Chapter 12
The first explosion ripped through the compound gates at four in the morning.
Anchor was out of bed before the debris stopped falling, gun in hand, Colleen already moving beside him. Five days since they'd first touched, and she slept like a soldier—light, ready, one eye always open.
"Get dressed," he barked. "Weapons in the closet."
"Already on it."
No panic. No hesitation. Just the woman who'd killed two collectors at the safehouse and hadn't flinched.
That's my girl.
Gunfire erupted from the courtyard. Not random—coordinated, professional. This wasn't street muscle looking to make a statement. This was a tactical assault.
Anchor pulled on jeans and boots, grabbed the AR-15 from his closet, and checked the magazine. Thirty rounds. Two more mags in his belt.
Colleen appeared at his side, Glock steady in her grip, his spare cut thrown over her tank top because she'd refused to leave it behind.
Wearing his patch into battle.
Something primal roared in his chest.
"Stay close," he said. "We move together."
"I know the drill."
They hit the hallway at a run.
The compound was chaos. Brothers pouring from rooms, shouting orders, weapons appearing from every corner. Patriot's voice cut through the noise, bellowing commands from somewhere below.
"Fourteen hostiles! North and east gates breached! Gallows, take the roof! Gunner, suppressive fire on the courtyard!"
Anchor grabbed Colleen's hand and pulled her toward the stairs. They needed to get to ground level, to the fight, to—
A figure appeared at the bottom of the stairwell.
Anchor put two rounds in his chest before the hostile could raise his weapon. The body tumbled backward, and they kept moving, stepping over it without breaking stride.
"Professional crew," Colleen said, eyeing the dead man's gear. "Body armor. Tactical vest. This isn't Driscoll's usual muscle."
"He bought help. North Philly guns for hire." Anchor scanned the ground floor, reading the battle. "Warren's making a statement."
"Where is he?"
"Not here." Anchor spotted Dominic Talley through the shattered front windows—Warren's operations manager, the accountant who'd turned a street hustle into an empire.
The bastard was coordinating the assault from behind a van in the parking lot, barking orders into a radio while hired guns did his dirty work. "He sent his brain instead."
"Then let's lobotomize him."
Anchor grinned despite everything. God, he loved her.
"Cover the east approach," he said. "I'm going for Talley."
"Like hell you're going alone."
"Colleen—"
"We move together." She met his eyes, fierce and unwavering. "That's what you said. So move."
No time to argue. No point, either—she'd just follow him anyway.
They burst through the side door into the courtyard.
The world became gunfire and chaos.
Muzzle flashes lit the predawn dark. Bodies moved through smoke—some wearing Sons patches, others in tactical black.
Pounder was behind the overturned picnic table, laying down fire with manic precision.
Turnpike had taken position near the garage, picking off targets with the calm focus of a man who'd spent eight years running highway patrol.
And in the center of it all, Patriot and Gallows fought back-to-back, two war machines cutting through hired guns like they were target practice.
"Anchor!" Patriot's voice carried over the chaos. "Talley's coordinating from the lot! Take him out, the assault falls apart!"
"On it!"
Anchor moved through the battle with Colleen at his six, both of them firing, advancing, using cover the way soldiers used cover—automatic, ingrained, no thought required.
A hostile appeared on their left. Colleen dropped him with two shots to the chest.
Another came from the right. Anchor put him down with a burst from the AR.
They worked together like they'd been doing this for years. Like fighting side by side was what they'd been born for.
"Van at two o'clock," Colleen called. "I count three guards plus Talley."
"I'll take the guards. You keep them off my back."
"Copy."
Anchor broke from cover.
The three guards spotted him immediately—professional enough to react, not professional enough to matter. He put the first one down before the man could aim, caught the second with a spray that punched through his vest, and reached the third just as the hostile tried to run.
The butt of Anchor's rifle cracked against his skull. He dropped.
Dominic Talley stood alone by the van, radio in one hand, pistol in the other. His accountant's face had gone pale, the soft build trembling as he realized his protection had evaporated.
"Wait—" Talley raised his hands. "Wait, we can negotiate. Warren will—"
"Warren's not here." Anchor stalked toward him. "He sent you instead. Hoped his brain could do what his muscle couldn't."
"I'm just operations! I don't make the decisions—"
"You coordinate them." Anchor's voice went flat. "Every business Warren squeezed. Every window broken. Every leg shattered because someone couldn't pay. Your spreadsheets. Your schedules. Your efficiency."
Talley's face crumpled. "Please—"
"You targeted a woman I love."
The words came out before Anchor could stop them. Raw. Real. True in a way he hadn't admitted until this moment.
"You sent men to drag her from a safehouse. You organized an assault on my home." He raised the AR. "And you thought Warren would protect you?"
"Warren will kill you for this! He'll burn everything you—"
Anchor fired.
Talley's body hit the pavement, and the radio clattered from his dead fingers.
Two down. Two to go.
"Anchor!" Colleen's voice cut through the fading gunfire. "Hostiles retreating! They're pulling back!"
He turned.
The remaining hired guns were fleeing—running for vehicles, abandoning positions, realizing their coordinator was dead and their paycheck wasn't worth dying for. Pounder whooped and sent a few parting shots after them. Gallows emerged from behind a stack of pallets, stone-faced and blood-spattered.
It was over.
Anchor found Colleen in the smoke, grabbed her, pulled her against his chest.
"You okay?" he demanded, hands running over her, checking for wounds.
"I'm fine. I'm fine." She gripped his cut, holding on. "You?"
"Better now."
He kissed her. Hard and desperate, tasting smoke and gunpowder and survival. She kissed him back with equal ferocity, both of them alive, both of them whole, the battle won.
"Brother." Patriot's voice broke through. "Casualties?"
Anchor forced himself to release Colleen, turning to face his president.
The compound was wrecked—gates blown, courtyard torn up, bullet holes pocking the brick walls. But the Sons were standing. Bloody, some of them. Wounded.
But standing.
"Bayonet took one to the shoulder," Gallows reported. "Through-and-through, he'll live. Turnpike caught shrapnel in the leg. Needs stitches."
"Anyone else?"
"Bumps and bruises." Gallows's gaze swept the battlefield. "We got lucky."
"Luck had nothing to do with it." Patriot looked at the bodies scattered across the lot—hired guns who'd thought numbers and surprise would be enough. "Count them."
"Fourteen came in," Anchor said. "Looks like eleven didn't leave."
Plus Talley. Twelve total, if you counted the operations manager who'd thought spreadsheets could win a war.
Patriot nodded slowly. "Warren sent everything he had. Professional crew, coordinated assault, his best tactician." His eyes found Anchor. "And we gutted them."
"Talley's dead," Anchor confirmed. "Warren just lost his brain."
"Good." Patriot's smile was cold. "Now he's running on instinct. Instinct makes men stupid."
Colleen appeared at Anchor's side, still wearing his cut, still holding the Glock like she knew how to use it. Patriot's gaze lingered on her for a moment.
"Your woman held her own," he said.
"She always does."
"Damn right I do." Colleen's chin lifted. "I didn't survive field hospitals to die in a parking lot."
Something like respect flickered in Patriot's expression.
"Get the wounded to the infirmary," he ordered. "And someone find out where Warren's hiding. He just threw his best punch and missed."
"What happens now?" Colleen asked.
Patriot's smile turned savage.
"Now we hit back."
Anchor pulled Colleen closer, arm tight around her waist. Dawn was breaking over the compound, painting the destruction in shades of gold and pink. Smoke still curled from the wrecked gates. Blood stained the concrete.
But they were alive.
Warren Driscoll had sent fourteen men and his best coordinator to end the Sons of Liberty.
He'd gotten eleven body bags and a decapitated operation in return.
Your move, old man.
The war wasn't over.
But for the first time, Anchor could see how it ended.
With Warren Driscoll in the ground and Colleen Brannigan in his arms.
Everything else was just details.