Chapter Four
Hogan stood outside the van, fists jammed into his hips, anger boiling in his chest. The night air was cool, the sound of the waterfall muted by the pounding in his ears.
Kai had been trying to shoulder this storm alone—DEA moles, Kavaci expansion, goddamn assassins in the shadows.
And Hogan? He’d been on the sidelines, watching the man bleed out secrets like they were nothing.
It ate at him. He was supposed to be the one to carry weight, to shield the people he cared about.
Not watch from the periphery while Kai destroyed himself piece by piece to save him and his team.
And then Chechnya. The memory came jagged, not whole, and to be fair, a lot of it was pieced together from conversations with his team and the reports.
Amnesia did not play fair. The truth of the matter was that he remembered very little of that mission three years ago, the one that had gone to hell in a hurry.
But he knew that they’d been ordered to advance into a village—intel said it was clear, soft ground.
Bullshit. It had been a trap. A kill box.
They had managed to escape, because they were fucking awesome, but not without a loss—Bateman was taken.
He had stepped in front of Ricky and taken a taser to the chest, and that was it.
Ultimately, Bateman had been taken because of that order, because Command had thrown them into a pit they never should’ve been in.
In the end, they’d all come out wounded, broken, scarred.
Hogan had walked away without memory of the eight months before it.
Eight months erased, leaving holes where there should have been a life.
It infuriated him. He could accept scars, could accept failure—but not ignorance.
Not knowing. And yet here he was, standing under Hawaiian stars and realizing he knew things he shouldn’t.
So why the hell did he know Kai’s cereal preference?
Why did he know he drank soy milk? Why did the cadence of Hawaiian curses feel so familiar on his tongue?
How did he know the words Kael and Kai spoke on the call before, and their translation.
A hui hou, until we meet again. Mālama pono, take care.
None of it made sense—unless the truth was exactly what he feared.
He and Kai had known each other before Chechnya.
Maybe more than known. And he had forgotten.
He stormed back into the van, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the glasses in their holders.
Kai looked up from the table, laptop still glowing, intel spread out around him.
The man looked steady, calm, but Hogan could see the faint tightness at the corner of his mouth. He knew Hogan was wound up.
“Were we in a relationship before Chechnya?” Hogan demanded, voice blunt as a fist.
Kai’s eyes flickered, but he didn’t answer right away.
“Don’t skirt me, Kai. I want the truth.”
For a long moment, silence stretched. Then Kai nodded once. “Yes. But you need to remember it in your own time. If there’s anything you need now, I’ll tell you. But don’t force it, Ace. We’re here, we’re safe. Take the time to get to know me again.”
The words scraped, rougher than Hogan expected, but there was no mistaking the sincerity.
Hogan sat down heavily across from him, chest tight, and dragged the intel pack closer.
Surge’s files laid it all out in grim detail—the Kavaci, splintered but united under the Bratya, five heads of a single beast driving expansion.
Child and sex trafficking. And Hawai’i—Hawai’i Nei—marked as a keystone hub.
Hogan flipped page after page, jaw tightening. Pictures. Names. Charts. Money flowing like water through shell companies. Flight logs tying men to islands where children vanished. The ugliness was raw and close. “Why Hawai’i? Why not anywhere else?” he asked, voice low and sharp.
Kai exhaled. “God, take your pick of good reasons. Great access with strong shipping lanes, a year-round supply of tourists and transients, and it’s easier to hide in paradise.
Nothing poisons faster than selling children from your own backyard.
” His tone cracked, betraying more emotion than he probably meant to show.
Hogan’s gut twisted. The files were worse than anything he’d expected. He’d seen cartel violence, seen warlords burn villages, but this? Children sold like products. The Bratya had turned paradise into a market.
“Five heads to this beast,” he muttered, scanning the list. “Five men running this monster.”
Kai nodded grimly. “Each one controls a sector—distribution, recruitment, laundering, security, and expansion. Cut off one, the others adapt. But take them all down ... that’s how you stop it spreading.”
Silence settled, thick as smoke. Hogan glanced at Kai. He looked tired, bruised, still healing, but his eyes were hard. He wanted this fight. Needed it.
The laptop pinged, breaking the moment. Kael’s face appeared, grin easy but eyes sharp. “Hey, braddah. We’re bringing dinner. Me and the boys are heading out your way. We’ll talk when we get there.”
Hogan leaned forward, studying the man—Kai’s brother, leader of Black Tide. He looked like trouble and salvation rolled into one. “Bring plenty of kalua pig and poke,” Hogan said flatly. “It looks like we’ve got a war to plan.”
The screen went dark. Hogan leaned back, pulse still pounding. Outside, the night pressed close. Inside, the weight of what they’d just read settled over them both. Five heads of a monster. And a war that had only just begun.
****
Kai heard the rumble of engines before the lights cut across the trees.
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth despite the ache in his side.
Two matte-black Mercedes Sprinters, identical to the one they lived in rolled up the track, headlights dimmed, the sound of gravel crunching under thick tires. Black Tide had arrived.
Doors opened first, and introductions came the way they always did—with presence, not ceremony.
Kael stepped out, tall and broad, hair tied back, arms inked from shoulder to wrist in black Polynesian patterns that spoke of lineage and loss.
His eyes, sharp and steady, flicked from Kai to Hogan.
“Braddah,” Kael said, pulling Kai into a careful hug that didn’t jostle his healing ribs. “You look alive. That’s enough for me.”
Kai smirked. “Alive, thanks to him,” he said, jerking his chin toward Hogan.
Next came Niko, the pilot and strategist. Lean, quick-eyed, with sun-bleached hair and a grin that carried too much mischief.
“You still know how to land yourself in trouble, Kai,” he said, clapping him on the shoulder.
Tattoos curled up his neck like waves. “Good thing you got an Ace watching your six now.”
Tane followed, heavier in build, dark eyes that didn’t blink much.
He carried his silence like a blade. Interrogation was his gift—Kai had seen him break men twice his size with nothing but a stare.
His arms were corded with ink, black sharks curling down to his knuckles.
He didn’t smile, but he touched his forehead to Kai’s briefly. It was enough.
Luca came next, tall and wiry, pale against the others, his tattooed forearms were European rather than island-born.
One looked like the Sistine Chapel roof and the Colosseum beneath it, and the other held gladiators fighting, a lion in the background, shields, and swords.
Local, not native. His grin was sharp. “Pretend we haven’t met? ” he asked Hogan, extending a hand.
Hogan frowned. “We haven’t.”
Kai cut in before Luca could twist it further. “He knows, Luca. No need to fake it.”
“Good,” Luca said, shaking Hogan’s hand firmly. “Because for someone with a photographic memory, it’s hard to forget a face. Even when I should.” His accent carried hints of Italy, though his Hawaiian slang was fluent.
Last came Keanu, quiet as always. Built like a wall, skin bronzed deep, hair cropped close. His tattoos were heavier than the others, thick lines like armor. He gave Hogan a nod, then Kai a gentle clasp of the hand. Words weren’t his gift, but his presence spoke volumes.
With greetings exchanged, Black Tide moved like a tide indeed—fluid, practiced.
They swung the vans into formation with a precision that came from years of repetition, U-shaped around the concrete pad like it was muscle memory.
Within minutes, tables, folding seats, crates of food and drink were spilling into the space between.
Someone strung lights from van to van, warm glow spilling across the pad, chasing back the jungle-dark.
The smell of food rose with the night breeze—kalua pork, rice, poke, taro.
Bottles clinked as they were set in ice.
Music followed, island rhythms Kai hadn’t heard in months but knew like his own heartbeat.
Hogan leaned against the side of their van, brow furrowed.
The familiar guitar licks of Māoli’s Every Night, Every Morning drifted out, followed by Fiji’s Sweet Darlin.
Hogan’s lips moved, half-singing along, confusion shadowing his expression.
He knew the words. Kai’s throat tightened.
He was remembering, piece by piece, the soundtrack Kai had introduced him to over three years ago.
They gathered around the tables once plates were filled, laughter threading through the glow of string lights.
Hogan sat close to Kai, Kael across from them, the others spread wide.
Luca teased Keanu for piling his plate highest, Niko traded jokes with Tane that drew actual snorts of amusement from the usually stoic man.
For a moment, it felt like any family dinner, loud and alive.
Conversation meandered as the food disappeared. Luca leaned back, licking sauce from his thumb, and asked, “So this Ridge—you all really set up shop in Wyoming? Helping vets? Sounds like a sweet set up. Not what I expected from a bunch of ghosts and mercs.”
Niko grinned. “Yeah, I heard it’s half rehab center, half fortress. That true?”
Hogan glanced at Kai, then answered. “It’s both but it works. The rehab piece came when one of my brothers lost a leg.”
Kael whistle low. “Damn, poor guy, that would be hard to come back from.”
Hogan smiled. “Yeah, but Marsh not only came back stronger, he’s now also a lot faster, fitter, can run longer than he could with his two real legs, and he found his forever soulmate in the rehab therapist who came to the Ridge to work with him.”
Keanu rumbled low. “Perfect. I love hearing stories like that, and places where people can go to heal. We didn’t have that.”
Tane’s eyes flicked to Hogan. “You Pathfinder boys built something solid there. Respect.”
Luca smirked. “None of us ever wore a uniform, but we’ve run missions. Different kind, but missions none the less. Some left impressions, others left scars, some changed the world for good, and others just changed the lives of a few.” He toyed with his fork, leaving it at that.
Hogan leaned forward, curiosity flashing. “What kind of missions?”
Before Luca could answer, Kai cut in quickly, redirecting. “Later. Not tonight. Tonight we talk about what matters.” He pushed the conversation firmly forward.
Kael’s easy grin faded as he leaned forward, voice low. “Kavaci’s moving men onto the islands. Quiet, but steady. They’re using harbors, old fishing boats, cash that doesn’t trace. I think it’s time we bring in the Pathfinders.”
Hogan didn’t hesitate. “Agreed. This isn’t small-time. If they’re trafficking kids through Hawai’i Nei, it stops now. The more support and firepower we have here to counter it, the better.” His voice carried weight, sharp enough to cut through the laughter still lingering at the edges.
The others nodded, jaws tight. Tane’s fists flexed on the table. Keanu’s stare was flint. Even Luca’s easy grin faltered.
Then the call came. Kael’s phone buzzed, the sound sharp against the hum of conversation.
He stepped away, listened, his face going still.
When he returned, his eyes were wide, shocked.
“The workshop. The garage. Our place. It’s gone.
Explosion took everything—the gear, the quarters. No one died, but there’s nothing left.”
Shock hit the table like a wave. For a moment, no one moved.
Then anger replaced it, quick and hot. Luca cursed, voice snapping sharp in Italian. Niko slammed a fist against the table. Keanu’s jaw flexed like stone. Tane muttered something low, lethal.
Kai swallowed hard. Home. Years of building, gone in one evening. He looked at Kael, at his brothers, then at Hogan. His chest burned, not from his wounds but from fury.
They weren’t safe. Not here. Not anywhere. And the war had just gotten that little bit more personal.
****
The Rolls-Royce idled on the far side of the street, engine purring like a predator at rest. Inside, Sergei Antonov watched through the open window as flames devoured the workshop that had once been Black Tide’s home.
Heat shimmered in the night air, painting his face with a glow that felt like triumph.
It was exhilarating. Satisfaction rolled through him as he took in the collapsing roofline, the frantic spray of water from fire hoses arriving much too late to matter. Black Tide’s sanctuary was gone. Years of their building a home, reduced to ash in minutes. A message delivered, loud and clear.
He leaned back against the leather seat, fingers tapping idly on the doorframe.
He and the other leaders of the Bratya had suffered loss after loss at the hands of the Pathfinders and their allies—financial setbacks, men dead, operations burned.
Tonight, finally, they had taken something back. And tonight was only the beginning.
The driver shifted nervously in the front seat as sirens cut closer. Antonov lowered the window the rest of the way, savoring the chaos, the thick smoke curling skyward like a promise. Firefighters scrambled, shouting, too late to stop the blaze. Too late to stop the message.
“Enough,” Antonov murmured in Russian. “Take me back to the house.”
The window purred shut as the Rolls pulled away, leaving behind ruin and ash. The fire would burn out, but the war he had lit was only just catching flame.