Chapter 18
Church had never felt like this before.
Colleen stood at the edge of the chapel, back against the brick wall, watching men she'd come to know as family plan the death of Warren Driscoll. The air was thick with tension, cigarette smoke curling toward the exposed rafters, every brother focused on the map spread across the heavy oak table.
"Row house on Kensington Ave," Patriot said, tapping the location. "Warren's been holed up there since we killed his nephew. Two exits—front door and fire escape. Basement connects to the building next door, but that's boarded up."
"Guards?" Gallows asked.
"Whatever scraps he could scrape together. Our intel says six, maybe eight." Patriot's jaw tightened. "He's been making calls, trying to buy muscle from North Philly and Camden. Nobody's biting. Word's out that backing Warren Driscoll is a death sentence."
"Good," Gunner growled. "Makes our job easier."
"Don't get cocky." Patriot looked around the table, meeting each brother's eyes. "Warren's desperate. Desperate men do stupid things. He might have surprises we haven't accounted for."
"So we hit hard and fast," Anchor said. He stood across the room from Colleen, arms crossed, expression carved from stone. "Don't give him time to spring surprises."
"That's the plan." Patriot nodded. "Gallows takes the front with Pounder. Anchor and Turnpike take the fire escape. Gunner—"
"I want the basement," Gunner interrupted. "In case he runs for the tunnel."
"The tunnel's boarded up."
"Desperate men find ways through boards." Gunner's grin was feral. "I'll be waiting if he does."
Patriot considered, then nodded. "Fine. Basement's yours."
The planning continued—entry points, fallback positions, signals. Colleen listened with half an ear, absorbing what she needed, letting the tactical details wash over her.
This wasn't her world. Not really. She knew how to fight, how to survive, how to put bullets in men who threatened her. But the choreography of war—the precise coordination of violence—was something the Sons had perfected over years.
She was a guest in their expertise.
"What about her?"
Colleen snapped to attention.
Bayonet was looking at her, one arm still in a sling from the compound assault, expression unreadable.
"She's been in the middle of every fight so far," he continued. "If she's coming tonight, we need to know where to put her."
Every eye in the room turned to Colleen.
She straightened against the wall, refusing to shrink.
"I know Warren's operation better than most of you," she said. "I've been dealing with his collectors for weeks. I know the businesses he squeezed, the patterns he followed, the way his people think."
"That's intel," Gallows said. "Not combat positioning."
"I shot two of his men at the safehouse. Two more at the compound. And I put a bullet in Craig Driscoll's leg before Anchor finished him." She kept her voice steady. "I can handle myself."
Silence.
Then Anchor spoke.
"She stays with me."
Not a request. A statement.
Patriot's eyebrows rose. "That's not standard—"
"She's mine." Anchor's voice cut through the room like a blade. "Where I go, she goes. And if anyone in this room has a problem with that, they can take it up with me after Warren's dead."
The challenge hung in the air. Brothers exchanged glances—some amused, some impressed, all of them recognizing the claiming for what it was.
Nobody argued.
"Fine," Patriot said. "Colleen goes in with Anchor and Turnpike. Fire escape team." He looked at her directly. "You follow their lead. You shoot when they tell you to shoot. And if things go sideways, you get out. Understood?"
"Understood."
"Good." Patriot rolled up the map. "Gear up. We move in thirty minutes."
The chapel erupted into motion. Brothers filing out, checking weapons, grabbing cuts. The machinery of war grinding into gear.
Colleen stayed where she was, watching Anchor move through the chaos. He spoke to Gallows, clasped Turnpike's shoulder, exchanged a nod with Pounder that communicated something she couldn't read.
These men trusted each other with their lives.
And somehow, impossibly, they'd started trusting her too.
"Hey."
She turned to find Grace beside her, Patriot's old lady watching the preparations with the calm of a woman who'd seen this play out a hundred times before.
"You ready for this?" Grace asked.
"Does it matter if I'm not?"
"It matters." Grace's eyes were steady. "Going into a fight with doubts is how people die. If you're not ready, say so now. Nobody will judge you for staying behind."
Colleen considered the question seriously.
Was she ready?
She'd killed four men in the last two weeks. Watched her shop burn to the ground. Fallen in love with an enforcer who'd murdered for her without hesitation.
Nothing about her life looked the way it had a month ago.
But she was still standing. Still fighting. Still refusing to break.
"I'm ready," she said.
Grace smiled—small, approving.
"Good. Then go get your man. He's been staring at you since church ended."
Colleen looked across the room.
Anchor was watching her. Not subtle about it—his eyes locked on her face, tracking her movements, making sure she was still there. Still his.
She crossed the chaos to reach him.
"You didn't have to do that," she said.
"Do what?"
"Claim me in front of the whole club. Announce that I'm yours like you were planting a flag."
His mouth curved. "Didn't I?"
"Anchor—"
"You're coming into a combat zone with me." He caught her chin, tilted her face up to meet his eyes. "Every brother in that room needed to understand what that means. That you're not just some civilian tagging along. That you're mine. That anyone who fails to protect you answers to me."
"I can protect myself."
"I know." His thumb traced her jaw. "But I'm going to protect you anyway. That's what loving you means."
Her heart stuttered.
"You're impossible."
"You're beautiful." He kissed her forehead. "And strong. And stubborn. And the best thing that ever happened to me."
"We're about to assault a loan shark's headquarters."
"I know." His smile widened. "Seemed like a good time to remind you why we're doing it."
God, she loved him.
She loved this violent, patient, impossibly devoted man who'd burned down a criminal empire because someone threatened her shop.
"When this is over," she said, "I'm going to show you exactly how much I appreciate you."
"Promise?"
"Guarantee."
His eyes darkened with heat. "Then let's go kill Warren Driscoll."
The next twenty minutes blurred with preparation.
Weapons checked and loaded. Vests distributed. Radios tested. The compound transformed into a staging area for war.
Colleen strapped on the vest Anchor handed her, feeling the weight settle against her chest. It wasn't comfortable. It wasn't supposed to be. It was supposed to keep her alive.
"You remember the plan?" Turnpike asked, appearing at her shoulder.
"Fire escape. Follow your lead. Shoot when you tell me to."
"And if things go sideways?"
"I get out."
"Good." He checked his own weapon, movements precise. "Warren's a coward. When he realizes we're inside, he'll run. Our job is to make sure he runs toward Anchor instead of away from him."
"And if he runs toward me?"
Turnpike's smile was sharp. "Then you slow him down."
The courtyard filled with bikes—chrome and leather and the rumble of engines warming up. Brothers mounted, checked weapons one final time, exchanged nods that said everything words couldn't.
Anchor appeared beside her, cut on, gun at his hip, expression carved from granite.
"Ready?" he asked.
"No." She laughed despite herself. "But I'm going anyway."
"That's my girl."
He pulled her against him and kissed her.
Not soft. Not gentle. A claiming, right there in the middle of the courtyard, in front of every brother and old lady watching the Sons prepare for war.
Colleen grabbed his cut and kissed him back, pouring everything she felt into the contact—fear and love and the fierce determination to survive whatever came next.
When they broke apart, she was breathing hard.
"What was that for?" she managed.
"Luck." His eyes burned. "And a reminder."
"Of what?"
"That I'm coming back to you." He pressed his forehead to hers. "No matter what happens in that row house. I'm coming back."
"You better."
"Promise."
He kissed her once more—quick and hard—and then swung onto his bike.
Colleen mounted behind him, arms wrapping around his waist, feeling the engine rumble through both their bodies.
Around them, the Sons fell into formation. Patriot at the front, Gallows and Pounder flanking, the rest spreading out behind in a wedge of chrome and purpose.
"Let's ride!" Patriot's voice carried over the rumble.
Engines roared.
The convoy surged forward.
Gates opened, and the Sons of Liberty poured into the night, heading for Kensington and the end of Warren Driscoll's empire.
Colleen held on tight, feeling Anchor solid beneath her hands, and let the wind steal her fear away.
They were ending this tonight.
One way or another.