Chapter Twenty-One
Berkley
The morning sun filters through the blinds, slicing thin lines of light across the floor as I sink into my chair in the war room.
My coffee’s gone cold beside me, untouched, but I don’t care.
The screens in front of me are alive with motion—feeds from every corner of the city, coded signals, shifting data trails that I know better than my reflection.
My fingers hover above the keyboard, steady but restless. We’re close. I can feel it.
The comm crackles softly, and then Dahlia’s voice comes through, light and teasing as always. “Bugs in place, sweetheart,” she says. “Clean and quiet. He didn’t even notice.”
Relief loosens a knot between my shoulders I didn’t realize was there. “You’re sure he didn’t catch you?” I ask, watching her signal flicker on the corner screen.
“Positive,” she answers, laughing softly. “Bryce was too busy feeling sorry for himself to notice anything.”
I can’t help the faint smile that tugs at my mouth. “Good work, D. Stay away now and keep your head down.”
Her response is a satisfied hum before the line goes dead. I lean back, letting out a slow breath. For now, things are unfolding exactly as planned.
My guy’s drift in one by one, drawn by the hum of screens and the smell of burned coffee.
Rowan takes up his usual place by my shoulder, quiet and observant, scanning the feeds.
Ronan settles into the chair next to me, stretching his long legs and cracking his knuckles.
Emerson stays standing, hands clasped behind his back, that steady calm radiating off him even when I can tell his mind is spinning.
“Under control?” Rowan asks, his voice steady, threaded with curiosity.
“For the moment,” I reply, typing in a few more commands. “Dahlia got the bug planted. We’re pulling data now.”
The feed streams across the screen, fragmented audio that slowly sharpens into recognizable voices—Dean and Bryce. I adjust the volume, and the room falls silent.
Bryce’s voice comes through first, hoarse and angry. “They’ve frozen everything. All of it. The banks, the suppliers—hell, even the drivers won’t touch us now.”
Dean’s response is calmer but carries the same edge of desperation. “We’ll find another way. We always do.”
“Another way?” Bryce snaps. “With what money, Dean? Everyone’s pulling out. The accounts are locked. We’ve got no product, no leverage, and no one willing to take our calls. They’ve gutted us.”
The sound of his frustration grates on my nerves. I exchange a glance with Ronan, who gives me that look that says he’d be dead already if we were there.
Dean’s voice drops lower. “Then we focus on containment. Find whoever’s left, get them in line. We can’t let this spread.”
I glance at the signal trace, my fingers tightening around the edge of the desk. “They’re panicking,” I murmur. “Exactly what we want.”
Ronan smirks, dark satisfaction curling his lips. “Good. Let them sweat.”
But even as the others exchange small nods, something about the call unsettles me. The tone in Dean’s voice isn’t just anger—it’s calculation. He’s cornered, but he’s still thinking, still moving pieces we can’t see.
Emerson notices my silence. “What’s wrong?” he asks.
I shake my head slowly. “I don’t know yet. Just… something feels off.”
Rowan leans forward, studying the live warehouse feed. “Maybe it’s because the warehouse looks too calm,” he says. “If I were them, I’d have half that place emptied by now.”
On screen, workers move in and out, forklifts humming, boxes being loaded like any other day. It looks normal. Too normal.
“That’s what’s bothering me,” I admit. “They’re acting like nothing’s happening. Like they’re waiting for something.”
Ronan’s expression hardens. “Then we make sure they don’t get what they’re waiting for.”
We spent the next hour mapping out the warehouse.
I pull up blueprints and surveillance, tracing entry points and camera angles while the guys argue about charge placement and timing.
Rowan’s efficient, Ronan’s methodical, and Emerson balances them both with surgical precision. Together, they’re unstoppable.
When we finish, I lean back and rub my temples. “All right. We’ll hit the main floor first, plant the charges near the central loadout. That’ll take out most of the structure. Once it’s set, we move out and trigger remotely.”
“And Kimber?” Emerson asks quietly.
“She stays here,” I answer without hesitation. “No exceptions. We can’t risk her getting caught in the crossfire.”
Emerson frowns but doesn’t argue. Rowan and Ronan nod, understanding. We all know what’s at stake if we make one wrong move.
The room goes quiet again as we turn back to the screens. I watch the feed from the warehouse, the workers still moving with mechanical rhythm, completely unaware of the storm about to hit. My gut twists, an unease I can’t shake crawling just under my skin.
Everything looks right—too right—and I can’t tell if it’s the calm before the storm or a trap waiting to spring.
Still, I force myself to steady my breathing and focus. We’ve come too far to lose our nerve now.
“Let’s finish this,” I whisper, mostly to myself, as my fingers fly across the keyboard again.
But deep down, under the hum of machinery and the steady rhythm of my heartbeat, something cold curls in my chest. It’s instinct. A warning.
Something isn’t right—and I know it.
I move through the war room like it’s part of me, fingers grazing keyboards and maps as the others assemble.
The air tastes like metal and adrenaline, a thin electric buzz that keeps me sharp.
Ronan straps a pistol to his thigh with the practiced ease of somebody who’s been doing this far too long; Rowan checks his gun like he’s making sure the world will come into focus.
Emerson stands in the doorway, folding his arms, jaw working as he runs numbers in his head.
We don’t say much—there’s no need. The silence is dense with intent, layered with plans and unspoken vows, the kind of calm that settles in just before everything breaks loose.
I save Kimber’s room for last, stopping in before I gear up.
The thought of her seeing us armed twists something tight in my chest—a weight I refuse to hand to her.
She’s perched on the edge of her bed, knees pulled up, hair mussed from a nap.
When I crouch down to her level, she looks older than her years, like a lifetime of weight sits on her small shoulders and she carries it with the stubborn dignity of somebody who’s already learned too much.
I smooth a hand through her hair and force a smile.
“We’re going out tonight,” I tell her, softening my voice so it sounds less like a warning and more like a promise. “We’ll be back before you know it.”
She meets my eyes, blunt and steady. “Kick their asses,” she says, and the little grin she gives me has the look of someone daring fate. She isn’t naive. She’s been terrified and brave in equal measure, and the fact she can still joke like that makes something ache and swell in my chest.
“Deal,” I answer. I tuck a stray curl behind her ear and stand to go. “Stay inside. Lock the doors. No peeking.”
“Promise,” she says, but I can see the way she watches my face as I walk out. I know she understands more than she lets on.
We wait until dusk, that slant of light when the world looks like it might hide anything you move through it.
The beater van is rust-streaked and loud—perfect for blending into the docks—and I’d had it tuned and insulated for exactly this kind of night.
We slip into our roles like second skins.
Ronan’s face goes into that focused mode where humor falls away, and something colder takes over.
Rowan runs through the timeline one more time, cadence clipped, movements efficient.
Emerson checks our comm frequencies and distance windows, the numbers crisp as a surgeon’s incision.
They hover around me like shadows that refuse to let go, each of them protective in their own way.
Ronan watches every move I make, his sharp eyes tracking my hands like he’s waiting for an excuse to step in and take over, torn between pride and the need to shield me from danger.
Rowan stands close enough that I can feel the tension rolling off him, his jaw tight, his silence heavy with the words he’ll never say aloud.
He hates it—hates that I’m stepping into the same fire as they are—but he knows better than to try and stand in my way.
Emerson is the calm between them, his presence steady and commanding, a quiet authority that makes everyone fall in line without question.
Together, they’re a wall around me, a storm I somehow stand in the center of, safe and burning all at once.
We move through the house in a quiet, practiced rhythm, locking it down like it’s second nature.
Every door and window gets checked twice, the sound of bolts sliding home breaking the stillness of the early evening.
Rowan handles the back entrances, testing each latch until he’s satisfied nothing’s getting in or out.
Ronan checks the motion sensors, resetting the alarm system, and arming the perimeter cameras.
He even adds a few new deterrents—small, improvised traps that would make anyone think twice about stepping foot inside.
I focus on Kimber’s space, double-checking that anything she might need is close at hand.
A second phone, fully charged and programmed with our numbers, sits on her nightstand.
Her window locks get extra reinforcement, and I test her panic button twice to be sure it connects straight to our alert feed.
When I step back and glance around, the house feels a little too still, but secure.