Chapter 21
TWENTY-ONE
LUCKY
The church door shuts with a finality that settles in my bones.
Mason stands at the head of the long table, map spread out, scarred knuckles planted like he’s holding the whole damn thing down.
Dagger’s to his right, arms crossed, jaw set.
Ghost leans against the wall, silent as ever.
Blade sits in the corner, flipping that knife of his open and closed like it’s a nervous tic.
Switch is drumming his fingers on the table.
Riot’s leaning back in his chair with that cocky half-smirk and Tank is standing like a brick wall by the door.
Mason doesn’t waste words. “Sergei Volkov’s at the old canning plant on the river. Satellite shows three SUVs, roof sentries, at least eight inside. He’s got a midnight meet with the northern Russians. We hit at twenty one hundred. Cut the power, go in dark, and end this all tonight.”
Dagger taps the map. “Ghost scouted the back dock, there’s a blind spot, one camera. We cut the fence there. Blade and Switch take the roof. Tank and I clear the main floor. Riot, you’re with Ghost on the interior sweep. Lucky, you’re with me on Sergei.”
Ghost’s voice is ice. “Roof guards are mine.”
Mason nods once. “Volkov’s mine.”
No one argues. Mason’s claim is law when he speaks it like that.
We gear up in the armory. Vest strapped tight, Glock on my hip, suppressed .
45 in the small of my back. Extra mags, knife, flashlight.
Ghost hands out fresh suppressors. Riot’s humming some old rock song under his breath.
Tank checks his AR like it’s an extension of his arm.
Blade’s already got brass knuckles on over his gloves.
I step outside for thirty seconds of air. Through the clubhouse window I see Savannah on the couch, Jax asleep on her chest, laughing at something Bella said. She looks soft. Safe. Mine.
I pull my phone, thumb open her last text.
Firecracker: Be careful. Come home to me.
Me: Always
Two blacked-out vans. No pipes, no colors.
Ghost drives lead with Riot. I’m in the second with Mason, Dagger, Blade, Switch, and Tank.
We park a quarter mile out, move on foot.
Gravel crunches under boots. Ghost and Riot vanish ahead.
Thirty seconds later Ghost’s voice in the earpiece, “Roof clear. Dock open.”
We slip through the cut fence. Blade and Switch peel off for the roof access. Tank and Dagger head for the main floor. Mason, Riot, Ghost, and I hit the loading bay. Smells like dead fish and rust.
Two of Volkov’s guys are at a card table. Ghost drops one with a suppressed shot to the throat. I take the second center mass, twice. They slump.
Up the metal stairs. Russian voices are laughing and counting cash.
Mason kicks in the door.
Four men are there with Sergei Volkov at the head of the table, stacks of bills everywhere.
One of the men reaches for his piece but Blade comes through the side door like a demon, knife buried in the guy’s neck before the gun clears his jacket.
Switch drops another with two quick shots.
Ghost takes the third and fourth between the eyes.
Volkov stands slow, hands raised just enough to look cocky, not surrendered. His smirk twists when his eyes lock on Mason.
“You,” he spits, accent thick and mocking. “The Reaper who thinks he can end me. After all these years, you finally crawl out of your hole.”
Mason doesn’t stop walking. Gun steady, barrel aimed dead center at Volkov’s forehead. The room’s gone quiet except for the drip of water somewhere in the rafters and the faint rustle of cash under Volkov’s boots.
“You’ve been bleeding us for years,” Mason says, voice low and even. “Sending your dogs to harass our families. Thought you could keep poking until we broke.”
Volkov laughs, short and ugly, the sound scraping like gravel. “You broke the second Dagger put a bullet in my brother’s head. That arms deal? Your VP pulled the trigger first. My brother was negotiating. You turned it into a slaughter.”
Dagger steps forward from the doorway, Glock still warm in his hand from the last kill, smoke curling lazy from the barrel. He stops just inside the room, boots planted wide, eyes locked on Volkov like he’s measuring the distance for another throw.
“Your brother didn’t get a bullet,” Dagger says, voice flat and cold.
“Your guy jumped Sledge, locked him in a choke, jammed a gun to his head. Finger on the trigger, knuckle white. I saw it. I threw. Knife went between his eyes before he could squeeze. Dropped him clean. Saved my brother. That’s what happened. ”
Volkov’s smirk flickers, just a twitch at the corner of his mouth, but it’s there. He leans forward a fraction, hands still half-up like he’s mocking the whole standoff.
“You saw what you wanted to see,” he says. “My man was holding him steady. Talking. Your VP panicked, threw steel instead of talking back. My brother trusted your word. Iron Reapers word. Worthless.”
Dagger’s jaw ticks once. He doesn’t raise the Glock, doesn’t move closer, just stares.
“Talking?” Dagger repeats, low enough that only the guys nearest him catch it.
“Guy had Sledge’s windpipe in a vise and a barrel kissing his temple.
I saw the finger curl. Reflex. Knife flew.
End of story. Your brother wasn’t the one who died that night because he was negotiating.
He died because one of yours decided to escalate first.”
Volkov’s eyes narrow, the smirk gone now, replaced by something darker, rawer. “Reflex. Convenient story. My brother bled out on that concrete while you loaded your crates and ran. You started this war with a blade, Reaper. Not us.”
Mason’s voice cuts in sharp from beside Dagger. “Your guy started it the second he touched Sledge. We finished it. You’ve been bleeding us ever since because you can’t admit your own man fucked up the deal.”
Volkov spits on the floor between them. “Then finish it now. Or keep pretending your VP’s throw was noble. Either way, my cousins up north will burn everything you love. Starting with the women you hide behind your gates.”
Dagger’s fingers flex around the Glock grip, but he doesn’t lift it. “Keep talking about our women. See how fast reflex turns into choice.”
Mason steps in front of Dagger, gun leveled again. “Enough. Tonight it stops. No more messages. No more bodies. No more threats to our women, our kids, our club.”
Volkov opens his mouth for one more jab but Mason pulls the trigger. The suppressed crack echoes as Volkov’s head snaps back, blood and bone spraying across the cash stacks. His body crumples, chair tipping, thudding to the concrete.
The room goes dead quiet for one heartbeat.
Then everything goes to hell. A hidden door in the back wall bursts open.
Three more guys pour in, guns blazing. One clips me in the chest, the impact knocks me back like a sledgehammer.
Pain explodes hot and wet as blood soaks through my shirt. My knees hit the concrete.
“Lucky!” Mason barks.
Riot’s already moving, diving through the chaos toward a side room. Tank lays down suppressive fire. Ghost drags me behind the table while Switch returns fire.
I cough. Blood on my lips. “Go… finish it.”
Mason puts two more rounds into the last standing Russian, then kneels beside me. “You’re not dying tonight, brother.”
Riot’s voice crackles over comms. “Found something. A girl. Russian. Locked in a back room. She’s chained and terrified. I’m getting her out.”
Mason’s jaw tightens. “Copy. Bring her. We extract now.”
They haul me down the stairs. My boots scrape concrete.
Blood trails. Outside the vans are waiting.
They shove me into the back. Tank keeps pressure on my chest, hands slick red.
Riot climbs in last, a woman cradled against him, dark hair, wide terrified eyes, speaking rapid Russian.
She clings to his cut like he’s the only solid thing left in the world.
“Easy,” Riot murmurs to her. “You’re safe now. I’ve got you.”
Dagger guns it. Tires scream. Switch keeps talking to me. “Breathe Lucky. In through your nose, out slow. You’re not dying in this van.”
I cough again. “Savannah…”
“She’s waiting,” Mason says from the front, voice tight. “You hold on for her. You hear me mother fucker!”
The ride blurs. Pain throbs with every heartbeat. Lights streak. Mason’s on the radio, “Hospital ten minutes out. Trauma team standing by.”
I fade. See her face. Honey-hazel eyes. The way she threw herself at me after I told her everything.
Tank’s voice cuts through. “Eyes open, brother. You got a woman who’s gonna kick your ass if you bleed out here.”
I force them wide. “Tell her… I’m sorry…I love her.”
“Fuck that,” Riot growls from the other side, still holding the woman who’s whispering thank you over and over in broken English. “You tell her yourself.”
The van screeches into the ER bay. Doors fly open. White coats swarm. They yank me onto a gurney. “GSW chest, BP dropping. Trauma one, now!”
They wheel me fast. Mask over my face. Oxygen. Needles. Cold metal.
Last thing I see is Riot carrying that Russian girl through the doors behind us, her arms still locked around his neck like he’s her lifeline.
Then it all goes black.
I wake up to the beeping. It's too slow.
Too irregular. Every few seconds the machine stutters like it's deciding whether to keep going or quit.
The room smells like bleach and death. Sharp enough to burn the back of my throat.
My chest isn't just heavy. It's on fire.
Every breath feels like sucking air through broken glass.
Thick bandages are taped so tight I can barely expand my ribs.
An IV line snakes into my arm, cold and steady, but it doesn't touch the cold creeping up my legs.
Savannah is in the chair beside the bed. Curled so small she looks like a kid. Her head is on the mattress. Fingers locked around mine in a death grip. Even asleep she's shaking. Her eyes are swollen almost shut. Cheeks streaked with mascara and salt. Lips cracked from biting them.
I try to squeeze her hand. Nothing happens at first. My fingers won't listen. Panic spikes in my gut. I focus. Force it. A weak twitch. That's all I can give.
Her head jerks up. Eyes wide and terrified. “Lucky?”
My voice comes out wet and broken. Barely a whisper. “Hey… baby.”
She makes this sound. Half sob, half choke. Tears flood instantly. She climbs onto the bed slow, like she's scared touching me will break something. Avoids every tube. Every wire. Presses her face into my neck. Her whole body is trembling so hard I feel it in my bones.
“You scared the shit out of me,” she whispers. Voice cracking on every word. “They said… they said you might not… the bullet tore through your lung. You coded twice in the OR. They had to crack your chest open. I thought… I thought I lost you.”
I try to swallow. Tastes like blood and copper. “I’m… sorry.”
“Don’t.” She kisses my jaw. My cheek. My mouth. Soft. Desperate. Like she's trying to pour life back into me. “Don’t you dare apologize. Just… stay. Please stay.”
I lift my hand. It shakes bad. Fingers brush her hair back. Strands stick to her wet face. “Volkov?”
She wipes her eyes with the heel of her hand.
“You don’t remember?” I shake my head once.
Tiny movement. Hurts like hell. She exhales shaky.
“He’s gone. Mason put him down. Riot… he found a girl in there.
Chained in a back room. Russian. She was terrified.
He carried her out and she hasn’t let him go.
Keeps whispering thank you like he’s God. ”
I try to smile. Lips barely move. “Sounds like Riot.”
She presses her forehead to mine. Breath hitching. “You came home. That’s what matters. You have to come home.”
My throat closes. Vision blurs at the edges. “I will… Just… gotta heal.”
She looks up at me cupping my cheek in her palm. “Damn right you do. You fight, Lucky. You fight like hell. I’m not doing this without you.”
The door opens quietly. Mason steps in. Cut on. Face gray. Eyes hollow. Looks like he aged twenty years since the last time I saw him. “Brother,” he says gruffly.
I manage a nod. Barely.
He glances at Savannah. Then back to me. Voice low. Rough. “You rest now. Club’s handling the fallout, we’re taking care of everything. You focus on breathing. On staying. We need you.”
Savannah squeezes my hand so hard it hurts. “He will.”
Mason gives a chin lift. Jaw tight. Steps back out. The door clicks shut.
She settles beside me again. Careful. So careful. I turn my head. Kiss her temple. Lips numb. “Right now… just want you.”
“You’ve got me.” She curls tighter against my side. Voice soft and fierce against my ear. “Always. You hear me? Always. So you stay. You stay for me. For us. For the four kids we’re gonna have. You don’t get to leave me here alone.”
I close my eyes. Feel her heartbeat slamming against my ribs. It hurts so fucking bad I can barely breathe. But I’m still here. She’s still here. And I’m not ready to let go. Not yet.