Chapter 7
They came at dawn.
Eight men breaching through front and back simultaneously, professional enough to coordinate but stupid enough to think numbers meant victory.
Anchor had been waiting for four hours, watching their positions through gaps in the curtains, memorizing the choreography of men who thought fear was a substitute for skill.
Neil Garrett led the charge through the front door—battering ram splintering wood like it was paper, the loan shark's enforcer filling the frame with six feet of repo-man muscle and a shotgun that had probably never been fired at anyone who could shoot back.
That was about to change.
Anchor put two rounds into the first man through the breach before Garrett even cleared the threshold. The body dropped, and suddenly the choreography fell apart.
"Cover!" he bellowed at Colleen, who'd taken position behind the overturned kitchen table exactly where he'd told her to. She didn't flinch. Didn't freeze. Just leveled her Glock at the back door and waited.
That's my girl.
Garrett's shotgun roared, taking out a chunk of wall six inches from Anchor's head. Plaster dust filled the air. He rolled, came up shooting, dropped another collector trying to flank through the living room window.
Three down. Five to go.
The back door exploded inward.
Colleen fired—controlled, precise, exactly the way he'd shown her. The first man through caught two rounds center mass and crumpled. The second hesitated just long enough for her to adjust and put one in his shoulder.
He screamed, dropped his weapon, and she kicked it away without breaking position.
Jesus Christ, she was magnificent.
"Anchor!" Garrett's voice cut through the chaos. "You think a biker club's gonna save her? We've got thirty men! You've got—"
The roar of motorcycle engines drowned out whatever threat he was building toward.
Cavalry.
Gallows crashed through the remains of the front door like a wrecking ball, all six-three of executioner's fury with a sawed-off shotgun that turned the nearest collector into modern art.
Behind him, Pounder came through the back, compact frame vibrating with the manic energy of a man who loved violence the way other men loved breathing.
"Four left!" Anchor shouted. "Garrett's mine!"
"Copy!" Gallows put down another collector trying to flee through the kitchen.
The house became a slaughterhouse.
Anchor moved through the chaos with the patience the docks had taught him—read the space, find the chokepoints, wait for the moment. Garrett was scrambling for the stairs, probably thinking high ground would save him. Probably thinking he could take a hostage if he got to Colleen's room.
He wasn't going to get that far.
Anchor caught him on the fourth step, grabbed a fistful of jacket, and hauled him backward. They crashed through the banister together, hit the living room floor in a tangle of limbs and fury.
Garrett was strong. Street-fight strong, the kind of power you built breaking legs for loan sharks.
But Anchor had spent his whole life learning to wait for the right moment.
And this was it.
He blocked the first punch, absorbed the second, let Garrett think he was winning. The enforcer's eyes lit up with triumph as he landed a solid hit to Anchor's ribs.
Then Anchor stopped holding back.
He drove his forehead into Garrett's nose—felt the satisfying crunch of cartilage, the hot spray of blood. Garrett reeled, and Anchor was on him, dock-hook hands finding throat, squeezing with all the patience that had been building since he'd seen "RECONSIDER" painted on Colleen's window.
"You broke her glass," Anchor said, almost conversational. "You painted a threat on her shop. You came to her door and put hands on her."
Garrett clawed at his wrists, face going purple. "Warren—Warren will—"
"Warren will watch everything he built burn." Anchor squeezed harder. "But you won't be there to see it."
The light went out of Garrett's eyes in stages. Panic first, then desperation, then nothing at all.
Anchor held on for another ten seconds. Just to be sure.
When he finally released, Neil Garrett hit the floor like a sack of meat.
One down.
Gunfire crackled from the kitchen. Anchor grabbed Garrett's dropped shotgun and moved toward the sound, stepping over bodies without looking down. Two more collectors were making a last stand behind the refrigerator, trading shots with Pounder and Gallows.
"Flank left!" Gallows called.
Anchor circled through the living room, came up behind the refrigerator's blind spot, and put two rounds into the first collector before he even knew death was coming. The second turned to fire, and Gallows dropped him with a clean headshot.
Silence.
Eight bodies littered the safehouse—blood pooling on hardwood, shell casings scattered like brass confetti, the acrid stink of gunpowder thick enough to taste.
"Colleen!" Anchor pushed through the wreckage toward her position.
She was exactly where he'd left her, still behind the table, Glock steady in her grip. Her eyes were wide but focused. Her hands didn't shake.
Of course they didn't.
"You good?" he demanded.
"Better than them." She nodded toward the two bodies by the back door—her kills, clean and efficient. "Told you I knew enough."
Pride surged through him, mixed with something fiercer. Something possessive.
He crossed the space between them in three strides, hauled her to her feet, and kissed her hard enough to bruise. She grabbed his cut and kissed him back, both of them tasting blood and victory and the electric rush of survival.
"Brother." Gallows's voice cut through. Not urgent—just a reminder that they weren't alone.
Anchor broke the kiss, but didn't let go of Colleen. His arm stayed locked around her waist, keeping her pressed against his side.
"Eight down," Gallows reported. "Garrett?"
"Dead."
Pounder whistled low. "Warren's gonna shit himself when he hears."
"That's the point." Anchor surveyed the carnage. "Any of them talk before they dropped?"
"One mentioned a headquarters in Kensington." Gallows wiped blood off his hands with disturbing calm. "Row house. Warren runs his operation out of the back."
"We'll hit it."
"Not tonight." Gallows's eyes moved to Colleen, then back to Anchor. "Safehouse is compromised. Patriot wants her at the compound until this is finished."
Colleen stiffened. "I have a shop—"
"You have a war," Anchor said. "And until it's won, you're staying where I can protect you."
"I can protect myself. You just saw—"
"I saw you put down two trained killers without flinching." He turned her to face him, hands gripping her shoulders. "That's exactly why you're coming to the compound. Because you're worth protecting. Because I'm not losing you to Warren Driscoll's next wave of muscle."
Her jaw worked. Stubborn. Defiant.
God, he wanted her.
"The compound isn't a cage," he said, softer now. "It's a fortress. You'll have freedom to move, to work, to do whatever you need. But you'll have brothers watching your back while you do it."
"And you?"
"I'll be right there with you." He pressed his forehead to hers. "Every step. Every second. Until this is done."
Something shifted in her expression. Not surrender—Colleen didn't surrender. But acceptance, maybe. Trust.
"Fine," she said. "But I'm bringing my tattoo equipment."
His mouth curved. "I'd expect nothing less."
Pounder appeared at his shoulder, grinning despite the blood spattered across his cheek. "Bodies need handling. Turnpike's on his way with the van."
"Make it clean. Nothing traces back to the Sons."
"Always."
Anchor looked around the safehouse one last time. The walls he'd memorized over three days of waiting. The kitchen table where Colleen had sketched his river design while pretending not to watch him. The bedroom upstairs where she'd slept while he'd stayed awake imagining things he shouldn't.
It had been home for seventy-two hours.
Now it was a crime scene.
"Let's move," he said.
They left through the back, stepping over bodies, Colleen's hand locked in his. Dawn light was spreading across Fishtown, turning the row houses gold and pink, making the violence behind them feel like a fever dream.
But it wasn't a dream.
Warren Driscoll had sent eight men to collect one tattoo artist.
He'd gotten eight body bags in return.
Your move, old man.
Anchor's bike was parked two blocks away, untouched. He helped Colleen onto the back, felt her arms wrap around his waist, her body press against his.
"What happens now?" she asked.
"Now we go to the compound." He kicked the engine to life, felt the familiar rumble settle into his bones. "And Warren Driscoll learns that his territory has new management."
He pulled out into empty streets, heading south.
Behind them, Gallows and Pounder worked in silence, making eight men disappear.
Ahead, the Sons compound waited.
And somewhere in Kensington, Warren Driscoll was about to wake up to find his enforcer dead and his empire crumbling.
Anchor smiled.
This was just the beginning.