Chapter Twelve
The call came at sunset.
Lakeshore was in the garage with Stockyard when his phone buzzed—Scout, voice tight with controlled urgency.
"Movement on the waterfront. Three locations, coordinated timing. They're hitting us everywhere at once."
"Where?"
"Marina off 35th, the fuel dock at Burnham, and that bar Molly's brother runs near the harbor." Scout paused. "Professional setup. Someone who knows the shipping schedules."
Niko Bra?i?. Had to be. The logistics coordinator, the one who ran Gregor's network like a commercial shipping operation. With Ivan dead, Niko was the most senior man left—and he was smart enough to know that hitting one target meant the Wolves could concentrate their response.
So he was hitting three.
"Rally point?"
"Burnham. Alpha's already moving. Razor's taking a crew to the marina, Fang's heading for the bar."
"I'm on my way."
Lakeshore killed the call and found Stockyard already reaching for his cut.
"Heard enough," the big man said. "Let's go."
They were halfway to the bikes when Tess appeared in the garage doorway, reading the situation in their faces before anyone said a word.
"What's happening?"
"Gregor's making a move. Multiple targets on the waterfront." Lakeshore grabbed his helmet. "Stay here. Compound's secure."
"Like hell."
"Tess—"
"My shop is on that waterfront. My boats, my dock, everything I own." Her jaw set in that stubborn angle he'd learned to love and dread. "If they're hitting Wolf businesses, they might hit mine too."
"Your shop's not the target. These are established operations, places with—"
"I'm coming."
He should argue. Should put her on lockdown, post a prospect at the door, do whatever it took to keep her safe while the Wolves handled Gregor's assault.
But she was right. Her shop sat in the middle of the strike zone, and if Niko decided to expand his target list, she'd want to be there. More than that—she'd earned the right to fight for what was hers.
"You stay behind me," he said. "No arguments, no heroics. You see trouble, you run toward brothers, not away. Understood?"
"Understood."
"I mean it, Tess."
"I know what you mean." She crossed to him and kissed him hard, fast, a promise and a challenge wrapped in one. "Now let's go save our waterfront."
Our waterfront.
Something fierce and possessive surged through his chest. He'd deal with that later—the way she'd claimed his territory like it was hers, the way that felt more right than anything had in years.
Right now, he had a logistics coordinator to kill.
The fuel dock at Burnham was chaos when they arrived.
Flames licked from a storage shed near the water's edge, painting the twilight orange. Workers scattered across the lot while men in dark clothes moved between the pumps, smashing equipment and setting fires with methodical precision.
Niko's work. The systematic destruction of infrastructure, designed to cripple Wolf operations without direct confrontation. Hit and run, maximum damage, minimum exposure.
Except Niko had underestimated how fast the pack could move.
Alpha's bike was already in the lot, the president visible near the dock office coordinating response. Lakeshore counted six hostiles—four at the pumps, two covering the entrance—and made his decision in a heartbeat.
"Stockyard, take the entrance. I'm going for the water."
"The water?"
"Niko's not here. He's out there." Lakeshore pointed toward the harbor, where a boat sat anchored just past the breakwall. Dark hull, no running lights, positioned to observe all three attack sites. "He's coordinating by radio. Take out the boat, take out command and control."
Stockyard grinned—a rare, terrifying expression on that stone face. "Go fishing, brother. We'll handle the shore."
Lakeshore turned to Tess. "There's a marine supply shop two blocks north. Owner's name is Hendricks—he's Wolf-friendly. Get there, get him moving people away from the water. Anyone on the docks, anyone in the nearby businesses, get them clear."
"I can help here—"
"You can help more there. These guys—" He gestured at the men tearing apart the fuel dock. "—they're muscle. Expendable. Niko's the brain, and I need to get to him before he realizes we're onto his position."
She hesitated. He saw the war in her eyes—the need to fight beside him versus the logic of what he was asking.
"Go," he said. "I'll find you when it's done."
She went.
Lakeshore grabbed a skiff from the fuel dock's rental rack—keys in the ignition, because this was a working harbor and nobody expected theft in the middle of an assault—and pushed off into the dark water.
The boat Niko was using sat three hundred yards offshore. Close enough to watch, far enough to run if things went sideways. A tactical position chosen by a man who thought like a commercial shipping officer, not a fighter.
That was going to be his last mistake.
Lakeshore killed his running lights and approached from the blind side, using the breakwall's shadow to mask his approach. The skiff's engine was quiet, but not silent—he cut it fifty yards out and let momentum carry him the rest of the way.
Voices drifted across the water. Niko on a radio, calm and professional, directing his crews like he was scheduling a cargo delivery.
"Team two, finish at the marina and extract. Team three, status?"
Static. Then: "Bar's secured. Moving to secondary objectives."
"Negative. Police response incoming on 35th. Extract now, rendezvous at—"
The skiff bumped against Niko's hull.
Lakeshore was over the gunwale before anyone on board could react, his body remembering movements drilled into muscle memory over eight years of boarding distressed vessels. The first man—a deckhand, radio in hand—went down with an elbow to the throat before he could shout a warning.
Niko spun from the helm, eyes wide, hand diving toward his waistband.
Too slow.
Lakeshore closed the distance in two strides and caught Niko's wrist before the gun cleared leather.
They struggled for half a second—long enough for Lakeshore to register that this man was stronger than he looked, a former merchant marine who'd probably handled himself in port fights—and then Lakeshore slammed his forehead into Niko's nose.
Cartilage crunched. Blood sprayed. Niko staggered, and Lakeshore followed him down, one hand on his throat, the other pinning the gun arm to the deck.
"Call them off."
Niko spat blood and laughed. "They have their orders. Doesn't matter what happens to me."
"Then you're useless."
"Gregor will burn everything you own. Every business, every dock, every—"
Lakeshore squeezed.
Niko's words turned to choking. His free hand clawed at Lakeshore's wrist, nails drawing blood, but the grip didn't waver. This was nothing—a man dying under his hands, the weight of a body going still. He'd done worse. Seen worse.
"You coordinated the attacks on her boats," Lakeshore said, quiet and cold. "Six weeks of sabotage. You knew which docks to hit, which schedules to exploit, how to bleed her dry without leaving evidence."
Niko's face was purple now, veins standing out on his forehead.
"She's mine. Her shop is mine. Every boat you sank, every customer you scared away—that was an attack on what belongs to me."
He felt the moment Niko stopped fighting. The hands went limp, the body sagged, and the logistics coordinator who'd run Gregor's network like a commercial operation became just another body on the deck of a boat.
Lakeshore held on for another thirty seconds, making sure.
Then he stood, wiped his hands on his jeans, and checked the radio. The channel was still active—confused voices asking for Niko, crews reporting extraction, the sound of an operation falling apart without its coordinator.
He picked up the radio and keyed the mic.
"This is Lakeshore. Windy City Wolves. Niko Bra?i? is dead. Your boss lost. Go home."
Silence on the channel.
Then, one by one, the voices acknowledged and went dark.
The fires were out by the time he got back to shore.
Brothers had contained the damage at all three sites—property destroyed, but no casualties on the Wolf side. The attacking crews had scattered when Niko stopped responding, their coordinated assault falling apart without its command structure.
Lakeshore found Alpha near the fuel dock office, assessing damage with the facility manager.
"Niko?"
"Done. Took out his boat, killed his command and control." Lakeshore rolled his shoulder, feeling the ache where Niko had tried to fight back. "His crews broke contact when they lost radio coordination."
"Casualties?"
"Two of theirs confirmed on the boat. Another four captured at the marina, Razor's handling interrogation." He paused. "Ours?"
"Few injuries, nothing serious. Fang took a graze at the bar, but you know Fang." Alpha's expression was grim but satisfied. "Gregor sent his best tactical mind, and we broke him in under an hour."
"He'll send more."
"Let him. Every man he loses is a man he can't replace." Alpha clapped Lakeshore on the shoulder. "Good work tonight, brother. The water angle—that was smart."
"It's what Niko would have done. Control the operation from offshore, stay clean while his crews got dirty." Lakeshore shook his head. "He thought like a shipping officer. Never considered that someone might board his command vessel."
"Arrogance."
"Always is."
Movement at the edge of the lot caught his eye. Tess, walking toward them with Hendricks from the marine supply shop. She was covered in ash and sweat, her hair had come loose from its ponytail, and she looked like she'd been running for the past hour.
She also looked alive. Unharmed. Safe.
Lakeshore crossed to her in three strides and pulled her against him, not caring who saw.
"You're okay."
"I'm fine." Her voice was muffled against his chest. "Hendricks and I cleared two businesses and the residential dock before the fires got bad. Thirty people, maybe more. Everyone got out."
"You were supposed to stay clear of the fighting."
"I stayed clear of the fighting. I just didn't stay clear of the evacuation." She pulled back enough to look at him, reading his face. "Niko?"
"Dead."
She nodded. No horror, no judgment, just acceptance. "Good."
Behind them, Lakeshore heard Alpha giving orders—cleanup crews, damage assessment, the logistics of recovering from an assault that could have been much worse. The waterfront was still standing. The businesses had lost property, not people. And Gregor Petrovic was down another lieutenant.
But the war wasn't over.
"He'll come himself next time," Tess said quietly, like she was reading his thoughts. "Won't he?"
"Probably."
"Then we'll be ready."
She leaned into him, and Lakeshore held her while the harbor smoldered around them and brothers moved through the wreckage securing what was theirs.
Gunfire echoed from somewhere in the distance—Fang's crew, probably, finishing the last of the resistance at the bar. Tess flinched at the sound but didn't pull away.
She was learning. Adapting. Becoming part of this world whether she'd planned to or not.
And standing in the ashes of Gregor Petrovic's failed assault, Lakeshore realized he wanted her there. Not just in his bed, not just under his protection—but beside him. Fighting for the same things, holding the same ground.
Ours, she'd said.
Yeah. Theirs.