Chapter 22
TWENTY-TWO
DAGGER
The clubhouse is buzzing with tension, the kind that makes your skin prickle. The kind that tells you something big is about to go down. I sit at the corner of the bar, my fingers drumming against the scarred wood, listening as Mason, Sledge, and Hawk pour over a map spread across the counter. Their voices are low but urgent, every word dripping with intent.
“We’ve got a tip,” Mason growls, stabbing a finger at a point on the map. “The Russians are moving tonight. They’re hitting the docks again, and this time, they’re bringing backup. They’re not just looking to steal; they’re looking to take us out of the game completely.”
Hawk leans in, his sharp eyes scanning the layout. “How reliable is the tip?”
“It came from one of Benny’s guys,” Mason replies, referring to our usual informant in the port. “He’s never steered us wrong before.”
“And he’s sure it’s happening tonight?” I ask, my voice cutting through the chatter.
Mason looks up, meeting my eyes. “Dead sure. We’ve got one shot to stop this, Dagger. If we don’t, they’ll cripple us.”
I nod, my jaw tightening. The Russians have been testing our patience for weeks, pushing boundaries, making moves they shouldn’t be making. This attack isn’t just another petty power play—it’s a declaration of war. And I’ll be damned if I let them take what’s ours without a fight.
Mason straightens, his eyes scanning the room. “We’ve got to send a message tonight. One they won’t forget. We hit them hard, and we hit them fast. Sledge, Hawk, you’ll take the north side of the docks. Dagger, you’re with me. We’ll cover the south.”
Sledge grins, his teeth flashing in the dim light. “Finally, some action.”
Hawk gives a curt nod, already pulling on his jacket. “What’s the play?”
“We set a trap,” Mason says, his voice hard. “Benny’s guy says they’re moving the stolen goods through the storage units near Pier eleven. We’ll corner them there and take back what’s ours.”
I glance toward the kitchen, where Chloe, Jenny, and Sophie are sitting with Beast. Chloe’s laughing softly, holding the pup as he gnaws on a toy. She doesn’t know what’s about to go down, and I intend to keep it that way. She’s got enough to worry about without this hanging over her.
“What about the clubhouse?” Jax asks from the corner. He’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed, his usual smirk replaced with a serious expression. “If this goes south, they might try to hit us here.”
Mason nods. “Piston and Tank, you’re staying behind. Lock the place down. No one gets in or out unless it’s us.”
Piston grunts his agreement, already checking the clip on his pistol. “No one’s touching this place on my watch.”
“Alright, boys,” Mason says, his voice rising. “Gear up. We roll out in twenty.”
The room erupts into motion, everyone moving with purpose. I head to the back, grabbing my cut and slipping it on. The weight of the leather feels like a second skin, familiar and steady. My pistol goes into the holster on my hip, and I check my blade, making sure it’s secure.
Chloe appears in the doorway, her arms crossed, her eyes sharp and questioning. “What’s going on?”
“Club business,” I say, trying to keep my tone neutral. “Nothing you need to worry about.”
Her eyes narrow, and she steps closer. “That’s not an answer, Dagger.”
I sigh, stepping forward and placing a hand on her shoulder. For a second, I just look at her, taking in the concern etched into her face. “We’re handling the Russians,” I say, my voice softening. “That’s all you need to know. Stay here, stay safe, and don’t open that door for anyone but us.”
She’s quiet for a moment, like she’s weighing whether to push me further. Her gaze flicks to my holster, to the tension in my shoulders, and I can see the worry settle in her eyes. “Be careful,” she says softly, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Always,” I promise, but it doesn’t feel like enough. Not for her, not for me. Before I can think too much, I pull her into me, one hand sliding to the back of her neck as I lower my mouth to hers. The kiss is deep, full of everything I can’t put into words. I pour all of it into her—the love, the fear, the promise that I’ll come back.
When I finally pull away, she’s staring at me, her cheeks flushed. She folds her arms across her chest, her eyes narrowing slightly. “That better not be the last damn kiss you give me,” she grumbles.
A small smile tugs at my lips. “It won’t be,” I tell her, my voice steady. “Lockdown rules, Chloe. Stick to them, alright?”
She nods reluctantly, her tough exterior slipping just enough to let me see the worry underneath. Without another word, I turn and head out, the weight of what’s ahead heavier than ever.
We roll out as a pack, the roar of our bikes cutting through the night. Mason leads the way, his headlights slicing through the darkness, and I’m right behind him. The docks loom ahead, their shadowed shapes growing larger as we approach.
We kill the engines a few blocks out, coasting into the lot silently. Mason signals for us to dismount, and we move quickly, spreading out and taking our positions. The air is heavy with the smell of saltwater and diesel, and every sound seems amplified in the quiet.
“You see anything?” I whisper to Mason as we crouch behind a stack of shipping containers.
“Not yet,” he murmurs, his eyes scanning the area. “But they’ll be here.”
Minutes tick by, the tension mounting with every second. Then, in the distance, headlights appear, cutting through the darkness. Two vans roll into the lot, their engines idling as figures climb out.
“That’s them,” Mason mutters. “Everyone in position.”
I nod and move to my spot, crouching low behind another stack of containers. I grip my gun tightly, my pulse steady but thrumming in my ears. The Russians move with purpose, opening the back of the vans and pulling out crates. I recognize the markings immediately—those are our guns.
Mason gives the signal, and we move as one, emerging from the shadows with weapons drawn.
“Drop it!” Mason barks, his voice echoing through the lot. “Now!”
The Russians freeze for a moment, their hands hovering near their weapons. One of them, a tall guy with a shaved head, steps forward, his lips curling into a sneer. “You think you can scare us?” he says in heavily accented English.
Mason doesn’t hesitate. “You’re on our turf, with our goods. This ends now. Drop the crates and walk away, or it’ll get bloody.”
Shaved Head laughs, a cold, harsh sound. “You don’t scare us, Reapers.” He gestures to his men. “Kill them.”
All hell breaks loose. The Russians draw their weapons, and the lot erupts in gunfire. I dive behind a container as bullets ricochet off the metal, returning fire and taking down one of the Russians. Around me, the brothers are holding their ground, their shots precise and calculated.
Sledge takes out two men with his shotgun, the blasts echoing like thunder. Hawk moves with lethal precision, his blade flashing as he takes down a man trying to flank us. Mason’s shouting orders, his voice cutting through the chaos.
I spot Shaved Head trying to slip away, dragging one of the crates with him. “Not a chance,” I mutter, breaking cover and sprinting toward him. He turns, raising his pistol, but I’m faster. My shot hits him square in the chest, and he drops to the ground, the crate falling beside him.
“Dagger!” Mason shouts, motioning toward the vans. More Russians are piling out, reinforcements we didn’t expect.
“We’ve got this,” I call back, signaling to Jax and Sledge. Together, we push forward, taking out the newcomers before they can gain ground. The vans become cover for a brutal firefight, but we hold the line, forcing them back with sheer determination.
After what feels like an eternity, the gunfire finally stops. The lot is littered with bodies, and the remaining Russians are retreating, dragging their wounded with them.
Mason steps forward, his gun still raised. “Get out of here,” he growls. “And tell your boss if he comes for us again, we’ll finish the job.”
The Russians don’t argue. They pile into the remaining van and peel out, disappearing into the night.
“Status check,” Mason calls, turning to the brothers.
“We’re good,” Hawk says, wiping blood from his blade. “Took some hits, but nothing serious.”
I glance around, my chest heaving as the adrenaline starts to wear off. The crates are still here, and more importantly, so are we.
Mason walks over, clapping me on the shoulder. “You did good, Dagger.”
“So did you,” I reply, my voice steady despite the chaos we’ve just survived.
“Let’s get the goods loaded up and get the hell out of here,” Mason says. “The Russians will be licking their wounds for a while, but we can’t let our guard down.”
As we load the crates onto our trucks, I can’t help but think of Chloe back at the clubhouse. This fight isn’t over, not by a long shot. But for tonight, we’ve sent a message loud and clear, The Iron Reapers aren’t to be fucked with.
We get back to the clubhouse, and everyone is there waiting on us. The tension in the room breaks as soon as Mason walks through the door, a rare smile spreading across his face. Before he can say anything, Carlie runs into his arms, and he picks her up, swinging her around. She laughs, her arms wrapped tight around his neck, and for a moment, it’s like nothing else matters.
I’ve seen these hardass guys fall in love and be completely whipped by their women, but now I finally understand. As soon as Chloe spots me, she’s rushing toward me, her eyes scanning me for any sign of injury.
The moment she’s close enough, I scoop her up, and her legs wrap around my waist as her hands frame my face, checking me over. “Are you okay?” she asks, her voice a mix of worry and relief.
“I’m fine, baby,” I say, my voice softening as I brush her hair back from her face. Before I can say more, she leans in and kisses me, her lips urgent and full of emotion.
“I love you, Dagger,” she says when she pulls back, her voice trembling slightly. “I know I’m not supposed to say it so soon, and I’m supposed to wait until you say it to me first, but—”
“Baby, shut up,” I cut her off, a grin tugging at my lips. “I love you too. I love you so damn much.”
She laughs, her forehead resting against mine as our mouths meet again. The kiss is deep and consuming, my hands gripping her thighs to hold her close. For a moment, it’s just us, the chaos of the world fading into the background.
Then someone clears their throat.
I glance up to see Hawk standing a few feet away, looking thoroughly uncomfortable. He shifts on his feet, then holds out his hand for me to shake. “Treat her right,” he says, his voice low and serious. “She deserves it and so much more.”
I take his hand, gripping it firmly. “I will. You have my word.”
Hawk nods once, then turns to walk away. But before he can get far, Chloe wriggles out of my arms and follows him, tapping him on the shoulder.
I watch as she says something to him, her voice too low for me to catch. Whatever it is makes Hawk smile, a genuine one that reaches his eyes. Then, to my surprise, he leans down and pulls her into a big hug.
I know Hawk wanted her. Hell, he made it clear enough in the past. But she chose me. And damnit, I’ll never give her a reason to regret it.