Chapter Eleven #2
Niko leaned back, eyes hooded. “A place where we can settle down. Find people who could love us or at least put up with us. Somewhere to build something worth defending.”
Silence fell for a beat, the weight of his words hitting harder than gunfire.
Hogan felt the shift in the air, the sense that they were teetering on the edge of something bigger than just another fight.
He thought of the Pathfinders, of Bravo, of the way they’d clawed their way to the same conclusion years back, after losing Van and nearly losing themselves.
They’d found their loves, their homes, their future.
Looking around the table at Kai, at his brothers, at the fire smoldering in every man’s eye, Hogan knew Black Tide was standing at the same crossroads. Food for thought tonight. A decision for tomorrow.
****
The rain came heavy, pattering against the roof of the van, turning the world outside into a steady rush of sound.
The waterfall was a muted roar beneath it all, nature’s heartbeat.
Inside, the van was warm, and dimly lit.
They were tangled in sheets, skin still heated from the way they’d just claimed each other.
Hogan’s arm was across Kai’s chest, his thumb brushing slow patterns against his skin like he wasn’t ready to let go.
For a while, they just lay there listening. Kai’s body was heavy, his side pulling where the staples tugged, but it was a good ache. The kind that said he was alive. He could feel Hogan’s breathing slow against him, steady and protective.
It was Hogan who broke the silence. “Tell me about Black Tide.” His voice was quiet, but not casual. It carried the weight of an order, softened only by the rough edge of curiosity.
Kai kept his gaze on the roof. “You want the polished version, or the truth?”
“Truth,” Hogan said, no hesitation. “But first, tell me this—did I know what you are about to tell me before Chechnya?”
Kai sighed. “No. You knew we ran missions, but there is a piece of Black Tide that you do not know. I am giving that to you for the first time tonight.”
Hogan frowned, pulling him tighter against his chest. “Why tonight?”
Kai turned to look at him in the muted light.
“Because I love you, and because when I walked away from you two years ago, I did so with a shitload of regrets, And I promised myself that if we ever made it back to this, to us? I would answer any question you had honestly and would hold nothing back about myself.”
Hogan smiled, the one he only ever gave to Kai. “I make that same vow to you, Rip.”
Kai kissed him gently then sighed, wiping a hand down his face.
“Black Tide isn’t just about custom vans or kitted-out rigs.
That’s the storefront. What we really are .
.. we’re mercenaries like Pathfinders but also guns for hire.
And here’s the new piece—we are assassins for hire when the contract demands it.
” He glanced at Hogan, watching for the flicker of judgment, but Hogan’s face stayed carved in stone.
“Each of us has a kill count higher than most career soldiers. We’ve taken jobs from alphabet agencies, foreign governments, corporations too rich to get their hands dirty themselves. We make a lot of money doing it. More than we could spend in a lifetime.”
Hogan’s hand stilled, but he didn’t move away. “And what do you do with it all?”
Kai met his eyes. “We give some of it away. Charities. Trusts. Medical programs. We funnel it into communities, into places that need it. We take lives, sure—but we try to save more than we destroy.”
“Try?” Hogan’s voice was sharp.
Kai pushed himself up on one elbow. “We’re not blind. There’s blood on our hands. We don’t deny it. But we have rules. A code. And we live by it.”
Hogan arched a brow. “Spell it out.”
Kai nodded slowly. “We don’t take contracts on innocent civilians—no cheating exes, no insurance claims, nothing without cause.
Ever. We don’t kill for politics we do not support or for profit alone.
The only people who die at our hands are those who would take hundreds more with them—traffickers, warlords, corrupt officials running networks that prey on the weak.
We run every job through our filters, check every angle. If it doesn’t pass, we walk.”
He paused, letting it hang there. “Our code is simple. Protect those who can’t protect themselves. Strike only when the outcome saves more lives than it takes. Never betray your own. And never, ever, leave innocents behind.”
Hogan studied him in the dim light. “You kill for money. And you make yourselves sound like some kind of Robin Hood gang with guns.”
“Not Robin Hood,” Kai said flatly. “We’re not heroes. We’re a scalpel. We cut out the rot before it spreads.”
For a long beat, the only sound was the rain hammering the roof. Hogan finally spoke. “Do you know what dead reckoning is?”
Kai blinked. “I’ve heard the term.”
Hogan’s mouth twitched, the ghost of a smile.
“Navigation. Pilots use it when we can’t rely on instruments or visuals.
You figure your position by where you’ve been, how fast you’re going, and what direction you’re heading.
It’s not perfect. It’s instinct, math, and faith all rolled together.
It keeps you alive when the world around you is dark and full of lies. ”
Kai listened, the explanation sitting heavy in his chest.
“That’s what this feels like,” Hogan said, his voice dropping low.
“You and Black Tide. Me and the Pathfinders. Bravo. All of us. We’re making choices in the dark, guessing at where the hell we are.
But the point is we’re still moving forward.
Still aiming to land somewhere better. Maybe you killed bad guys in the past for money, maybe we killed them under a flag.
End of the day, the blood washes the same.
What matters is who we’re trying to protect. ”
Kai swallowed hard. “So, you’re saying you’re okay with it? With me?”
Hogan reached out, his hand closing over Kai’s jaw. “I’m saying I get it. It’s not clean. It never is. But if dead reckoning is all we’ve got, then I trust yours as much as my own.”
The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was full, layered with things neither of them could quite say yet. The rain pressed harder against the van, wrapping them in sound. Kai let out a slow breath, sinking back into Hogan’s chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart.
For the first time in a long time, the storm outside felt like it belonged to someone else. Here, in the dim glow of their little cocoon, they were exactly where they needed to be.
****
The penthouse reeked of excess—glass walls, marble floors, a city spread out beneath him like prey waiting to be taken.
Sergei Antonov stood by the window, a tumbler of vodka in his hand, his reflection staring back with the hard lines of frustration and fury.
The fucking Pathfinders and their Hawaiian friends had gutted his operation here.
One mansion burned, seventy-five percent of his men cut down.
A blow, yes—but not the end. He still had money, and money meant power.
The secure line on the desk pulsed. He crossed the room and pressed the receiver to his ear. A voice greeted him, flattened and warped by a computer. The DEA agent. His inside man. He had no idea why the man insisted on the voice distorter. They had met face to face on occasion.
“You failed,” the distorted voice said. “The Pathfinders and Black Tide all walked away, and too many on your side were lost.”
Antonov’s lips peeled back from his teeth. “We lost soldiers, not the war. They bled, too. But now ... now we plan the strike that ends them.”
“They’re strong. Too strong to take head-on. Wait. Build back your numbers. Strike when they’re off guard,” the agent countered.
“No.” Antonov slammed his glass down hard enough to crack the glass. “They think themselves victorious, celebrating even now, I am sure. I will not give them time to breathe. I will cut their throats while they laugh over their dinner. You will send men. Reinforcements. Weapons. You owe me this.”
A pause. Then the synthetic voice replied, “If we move too fast, we risk exposure. My superiors—”
“Your superiors are nothing,” Antonov snapped. “I am not asking. I am telling. I need men, and you will provide them. Unless you want the Bratya to advise your superiors to look closer at your role in this. Do you? Do not think that you hold all the cards.”
The silence that followed was brittle, angry. At last. “Fine. I’ll send what I can. But you hide this from the others. If the Bratya heads know you’ve bled this badly, they will replace you.”
Antonov smiled coldly. “They will know only that I wiped the Pathfinders from this earth. They will see their bodies, piled high, and they will sing my name in Moscow.”
“And the bait?” the agent asked.
Antonov’s gaze slid back to the city lights, cruel satisfaction tightening his jaw. “I have one of their own. We will dangle him in front of them. They are sentimental fools, these Americans. They will come charging into the kill box, thinking to save him. And when they do, we close the jaws.”
“Risky,” the agent said.
“Effective,” Antonov corrected. He leaned close to the receiver, his words a hiss of venom. “Tell your men to be ready. Tell them to bring everything. Tomorrow night, we turn their victory into their grave.”
The line clicked off. Antonov returned to the window, vodka forgotten. His reflection grinned back at him, savage and certain. Let them celebrate tonight. Let them feel safe in each other’s arms. Tomorrow, he would dance on their corpses. Tomorrow, the streets would run red with their blood.