Page 53

She crosses the gravel lot toward me, boots crunching loudly. “Switch. The silent treatment bullshit? Really?”

I keep my focus locked on the maps still pulled up on my phone screen. “Not right now. Club’s moving on intel. Get inside.”

“Bullshit,” she snaps, stepping closer until she’s right in my space. “Last night, you were covered in blood, telling me you’d burn everything down for me. Now, you’re icing me out like I’m some new prospect who stepped wrong. What the hell changed overnight?”

Guilt surges hot and bitter through my veins. I want nothing more than to pull her in and crush her against my chest, but I hold my position rigid. “Nobody’s icing you out. I’m handling the hits, doing my job. Right now, I need you to stay safe and be our eyes in all the areas we can’t be right now. Those are our only priorities.”

Hurt flashes raw across her face before the familiar fire pushes back strong. “Is that an order, Switch?”

I don’t answer her, just nod, turning back toward the brothers loading trucks and bikes with gear. She lingers for another long moment, then mutters a sharp curse under her breath and stalks back inside. I watch her go, chest tight and aching. Mine. The word beats through me like a second pulse—dark, possessive, unrelenting. I would end a hundred more men exactly like Thomas to keep her breathing. But right now, keeping this distance feels like the only real control I have left.

Lennox finds me later in the gym, getting some of the pent-up energy out before we start the final phases. I’m driving my fists repeatedly into the heavy bag, knuckles splitting open again, sweat pouring down my back. He calls out to me, “You’re being a real dick to her.”

“Fuck off,” I grunt out, still hitting the bag with as much force as I can.

He leans against the wall, completely unmoved. “She saved this club. You know that better than anyone. Guilt’s got you twisted up. I feel the same. I brought her here as a favor, and we outed her. But freezing her out isn’t protecting anyone or doing any of us favors. She was right, we need her more than she needs us.”

I land another heavy combination, the bag swinging wildly. “They’re coming for her specifically. Hit teams. Nicholas calling her his ‘baby.’ I’m not risking her being watched and leaking anything while we coordinate these strikes. Better she’s angry at me than any of us dead because we weren’t cautious.”

Lennox snorts. “She’s not some fragile civilian, Switch. That girl dismantled an empire from a keyboard. I’m sure she’s made sure nothing is getting out. If anyone can do it, it’s her. Just wait and see how long before she decides to insert herself directly into the hits anyway.” The thought lands like ice in my veins. She absolutely would and without hesitation. That fierce, sassy determination of hers.

Fuck. I didn’t account for that.

I wipe sweat and fresh blood from my face, breathing ragged. “Teams checking in yet?”

“Judge is in position. South warehouse showing active truck movement. Fuse and Ledger are rolling toward the hub.” He pauses meaningfully. “You should talk to her before we commit to the next wave. Having someone run interference on their comms could be nice.” I give a single sharp nod but stay exactly where I am. Coordination comes first. I pull up the secure group chat and fire off detailed updates.

Me:

East route team, hold for my signal. Confirm all visuals on guards and vehicles.

Responses ping back quickly. Perimeters look clear. Crates are stacked high inside. I finalize overwatch positions, rigging assignments, and exit protocols down to the minute. It feels familiar—old military precision now applied directly to club justice. No traces leading back to the Wraiths if we play it exactly right. Redline will feel the blow regardless.

The sun drops lower on the horizon, bleeding the sky into deep oranges and reds—knife strapped tight to my belt, gun holstered securely, extra magazines distributed along with lightweight kevlar to go underneath shirts. My cut settles across my shoulders like familiar armor. A couple brothers mount up with me, engines roaring to life in a powerful chorus that vibrates straight through bone and blood.

As we pull out of the lot, I catch one last glimpse of her silhouette watching from a window. Arms wrapped tight around herself. I don’t acknowledge it. Just twist the throttle hard and lead the entire pack straight into the gathering night.

The east route warehouse sits isolated off a quiet service road, dense woods providing the perfect concealed approach. We kill the bikes a full mile out and move in on foot, night vision painting the world in sharp tactical greens. Guards are complacent and lazy—laughing near the loading dock, passing a cigarette back and forth, talking casually about upcoming runs.

Thomas’s information proves completely solid.

The back entrance sits unguarded. I signal the breach. We flow inside like silent shadows. The air inside is thick with chemical tang and heavy motor oil. Towering crates of product fill the main space, firearms secured in a side room, open ledgers scattered across a cluttered desk. I photograph everything quickly and methodically, pocketing a USB drive that looks especially promising. This ends tonight.

“Rig the main stash,” I whisper low.

They move efficiently while I personally clear the offices. More documents detail overlapping routes with our own runs, bribe schedules, and weak points in our patrols. A lone guard rounds a corner unexpectedly. My knife is out and buried deep in his throat before he can even react—silent, efficient, final. I drag the body into cover without a sound.

“Clear,” Pres confirms quietly over comms.

We are in and out before anyone is the wiser to it. Back at the bikes, I give the final signal. The night erupts behind us in a devastating bloom of flame—bright and powerful but carefully contained to the warehouse itself. Sirens will follow soon enough, but we’re already ghosts eating up the dark road back to the compound.

The ride home is focused. The group chat all gives green-lights. Three hits executed cleanly. Redline operations taking heavy, immediate damage. But Nicholas and the remaining threats still loom large. The real danger to her hasn’t been neutralized yet.

Back at the compound, I head straight into debrief. Fuse and Judge are waiting, expressions sharp with satisfaction. Beers crack open around the table. Brief stories get traded—near misses, perfect charges, clean getaways. I lay out the drive and ledger photos for everyone to review. Plans for the next phase start forming immediately: pressure the sheriff contacts harder, disrupt supply chains even further, and begin hunting Nicholas directly. Through it all, my mind keeps circling relentlessly back to Tatum. The guilt hasn’t loosened its grip one bit. If anything, the clear success of the night makes it cut even deeper.

Long after most brothers have turned in or taken up their watch rotations, I finally push open the door to her room. The lights are dim. Tatum sits on the bed with her laptop open, fingers moving fast and determined across the keys. She doesn’t look up right away. “Successful?” Her voice is carefully neutral, clipped at the edges.

“Yeah. All three locations hit hard. They’re hurting bad.” I strip off the cut and blood-speckled shirt, setting my weapons down with a quiet clatter. Fresh blood from the guard still marks my hands faintly.