Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
Bloodhound
Three weeks of waiting, and I'm losing my mind.
Every morning I wake up next to Vanna, feel the baby kick against my palm, and think: today might be the day.
Today Ounce might have the intel we need.
Today we might finally move on Virgil.
And every night I go to bed with the same rage burning in my chest, no closer to putting that monster in the ground.
The waiting is the worst part.
Worse than the fear.
Worse than the anger.
There's nothing to fight, nothing to fix, nothing to do but sit with my hands tied while the man who hurt my wife walks free.
Every hour that passes is an hour he could be planning his next move.
Every day is another opportunity for him to slip through our defenses.
I've barely slept.
When I do, I dream about the alley.
About Vanna's bruises.
About the things Virgil said he'd do to her, to our baby.
I wake up drenched in sweat, heart pounding, reaching for my gun before I even know where I am.
The club's been working around the clock.
Ounce has contacts in the underground, people who know people who know Virgil's operation.
He's been making calls, setting up meetings, carefully rebuilding bridges he burned years ago when he got clean.
Ruger's been coordinating with a chapter in Pittsburgh, making sure we have backup if things go sideways.
Porter's handling the logistics—disposal sites, alibis, anything that might tie us to what's coming.
Because it is coming.
Virgil is going to die.
The only question is when.
"You need to eat something."
Aunt Ellie's voice cuts through my thoughts.
I'm sitting at the bar in Backroads, staring at a plate of eggs I haven't touched, running through scenarios in my head for the hundredth time.
The early morning light streams through the windows, catching dust motes in the air.
The bar is empty except for the two of us—it doesn't open for hours yet, but Ellie's always here early, prepping for the day.
"Not hungry."
"Didn't ask if you were hungry." She slides the plate closer to me, her expression brooking no argument. "Asked you to eat. There's a difference. You've lost weight, Garrett. I can see it in your face. That's not going to help anyone."
I look up at her—this woman who's been more of a mother to me than anyone since the fire.
Her gray hair is pulled back in its usual braid, her apron stained with coffee and grease, her eyes sharp as ever despite how early it is.
She's weathered every storm this club has thrown at her for thirty years.
She's seen men come and go, some to prison, some to the grave.
She knows what violence costs, and she's still standing.
"I can't stop thinking about it," I admit. "About him. About what he did to her. What he wants to do."
"I know." She pours herself a cup of coffee and leans against the bar, studying me with those knowing eyes. "But starving yourself isn't going to help Vanna. And it's not going to make Virgil dead any faster."
She's right.
I know she's right.
But the rage has settled into my bones, become part of me.
It's hard to feel anything else.
I force down a few bites of eggs.
They taste like cardboard.
"How is she?" Ellie asks. "Really?"
"Scared. Trying not to show it." I push the eggs around my plate. "She's been having nightmares. Wakes up in the middle of the night, shaking, crying. Sometimes she doesn't even remember what the dream was about. Just the feeling of being watched."
"That bastard got into her head."
"Yeah. He did." I set down my fork. "And I can't get him out. I can't fix this for her. All I can do is wait for Ounce to give us a location and hope we move before Virgil does something worse."
The bell over the door chimes, and we both look up.
Leah walks in, still in her scrubs from a night shift at the hospital.
She looks exhausted—dark circles under her eyes, her hair escaping from its ponytail—but there's something else in her expression.
Something that makes my stomach drop.
"Garrett." Her voice is tight. "We need to talk."
I'm on my feet before she finishes the sentence. "What happened?"
She reaches into her bag and pulls out an envelope.
Manila. No return address. My blood runs cold.
"This was in my mailbox this morning," she says. "I almost threw it away, thought it was junk. Then I opened it."
She hands me the envelope.
Inside are photos.
Leah walking to her car after a shift, keys in hand, scrubs rumpled from twelve hours on her feet.
Leah at the grocery store, reaching for a carton of milk, completely unaware of the camera.
Leah unlocking her apartment door, her back to the photographer, vulnerable and exposed.
The photos are recent—timestamps show they were taken over the past week.
Which means while we've been guarding Vanna, while we've been watching the compound and checking the perimeter, Virgil's been circling someone else.
Someone I didn't think to protect.
My sister.
And at the bottom of the stack, a note in that same blocky handwriting.
The same anonymous script that haunted Vanna's photos:
PRETTY SISTER. BE A SHAME IF SOMETHING HAPPENED TO HER.
The rage that explodes through me is unlike anything I've ever felt.
It's not hot—it's cold.
Ice cold.
The kind of anger that doesn't scream or throw punches.
The kind that plans.
That calculates.
That waits for the perfect moment to destroy.
Virgil has been watching my little sister.
The girl I carried out of a burning house when she was four years old.
The woman I've protected my entire life, through every hardship, every loss.
He's been stalking her, photographing her, learning her routines.
And now he's using her against me.
"He knows about Leah." My voice comes out flat. Dead. Like something inside me has turned to stone. "He's been following her too."
"Who?" Leah's eyes are wide, her exhaustion replaced by fear. "Garrett, what the hell is going on? Who sent these? Why do they have pictures of me?"
I look at Aunt Ellie.
She nods once, understanding.
This conversation needs to happen.
Leah needs to know what we're dealing with.
"Sit down," I tell my sister. "I need to tell you something. And it's going to be hard to hear."
The conversation with Leah takes an hour.
I tell her everything.
About Vanna's past with Virgil.
About the attack in the alley.
About the photos, the threats, the club's plan to handle it permanently.
I watch her face cycle through emotions—shock, fear, anger, and finally, a cold determination that reminds me she's a Mercer too.
"So, this guy is a trafficker," she says when I'm done. "And he's been stalking your wife. And now he's threatening me to get to you."
"That's the size of it."
"And the club is going to kill him."
It's not a question. But I answer anyway. "Yes."
She's quiet for a long moment, staring at the photos spread across the bar.
Her photos. Her life. Violated by a man she's never even met.
"Good," she says finally. "Make it hurt."
I wasn't expecting that.
Leah's always been the gentle one, the one who chose healing over anything violent.
The one who became a nurse while I became an outlaw.
"Leah—"
"Don't." She holds up a hand. "Don't tell me it's complicated.
Don't tell me violence isn't the answer.
This man threatened to rape and traffic your pregnant wife.
He threatened to cut your baby out of her.
And now he's coming after me." Her jaw tightens.
"I don't care what you have to do. I don't care how ugly it gets.
You end him, Garrett. You end him before he hurts anyone else. "
I pull her into a hug, holding her tight.
She's shaking—fear or anger, I can't tell. Maybe both.
"I'm going to keep you safe," I promise. "Both of you. Whatever it takes."
"I know." She pulls back, wiping her eyes. "But I'm not hiding. I'm not letting some psychopath run me out of my own life."
"You don't have to hide. But you do have to be careful. No more walking to your car alone. No more late-night shifts without someone knowing where you are." I grip her shoulders. "I'm putting someone on you. One of the brothers. Just until this is over."
"Garrett—"
"This isn't negotiable, Leah. Virgil already got to Vanna once. I'm not letting him get to you too."
She studies my face for a long moment. Then she nods. "Fine. But if whoever you send tries to follow me into the bathroom, I'm stabbing them with a scalpel."
I almost laugh. "Fair enough."
Church convenes that afternoon.
The photos of Leah are spread across the table, and every man in the room is staring at them with murder in their eyes.
These aren't just threats against me anymore.
This is Virgil declaring war on everyone I love.
On everyone connected to this club.
The chapel is tense, the air thick with rage between all of us.
Ruger sits at the head of the table, his jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscles jumping.
Coin keeps glancing at his phone, probably checking on his girls.
Bracken is fidgeting with his lighter—click, click, click—a nervous habit that sets my teeth on edge.
Maddox is still as stone, but there's something dangerous in his eyes.
Something that says he's ready to hurt someone.
"He's escalating," Ruger says, his voice grim. "First Vanna. Now Leah. He's trying to pressure Blood into doing something stupid. Trying to make him break."
"Or he's testing our security," Ounce adds. "Seeing how we respond. Looking for weaknesses. Trying to figure out how far he can push before we push back."
"He found one." I tap the photos of Leah, spreading them so everyone can see. My sister's face, captured without her knowledge, her privacy violated by a monster. "My sister lives alone. Works odd hours at the hospital. She's not connected to the club—not directly. She's an easy target."
"Not anymore," Ruger says. "We put someone on her. Around the clock, until this is done. She doesn't leave her apartment without a shadow."