Chapter 14
The first explosion came at three in the morning.
Channel was out of bed before the sound finished echoing, his body already moving while his brain caught up. Gunfire followed—staccato bursts from the gate, deeper booms from somewhere near the water.
"Two positions," he said, grabbing his weapon. "They're hitting us from both sides."
Reagan was already up, pulling on clothes, her face set in that controlled calm he'd learned to trust. Five days of peace, and now war had found them again.
"The families," she said.
"Lodge. Interior rooms, no windows." He crossed to her, caught her face in his hands, kissed her hard and fast. "Keep them safe."
"I will. Go."
He went.
The compound had erupted into controlled chaos. Brothers poured from cabins, weapons ready, moving to positions they'd drilled for situations exactly like this. Channel caught Cottonmouth's eye across the lot and got a sharp gesture toward the dock.
Gate and dock. Simultaneous assault. Someone had done their homework.
"Channel! With me!" Tailwater was already moving, his fishing-guide patience replaced by cold focus. "They're coming up from the water—probably used the cove access."
They sprinted for the dock, and Channel's mind raced through possibilities. Fourteen men, maybe more. Coordinated timing. Knowledge of compound layout and approach routes.
Bowlin. Farris's logistics man, the fence network coordinator. The brain behind the operation.
This wasn't a revenge hit. This was a professional operation.
They reached the tree line just as the first attackers broke from the dock. Channel counted eight men moving in a loose formation, spreading to flank the main buildings. They had coordination—but they moved like thieves, not soldiers. Gaps in their timing. Blind spots in their coverage.
"Left side, two moving toward the garage," Tailwater murmured. "Right side, three heading for the cabins."
"And three more holding the dock as backup." Channel raised his weapon. "Take the right. I've got left."
Tailwater nodded and melted into the shadows.
Channel moved.
The first two never saw him coming. He caught them at the corner of the garage, their attention focused forward, their flanks completely exposed. Two shots, two bodies dropping. Clean. Efficient. The way he'd been trained.
Shouts erupted from the dock. The backup team had heard the shots, were moving to investigate. Channel repositioned, using the garage for cover, tracking their approach.
Gunfire crackled from the gate—Cottonmouth and the others engaging the second assault team. The compound was a war zone now, muzzle flashes and screams cutting through the darkness.
And somewhere in the lodge, Reagan was keeping families safe.
Focus. Trust her. Handle your sector.
The backup team came around the garage in a rush, weapons up, looking for the threat they knew was there. Channel let them pass his position, then stepped out behind them.
Three shots. Three men down.
Movement at the tree line—more coming from the dock. These ones were smarter, using cover, advancing in bounds. Professional. Someone had trained them, or at least briefed them on how to move.
But they weren't ready for what they'd walked into.
Limestone appeared from the shadows like a ghost, flanking the advancing team from the opposite side. Channel held position, creating a crossfire, and waited.
The attackers pushed forward, focused on the buildings ahead. They never checked their flanks. Never adjusted for the possibility that someone was behind them.
Limestone opened up first. Channel followed half a second later.
Bodies dropped. Survivors scattered, running for cover that didn't exist.
"Clear on the dock side!" Tailwater's voice came through the chaos. "Eight down!"
Channel moved toward the gate, where the gunfire was still heavy. The second assault team was putting up more of a fight—they'd reached cover positions near the entrance and were trading fire with Cottonmouth's team.
And there, directing them from a position near the tree line, was Pete Bowlin.
Channel recognized him from the descriptions Reagan had given.
Late thirties, calculating eyes, the look of a man who ran numbers and logistics rather than pulled triggers himself.
But tonight he had a rifle in his hands, coordinating his men with sharp gestures, trying to salvage an operation that was falling apart.
Too late.
Channel circled wide, using the darkness, moving through terrain he'd memorized during months of prospect patrols. Bowlin was focused on the gate, on the firefight, on trying to punch through the Ridgerunner defense.
He didn't see Channel coming.
The first shot took Bowlin in the shoulder, spinning him sideways. The second caught him in the hip as he tried to bring his rifle around. He went down hard, screaming, his weapon skittering across the gravel.
Channel closed the distance with his gun trained on Bowlin's chest.
"Call them off," he said.
"Fuck you—"
Channel shot him in the knee. The scream that followed was raw, animal, the sound of a man who'd never experienced real violence despite dealing in it for years.
"Call them off. Now."
Bowlin was crying, blood spreading beneath him, the calculating intelligence in his eyes replaced by pure terror. "Fall back!" he screamed toward his remaining men. "Fall back, fall back!"
The gunfire stuttered. Slowed. Men broke from their positions and ran for the access road, leaving their dead behind.
Channel watched them go, then looked down at Bowlin.
"Farris sent you."
"He'll kill you." Bowlin coughed blood. "All of you. This was just—just the opening. He's got more men, more resources—"
"He's got one less logistics manager." Channel aimed at Bowlin's head. "Tell him yourself when you see him in hell."
The shot echoed across the compound.
Silence followed. Real silence—no more gunfire, no more screams. Just the aftermath of violence settling over the property like morning fog.
"Channel!" Cottonmouth's voice. "Clear at the gate!"
"Clear at the dock!" Tailwater confirmed.
Channel stood over Bowlin's body for a moment, breathing hard, letting the adrenaline burn through him. Then he turned and ran for the lodge.
Reagan. Reagan. Reagan.
He hit the door at full speed, bursting into the main room with his weapon up—and found her standing in the center of the space, calm as lake water, directing compound families like she'd been doing it her whole life.
"Medical supplies are in the back closet," she was saying to one of the old ladies. "Jolene, can you check on the kids in the interior room? Carmen, I need you to—"
She saw him and stopped.
For a heartbeat, they just looked at each other. Blood on his clothes, gun in his hand, the remnants of battle still echoing outside. And her, steady and strong, holding everything together while the world fell apart around her.
"Tyler." The name came out broken. Relieved.
He crossed the room and pulled her into his arms.
"You're okay." He buried his face in her hair, feeling her shake against him. "You're okay. Please tell me you're okay."
"I'm fine. The families are fine." Her hands fisted in his jacket, holding on tight. "The shooting stopped. What happened?"
"They're dead or running. Bowlin's down." He pulled back just enough to see her face. "You held the lodge."
"Someone had to."
"You could have hidden. Could have stayed in the back with the kids."
"I don't hide." Her chin lifted, that defiant fire he loved blazing in her eyes. "And those families needed someone keeping them calm. So I kept them calm."
God, he loved her.
The thought hit him like a bullet to the chest. Not wanted. Not needed. Loved. This woman who organized chaos and faced down violence and held his name in her mouth like something precious.
He kissed her. Hard, desperate, not caring that half the compound was watching. Her arms came around his neck and she kissed him back, and for one perfect moment, nothing existed but the two of them.
"Well." Cottonmouth's dry voice broke the moment. "Guess we know where the prospect's priorities are."
Channel pulled back, his face heating. Reagan laughed—actually laughed, the sound bright and wild with released tension.
"Report," Still's voice cut through. The president had appeared in the doorway, his face grim, a rifle in his hands. "Casualties?"
"Fourteen attackers," Cottonmouth said. "Nine down, including Bowlin. Five fled. No dead on our side—Proof took a graze to the arm, Limestone's got some cuts from glass. Nothing serious."
"The families?"
"All accounted for." Reagan stepped forward, her voice steady despite the shake Channel could feel in her hands. "Minor panic, no injuries. The interior rooms held."
Still's gaze moved over her, assessing. Whatever he saw made him nod slowly.
"Good work. All of you." He looked at Channel. "The prospect too."
Channel felt the words land in his chest, heavier than they should have been. Praise from Still. Acknowledgment. Another step toward the patch he was fighting for.
But right now, all he cared about was the woman beside him.
"What happens now?" Reagan asked. "Farris will know his assault failed. He'll come back with more."
"Let him come." Cottonmouth's smile was all teeth. "We'll be ready."
"She's right, though." Limestone moved to the window, checking the perimeter. "This was a professional hit. Bowlin coordinated it, but Farris planned it. He'll adapt."
"Then we adapt first." Still holstered his weapon. "Church, one hour. We plan our response." His gaze found Reagan again. "You should be there. You know how these people operate better than anyone."
Channel felt Reagan stiffen beside him. An invitation to Church—the club's inner council. That wasn't given lightly.
"I'll be there," she said.
Still nodded and walked out. The compound began to reorganize around them—brothers checking positions, old ladies herding families, the controlled chaos of aftermath giving way to recovery.
Channel kept his arm around Reagan, needing the contact, needing to feel her solid and real beside him.
"Nine down," she said quietly. "Including Bowlin."
"He was the logistics man. The brain." Channel looked out the window, where brothers were already moving bodies. "Without him, Farris's operation gets sloppy."
"And when it gets sloppy?"
"We exploit it." He pulled her closer. "But not tonight. Tonight, we breathe."
Reagan leaned into him, her head against his chest, and together they watched the compound settle into its new reality.
War had come to their door. They'd answered it with blood and fire.
And somewhere out there, Farris was learning exactly what it cost to threaten Ridgerunner territory.
Channel figured he hadn't learned enough yet.
But he would.