Chapter 3
Channel needed a jacket.
His civilian clothes had worn thin—two years of deployment didn't leave much time for wardrobe updates, and everything he'd owned before enlisting had been sold with the lake house.
Cottonmouth had mentioned a thrift store near Table Rock that carried decent leather, and a prospect running errands was a prospect staying useful.
Second Chances occupied a narrow storefront on Main Street, sandwiched between a tourist trap selling Ozark souvenirs and a barbecue joint that made Channel's stomach growl.
The window display showed vintage dress forms and carefully arranged furniture.
Classy. Someone with an eye had put this place together.
He pushed through the door.
The woman behind the counter flinched.
It was small—a fractional tightening of her shoulders, a half-step toward the back of the store—but Channel had spent two tours learning to read body language in places where a wrong read got you killed. This woman was scared, and she was trying hard not to show it.
She was also beautiful.
Not pretty in the soft, easy way of the women who hung around the compound hoping to catch a brother's attention.
This was something sharper. Five-five, lean and watchful, with dark hair pulled back and eyes that assessed him with the cool calculation of someone who'd learned early not to trust what walked through doors.
Those eyes were what got him. Wary and defiant at the same time, like she expected trouble but refused to back down from it.
Channel felt something shift in his chest. Something that had nothing to do with the jacket he'd come for.
"Help you?" Her voice was steady. Impressive, given the way her body had telegraphed fear a moment ago.
"Looking for leather." He kept his voice easy, non-threatening, the way you'd approach a spooked animal. "Cottonmouth said you carry good stuff."
Recognition flickered across her face. "You're with the Ridgerunners."
"Prospect." He tapped his cut. "Still earning my place."
She relaxed. Fractionally, but he noticed.
"Leather's on the back wall. Mostly vintage, some newer pieces." She gestured toward the rear of the store, and that's when Channel saw the bruises.
Purple and yellow, wrapped around her wrist like a bracelet. More on her forearms, visible where her sleeves had ridden up. The kind of marks that came from being grabbed hard by someone who didn't care about damage.
His vision went red at the edges.
"Who did that?"
The words came out harder than he'd intended. She stiffened, pulling her sleeves down, and he watched the walls go back up behind her eyes.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"The bruises." He moved toward the counter before he could stop himself, drawn by something deeper than curiosity. "On your wrists. Your arms. Someone grabbed you."
"I fell."
"Into someone's hands?"
Her chin came up. Defiant. Magnificent.
"I don't know you," she said. "And I don't owe you an explanation."
"No." Channel stopped at the counter, close enough now to see the faint shadows under her eyes, the tension in her jaw. "You don't. But someone hurt you, and I'm asking who."
"Why do you care?"
Good question. He didn't have a good answer. He'd walked in looking for a jacket and found a woman with bruises and battle-ready eyes, and something in him had decided that whoever put those marks on her was going to answer for it.
"Maybe I just don't like seeing a woman hurt."
"Maybe you should mind your own business."
She said it without heat, more tired than angry.
Channel looked past her, taking in the store with fresh eyes.
The register was closed, but something about the way it sat suggested emptiness.
One of the clothing racks had a bent rail—recently hammered, from the look of the marks.
And she'd positioned herself with a clear line to the back exit, like someone expecting trouble to come through the front door.
He'd seen setups like this before. Forward operating bases after an attack. The controlled aftermath of violence, everything put back in place but the damage still visible if you knew how to look.
"Someone hit your store," he said. Not a question.
Her expression flickered. Surprise that he'd read it, maybe. Or resignation that she couldn't hide it.
"Like I said. Mind your own business."
"Can't do that."
"Why not?"
"Because I'm looking at a soldier holding ground alone." The words came out before he could think about them. "And where I come from, you don't leave soldiers alone when they're outnumbered."
Something shifted in her face. The wariness cracked, just a little, and underneath he glimpsed exhaustion. Fear. The weight of fighting a battle she couldn't win.
"Three men," she said quietly. "Three days ago. They want me to fence stolen goods. Electronics, jewelry, stuff they take from vacation homes. I told them no."
"And they took your cash."
"As a down payment." Her laugh was bitter. "They said they'd be back for the rest."
Channel's hands curled into fists at his sides. "Who are they?"
"The one who did the grabbing called himself Culver. Said his boss's name was Farris." She met his eyes, and the defiance was back, fiercer than before. "They said they've burned out other stores. Put an owner in the hospital. Told me I could cooperate or end up the same way."
"What'd you tell them?"
"That I'd rather lose everything I built than become a fence."
Christ. She was either the bravest woman he'd ever met or the most stubborn. Probably both.
"That's when they shoved me into the rack." She gestured at the bent rail. "Walked out with my cash and a promise to come back."
"And you're still here."
"Where else would I go?" She spread her hands, taking in the store, the racks, the carefully arranged displays. "This is everything I have. I built it from nothing. I'm not running because some asshole thinks he can take it from me."
Channel stared at her. The bruises, the defiance, the steel underneath the exhaustion. A woman standing alone against a crew that burned out businesses and put people in hospitals, refusing to bend because bending meant losing everything she'd fought for.
Mine.
The thought hit him like a fist to the chest. Irrational, possessive, completely inappropriate for a woman he'd known for five minutes.
He didn't care.
"Stay here," he said.
"Excuse me?"
"Stay here. Don't close up, don't go anywhere." He pulled out his phone. "I need to make a call."
"Who are you calling?"
"People who handle problems like this."
Her eyes narrowed. "I didn't ask for help."
"No." He met her gaze, let her see the thing that had shifted in his chest, the thing that had decided she was his to protect whether she liked it or not. "You didn't. But you're getting it anyway."
She opened her mouth—to argue, probably, because everything about her screamed that she didn't accept help from anyone—but Channel was already dialing.
Cottonmouth picked up on the second ring. "What?"
"I'm at Second Chances. That thrift store near Table Rock."
"The jacket place? What about it?"
"Owner's got a problem. Farris's crew—the vacation home burglars. They're forcing businesses to fence stolen merchandise. She said no, and they're coming back to make her say yes."
Silence on the line. Then: "Hold on."
The phone clicked, and Channel waited. Reagan watched him with those wary, defiant eyes, arms crossed over her chest, every line of her body screaming that she didn't need him, didn't want him, didn't trust him.
He didn't look away.
Cottonmouth's voice came back. "Still wants to talk to you."
Another click, and then the president's voice, calm as lake water at dawn. "Report."
"Farris's crew is running a fence operation through the Table Rock businesses. Hit this store three days ago, stole the owner's cash, threatened to burn her out if she doesn't cooperate. She refused."
"She alone?"
Channel looked at Reagan. Alone in her store, bruised, stubborn, refusing to run even when running was the smart play.
"Not anymore."
Still processed this in silence. Then: "Farris's crew is operating in Ridgerunner territory. That makes it club business."
"Copy."
"Stay with her. I'll send Cottonmouth and Limestone for backup. We handle our territory."
"Understood."
The line went dead.
Channel pocketed his phone and turned back to Reagan. She hadn't moved, but something in her posture had shifted—less hostile, more uncertain.
"Well?" she asked.
"You've got the Ozark Ridgerunners' attention." He leaned against the counter, making himself comfortable in her space, claiming territory he had no right to. "Farris is operating in our backyard. That means whatever he does to businesses here, he's doing to us."
"So this is about territory. Not about me."
"It's about both."
Her eyes searched his face, looking for the lie. He let her look. Let her see that he meant every word.
"I didn't ask for a biker gang to fight my battles."
"Club. Not gang." He smiled, just a little. "And you didn't ask. But here I am."
"Why?"
Because you're standing alone against men who destroy everything they touch, and something in me can't let that happen. Because you've got bruises on your wrists and fire in your eyes and I haven't been able to think straight since I walked through that door.
"Because someone should," he said. "And no one else is stepping up."
She stared at him for a long moment. Then, slowly, she uncrossed her arms.
"I still don't know your name."
"Channel." He held out his hand. "That's the road name. The one that matters."
She took his hand. Her grip was firm, her palm callused from work, and the touch sent heat racing up his arm.
"Reagan."
"Nice to meet you, Reagan." He held her hand a beat longer than necessary, watching the awareness flicker in her eyes. "Now. Tell me everything about Farris, and let's figure out how to make sure he never touches you again."