Chapter 16
Church convened at noon with Elise present.
She stood at the back of the chapel—the converted mine manager's office with its reinforced walls and scarred table—and tried not to feel like an intruder. These men had been riding together for years. Building something. Bleeding for each other.
She'd been here less than two weeks.
But Permafrost had summoned her specifically, and no one argued with the president.
"You know Wennberg's operation better than anyone at this table," Permafrost said. His cold blue eyes found her across the room. "Ten years inside his network. Every venue, every schedule, every weakness. We need that."
Elise stepped forward. The brothers shifted to make room—Tundra and Ironside, Ice and Whiteout, Coldstart and a half-dozen others whose names she was still learning. And Roughcut, standing near the wall with his prospect patch visible, watching her with quiet pride.
"What do you want to know?" she asked.
"Everything." Permafrost leaned back in his chair. "Start with his flagship."
She closed her eyes, pulling up memories she'd buried under years of resentment. "Virginia. The Iron Horse—it's a bar and music venue on the edge of town. Wennberg owns the building outright. He's there every Wednesday night counting receipts. Only consistent schedule he keeps."
"Security?"
"Two bouncers on the door, usually. Another one or two inside." She opened her eyes. "But that was before you killed his Duluth connection and half his enforcement crew. I don't know what he's got left."
"Less than he had," Tundra said. "Word is he's been making calls all week. Trying to hire replacement muscle. Nobody's biting."
"Because they're scared," Ice added. "Bremer's crew was supposed to be the best Duluth had to offer. Now they're all dead. That kind of news travels fast."
Elise thought about the men she'd watched die over the past two weeks. Kovich with his hands around her mic stand. Sandoval directing the compound assault. Bremer on the phone while her mother whimpered in the background.
She didn't feel sorry for any of them.
"The Iron Horse," she continued. "It's got a main entrance on the street, service entrance in the alley. Back office is through a door behind the bar—that's where Wennberg counts his money. Reinforced, but not by much. He never expected anyone to come for him there."
"Why not?" Ironside's accent thickened the question.
"Because he's been untouchable for a decade." Elise met the big Swede's eyes. "Everyone's afraid of him. The bar owners, the musicians, the cops who look the other way. He's built this whole empire on fear, and it never occurred to him that someone might not be afraid."
"We're not afraid," Permafrost said quietly.
"No." Elise smiled, and it felt sharp on her face. "You're not."
The planning went faster than she expected.
These men knew how to coordinate violence—had been doing it for years, apparently, in ways she'd never asked about and didn't want to know.
Tundra laid out approach routes. Ice mapped the surrounding streets.
Whiteout claimed his position before anyone could argue—high ground, clear sightlines, covering the escape route.
And Roughcut asked for the entry position.
The room went still.
"You're a prospect," Tundra said. Not challenging—just stating fact.
"I know what I am." Roughcut's voice was level. Calm. "I'm also the one who killed Kovich and Bremer. I'm the one who's been protecting Elise since this started. And I'm the one who wants to look Wennberg in the eye when he realizes his whole empire is about to collapse."
Silence stretched.
Permafrost studied him with those cold blue eyes. Elise couldn't read the president's expression—the man's face was granite, giving nothing away.
"This isn't a reward," Permafrost said finally. "Entry position is the most dangerous. First through the door, first to catch a bullet if something goes wrong."
"I know."
"And you still want it."
"I want to finish this." Roughcut's jaw tightened.
"For the brothers we buried. For Elise. For everyone Wennberg has terrorized for the past decade.
" His eyes flicked to her, just for a moment.
"He threatened her mother. Cornered a sixty-three-year-old woman to make a point.
That's not the kind of thing I can let someone else answer for. "
The words hung in the air. Raw. Personal.
This wasn't about the club anymore. Not entirely. This was about a man protecting what was his.
Permafrost looked at Tundra. Some silent communication passed between them—years of riding together condensed into a single glance.
Then Permafrost nodded.
"Entry position," he said. "Don't make me regret it."
"I won't."
The meeting wrapped up quickly after that. Final details, final assignments, final checks. The whole thing had taken less than an hour—these men didn't waste time with debate when decisions had been made.
Wednesday night. The Iron Horse. Carl Wennberg counting his receipts, surrounded by whatever scared muscle he'd managed to scrape together.
He wouldn't be counting anything by Thursday morning.
Elise caught Roughcut in the hallway outside the chapel.
"You asked for entry position," she said.
"I did."
"That's the most dangerous—"
"I know what it is." He turned to face her fully. "I know the risk. I'm taking it anyway."
"Why?"
"Because some things are worth the risk." He reached out, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "Because I spent two years being careful, being gentle, being afraid of what my hands might do. And now I've found something worth using them for."
"Sam—"
"I'm going to kill Wennberg tonight." His voice was quiet. Matter-of-fact. "I'm going to walk through that door and end the man who tried to destroy your life. And then I'm going to come home to you."
Her throat tightened. "You promise?"
"I promise."
She should have argued. Should have told him to let someone else take the risk, to stay safe, to think about what they were building together.
Instead, she pressed her forehead against his chest and breathed him in. Diesel and leather and the particular scent that was just him.
"Come home to me," she whispered.
"Always."
Behind them, the chapel door opened. Brothers filed out, heading for bikes and vehicles and weapons. The machinery of war spinning up with the quiet efficiency of men who'd done this before.
Permafrost stopped beside them. His granite face softened—just slightly, just for a moment.
"She can wait in the main building," he said to Roughcut. "Maren and the others will keep her company."
"No." Elise lifted her head. "I'm not waiting anywhere."
Both men turned to look at her.
"I've spent ten years on my own," she said. "Making my own choices, handling my own problems. I'm not going to sit in a building and hope the men in my life come back alive."
"You can't come with us," Roughcut said. Not arguing—just stating reality. "This isn't a firefight in a garage. This is an assault on a defended position."
"I know." She met his eyes. "But I can be close. I can wait in the truck. And when it's over, I can be the first thing you see."
Something shifted in his expression. Understanding. Respect.
"She rides with us," he said to Permafrost. "Stays in the vehicle, away from the action. But she rides with us."
Permafrost studied her for a long moment. Elise held his gaze without flinching.
"Maren did the same thing," the president said finally. "First time we hit someone who threatened her. Insisted on being close. Said she wasn't going to spend the night wondering."
"And you let her?"
"Couldn't have stopped her if I tried." A ghost of a smile crossed his face. "Women who fall for Savages aren't the type to sit quietly and hope."
"No," Elise agreed. "We're not."
Permafrost nodded once. Then he walked toward the yard, where engines were already turning over.
Roughcut looked down at her. Pride and worry and love all tangled up in his expression.
"Stay in the truck," he said.
"I will."
"I mean it. No matter what you hear."
"I know."
"And when I come out—" He cupped her face in his hands. "When I come out, the first thing I'm going to do is kiss you. Right there in that parking lot, covered in whatever I'm covered in. And I'm going to tell you it's over."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
She kissed him. Hard and quick and desperate.
Then they walked toward the yard together, where bikes idled and brothers waited and the war was about to end.
No waiting. No delay.
Just engines turning over and men riding toward judgment.