Chapter Three
The chapel smelled like leather and gun oil, same as always.
Forge stood at parade rest while his brothers filed in, the old tobacco warehouse walls absorbing the rumble of conversation. Legion took his seat at the head of the table. Ghost flanked him, expression blank as ever—the Delta operator's face giving nothing away.
Trooper. Cargo. Static. Recon.
Every seat filled. Every brother present.
This was church. Where Black Ops Brotherhood handled business the Army taught them to handle and the government pretended didn't exist.
"Forge called this meeting." Legion's voice carried without effort. "Floor's yours, brother."
Forge stepped forward. He'd spent the drive from Caroline's clinic organizing his thoughts, cataloging details, preparing to present the situation like an operations brief.
But standing here now, all he could see was Bella's body in the barn. The blood on Caroline's shirt. The fire in her eyes when she'd told him about the dogs she couldn't save.
"Dogfighting ring," he said. "Operating through the sandhills, tobacco barns scattered across three counties. Been running for years, maybe decades. Local vet stumbled onto it while treating dumped animals—fighting dogs thrown out when they stopped winning or stopped breathing."
"The vet being the woman you brought back?" Ghost asked.
"Dr. Caroline Weston. Runs a clinic outside Fayetteville, treats everything from working dogs to livestock." Forge's jaw tightened. "Yesterday, four men showed up at her property. Cut her arm as a warning. Shot her horse to make a point."
Silence around the table. The kind that preceded violence.
"Name?" Legion asked.
"The muscle called himself Buddy Stroud. But the operation belongs to Lyle Pittman."
Something flickered across Legion's face. Recognition.
"Pittman," he repeated. "That name came up two years ago. Meth distribution running through the rural routes—we shut down the supply chain, but the money man stayed in the shadows."
"He's not in the shadows anymore." Forge pulled a folded paper from his cut—Caroline's map, the one she'd made tracking dump sites.
He spread it on the table. "Eight months of documentation.
Necropsy reports, GPS coordinates, injury patterns.
She built a case without knowing what she was building it against."
Ghost leaned forward, studying the map with eyes that had assessed kill zones in places the Pentagon denied existed.
"The pattern's tight," he said. "Professional. Someone's running logistics on this—coordinating fights, managing the money, handling disposal."
"Three states," Forge confirmed. "That's what she figured. Dogs coming in from Virginia and South Carolina, fights drawing crowds from all over. Pittman's got rural enforcers who know these back roads better than GPS."
"How many men?" Trooper asked. The Ranger's operational mind was already calculating.
"Unknown. She saw four yesterday—Stroud plus three. But an operation this size?" Forge shook his head. "Could be a dozen. Could be more."
"And the woman?" This from Static, watching from the far end of the table. "She just going to sit tight while we handle her problem?"
"She's not sitting anywhere." The words came out harder than Forge intended. "She's got three recovering animals that need care and a spine that won't let her hide. She's staying at the compound until this is resolved."
Cargo raised an eyebrow. "Staying at the compound."
"That a problem?"
"Just noting." The armorer's mouth twitched. "You don't usually bring strays home, Forge."
"She's not a stray."
The table went quiet again. Different this time—weighted with something the brothers recognized.
Forge felt their eyes on him and didn't care. Let them see. Let them draw whatever conclusions they wanted about the woman in the clinic and the way he'd decided, somewhere between the sutures and the shovel, that nothing was touching her again.
"Pittman's operation pulls violence into our territory," Legion said, steering the conversation back to business. "Fighting dogs, betting pools, the kind of men who enjoy watching things suffer. That's a cancer we cut out."
"The vet's documentation helps," Ghost added. "Gives us starting points. But we'll need reconnaissance—barn locations, schedules, how the fights are organized."
"I'll handle it." Forge met Legion's eyes. "Primary on this. Start to finish."
No one spoke.
It wasn't a request, and everyone at the table knew it. Forge had claimed this operation the moment he'd carried Caroline's horse to its grave, and the brothers weren't going to challenge that.
"You sure?" Legion asked. Not doubting—just confirming.
"These men shot a horse to frighten a woman who was trying to help animals they tortured." Forge's voice stayed level, but the fury underneath was impossible to miss. "They cut her arm and called it a warning. Told her curiosity kills and expected her to fall in line."
He thought about Caroline standing at the edge of that grave, stone-faced while they buried her mare. The way she'd carried the animal's weight without complaint, stitches pulling, because breaking down wasn't something she allowed herself.
"I'm sure," he said.
Legion nodded slowly. "Primary's yours. Ghost on intelligence, Trooper on logistics. We move when we have targets."
"Stroud first." Forge folded the map and tucked it back into his cut. "He's the one who pulled the trigger. He's the one who touched her."
"Touched her how?" Recon's voice was flat, dangerous.
"Knife across the forearm. Shallow cut, plenty of pain." Forge's hands curled into fists at his sides. "She stitched it herself because she didn't want to explain to a hospital what happened."
"Jesus." Static shook his head. "And she's still walking around treating dogs?"
"She had appointments. Said the animals don't stop needing help just because someone threatened her."
A few of the brothers exchanged glances. The kind that said this one's different.
Forge ignored them. He'd known Caroline Weston for less than a day, and he couldn't explain what she'd become to him in that time. Couldn't put words to the way her stubborn competence made something in his chest unlock.
All he knew was that Stroud had put a blade to her skin, and Stroud was going to die for it.
The rest was details.
"Church is concluded." Legion stood, the meeting officially ended. "Forge, get your vet settled. We reconvene tomorrow with a reconnaissance plan."
Brothers pushed back from the table, conversations starting in low murmurs. Ghost caught Forge's eye and nodded once—Delta shorthand for I've got your back. Trooper was already pulling out maps of the sandhills, his operational mind spinning up.
Forge headed for the door.
"Brother." Legion's voice stopped him. "The woman. She know what she's in the middle of?"
Forge thought about the way Caroline had looked at him when he'd told her Pittman's men would regret what they'd done. The belief in her eyes—instant and complete.
"She's starting to," he said.
"Make sure she understands." Legion's expression softened by a fraction. "This life, what we do—it's not something you can half-commit to. If she's staying at this compound, she's under our protection. That means something."
"I know what it means."
"Do you?" Legion held his gaze. "Because the way you talked about her in there, the way you looked when you described what they did—that's not just protection, brother. That's something else."
Forge didn't answer. Didn't need to.
Legion was right. This was something else. Something that had started the moment he'd watched Caroline stitch her own arm without flinching and kept building through every moment since.
"She's mine to protect," Forge said finally. "Whatever that means, wherever it goes—she's mine."
Legion studied him for a long moment. Then he nodded.
"Then God help anyone who threatens her."
Forge walked out of the chapel into the Carolina evening, the humid air wrapping around him like a second skin. Somewhere in the compound, Caroline was settling into quarters he'd assigned, probably arguing with whoever tried to help her unload supplies.
Stubborn woman. Wouldn't accept help if her life depended on it.
Good thing he wasn't asking permission.
He headed toward the residential wing, boots steady on the packed earth. Tomorrow they'd start hunting. Tonight, he needed to make sure she understood what staying here meant.
What being under his protection meant.
What his meant.
The brothers hadn't commented on his intensity during church. They knew better. Every man at that table had seen what happened when Forge's protective instincts locked onto a target.
This time, the target was a veterinarian with bloody hands and fire in her eyes.
And nothing—not Stroud, not Pittman, not an army of rural enforcers—was going to touch her again.