Chapter 18
Church was called at sunset.
Paige had never been inside the chapel before—the converted processing office where Salt Blood held their formal meetings.
The room was smaller than she'd expected, dominated by a massive table made from reclaimed wood, the club's insignia carved into its center.
Chairs lined the walls, but the officers sat at the table itself: Anchor at the head, Hurricane and Compass flanking him, Trawler and the others filling out the rest.
And Channel, standing at the far end with a map spread before him, looking every inch the dangerous man she'd fallen for.
"Trask's warehouse," he said without preamble. "Main operations hub. This is where he coordinates shipments, stores product, runs his entire network. We take this, we take him."
Paige stood against the wall with the other non-officers—though "stood" was generous. She'd been invited to observe, which was more than most women got. Carly had told her that much.
"What do we know about defenses?" Anchor asked.
"Twelve to fifteen men on any given night.
Rotating shifts, but predictable patterns.
" Channel traced the warehouse's perimeter on the map.
"The problem is access. The place is built like a fortress—one main road in, water on three sides, and Trask's been running operations long enough to know every approach anyone's ever tried. "
"So we find one he doesn't know," Hurricane said.
"Already done." Channel's smile was sharp, predatory.
"There's a channel that runs behind the property—doesn't show up on any modern charts because the old watermen who used it are dead.
Silted up enough that most boats can't navigate it.
But at high tide, with the right draft, you can get within fifty yards of the back fence without anyone seeing you. "
The brothers exchanged glances. Paige could see the pieces clicking into place—the smuggler's knowledge that made Channel invaluable, the routes he'd memorized during years of running product through these waterways.
"You're sure about the approach?" Compass leaned forward, studying the map.
"I've run it myself. Three nights ago." Channel's finger traced a winding path through the marsh. "Tidal window is narrow—ninety minutes either side of high tide. But if we time it right, we're inside the perimeter before they know we're coming."
"And once we're in?"
Everyone turned to look at Paige.
She pushed off the wall, aware of every eye in the room following her movement. "May I?"
Anchor nodded.
She crossed to the table, pulling out the reconnaissance photos she'd compiled over the past two days. Drone footage from Compass's contacts. Satellite images. Her own observations from a careful drive-by that Channel didn't know about yet.
"The warehouse has three entry points," she said, spreading the photos across the map.
"Main loading dock here—heavily guarded, obvious approach, suicide to use.
Side door here—less obvious, but Trask keeps two men on it at all times.
And here—" She tapped a photo of a rusted access hatch near the waterline.
"Storm drainage from when this was a legitimate processing plant.
It's been sealed, but the seal is corroded.
One man with a crowbar could have it open in thirty seconds. "
"You've been doing homework," Hurricane observed.
"I've been doing my job." Paige met his cold gaze without flinching. "The drainage access puts you inside the warehouse's lower level—storage area, minimal personnel. From there, you've got two staircases leading to the main floor where Trask keeps his office."
"And the men?"
"Concentrated on the main floor, with a skeleton crew patrolling the perimeter." She pulled out another photo—thermal imaging from a drone pass. "Heat signatures suggest they cluster near the loading dock after dark. Minimal presence on the back approach."
Anchor studied the photos, then looked at Channel. "Your route gets us in. Her intel tells us what we're facing."
"The plan works if we hit them at the right time," Channel agreed. "High tide at 0300 tomorrow. We go in quiet, eliminate the perimeter guards, breach through the drainage access. By the time Trask knows we're there, we're already inside."
"And Trask himself?" Trawler's voice was a low rumble.
"Mine." The word came out of Channel's mouth like a weapon. "He sent his people to burn her inn. Sent his enforcer to murder her in her bed. This ends with me and him, face to face."
The possessive edge in his voice sent something warm spiraling through Paige's chest, even as the tactical part of her brain cataloged the danger. Personal vendettas made for sloppy operations. Emotional involvement led to mistakes.
But this wasn't just personal for Channel. It was personal for all of them.
"Assignments," Anchor said, and the room went quiet. "Hurricane takes the loading dock team—diversionary action to draw their attention forward. Compass and Riptide handle perimeter elimination. Trawler leads the breach through drainage. Channel, you're on Trask the moment we're inside."
Nods around the table. Weapons checked. The grim satisfaction of men about to finish a war they hadn't started.
"And Paige?" Trawler asked.
Everyone looked at Channel.
Paige felt her spine stiffen, already knowing what was coming.
"Paige stays at the compound," Channel said.
"The hell I do."
The words were out before she could stop them, cutting through the tension like a blade. Channel's jaw tightened, but he didn't look away.
"This isn't a defensive action. It's an assault on a fortified position against unknown numbers. The risk—"
"I know the risk." Paige stepped closer, aware of every brother watching this unfold. "I've been running operations like this since I was twenty-two. I've breached buildings in Fallujah and cleared compounds in Kandahar. Don't tell me I can't handle a warehouse in Virginia."
"I'm not questioning your capability."
"Then what are you questioning?"
Channel moved around the table until they were face to face, close enough that she could see the fear beneath the determination in his eyes.
"I'm not questioning anything," he said, his voice low enough that only she could hear. "I'm telling you that if you're there, I won't be able to focus. I'll be watching you instead of watching Trask. I'll be worrying about your position instead of holding mine."
"That's not—"
"It's exactly fair." His hand came up to grip her arm, the touch gentle despite the tension in his body. "You make me better, Paige. In every way that matters. But you also make me vulnerable. And tomorrow night, I can't afford to be vulnerable."
She wanted to argue. Every instinct she had screamed that she should be there, should be fighting beside him, should be part of the team that ended this.
But she could see it in his eyes—the terror he was trying to hide, the desperate need to know she was safe while he walked into danger.
"You're asking me to wait," she said quietly. "While you go into a fight that might kill you."
"I'm asking you to trust me." His forehead dropped to hers. "Trust that I'll come back. Trust that I can do this if I know you're protected."
"And if you don't come back?"
"Then you burn his operation to the ground and make sure the world knows why." His smile was fierce and sad at once. "But I'm coming back. I've got too much to live for now to die in some smuggler's warehouse."
Paige closed her eyes, feeling the war inside her chest. The soldier who'd never sat out a fight. The woman who loved a man stupid enough to think he could protect her by leaving her behind.
But under all of it was something else. Something newer and more fragile.
Trust.
She'd spent her career trusting her own skills, her own judgment, her own ability to control outcomes. And where had it gotten her? A burned inn and a life built on isolation.
Channel was asking her to trust him. To believe that he knew what he needed to succeed. To let go of control and have faith that he'd come back to her.
It was the hardest thing anyone had ever asked of her.
"Okay," she said.
His eyes snapped open. "Okay?"
"I'll stay." She gripped his cut, pulling him closer. "But you listen to me, Everett Long. You walk into that warehouse tomorrow night, and you walk out again. You do whatever it takes, kill whoever you have to, but you come home to me. Understood?"
"Understood."
"Say it."
"I'll come home." He kissed her, hard and fast, right there in front of his brothers. A claiming. A promise. "I swear to God, Paige. I'll come home."
She believed him.
The meeting broke up with assignments confirmed and a timeline set. Brothers filed out to prepare, leaving Paige and Channel alone in the chapel with the map still spread across the table.
"You could have fought harder," he said quietly.
"I could have." She traced the route he'd drawn—the hidden channel, the drainage access, the path that led straight to Trask. "But I know what it's like to go into an operation with your head split between the mission and someone you love."
"And?"
"And it gets people killed." She looked up at him, letting him see the fear she was finally willing to admit. "I don't want to be the reason you make a mistake tomorrow. I don't want to be the distraction that costs you everything."
"You're not a distraction."
"I'm something, though." She smiled, the expression bittersweet. "Something that matters enough to make you scared. And scared gets you dead."
Channel pulled her against him, wrapping his arms around her like he could shield her from the world.
"I've never been scared before," he admitted. "Not like this. Running operations, walking into danger—I was always calm. Calculating. Ready to die if that's what the job required."
"And now?"
"Now I've got something to lose." His voice cracked on the words. "Someone to come home to. And it terrifies me more than any threat Trask could ever pose."
Paige held him tighter, breathing in the scent of leather and salt air and the man she loved.
"Then you use that fear," she said. "You let it make you careful instead of reckless. You come home because you've got someone waiting, not in spite of it."
"Is that what you did? In Iraq?"
"I didn't have anyone waiting." She pulled back enough to meet his eyes. "Maybe that's why I was so good at my job. Nothing to lose means nothing to protect."
"And now?"
"Now I've got you." She kissed him, soft and lingering. "So you come home, Everett. Because I'm done losing things I love."
The word hung between them—love—the first time she'd said it, even obliquely.
Channel's eyes went bright.
"I'll come home," he said again, and she heard the promise in every syllable. "For you. Always for you."
Tomorrow, he would walk into a smuggler's warehouse and face a man who'd been destroying lives for fifteen years. Tomorrow, she would wait at the compound, watching the horizon and praying to gods she wasn't sure she believed in.
But tonight, they had this.
She took his hand and led him out of the chapel, toward the room they shared, toward the hours they had left before dawn changed everything.
She agreed to stay because she trusted his judgment.
And because she needed him to come home.