his bed and walked into a war neither of us might survive.
I closed my eyes and let my training take over. Breathing exercises. In for four counts, hold for four, out for four. The rhythm of controlled fear, of channeled adrenaline. Mental compartmentalization—sorting the terror into a box I could open later, when it was useful, when it might save my life instead of ending it.
My FBI instructors would be proud, if they could see me now. Using everything they'd taughtme to assault a drug warehouse with an outlaw motorcycle club. Preparing to kill men I'd never met to protect men I'd have arrested a few months ago.
