Chapter 18 #2
Womack's face goes white. "Your daughter? I don't—I didn't—"
"One of your men beat her half to death. Broke her ribs. Cut her arm. Took her engagement ring off her finger while she bled on the floor."
"That wasn't—I didn't order that—"
"Doesn't matter." Fenrir draws his gun. "You're the boss. You said so yourself. That makes you responsible."
"Wait—please—I'll give you anything—"
The shot echoes through the room.
Womack slumps.
Dead.
Blood spreads beneath him, soaking into the cheap motel carpet.
I stare at his body.
At the blood pooling beneath him.
At the pathetic remains of a man who destroyed countless lives.
It should feel like victory, like closure, but something nags at the back of my mind.
Something about the way he hesitated.
The fear that seemed directed at something beyond us.
The operation felt almost too easy to take down.
This was it?
This was the whole thing?
Eight guys and a middle manager running a pipeline that moves children across state lines?
"It's done," Runes says. "Let's get the kids and get out."
I push the doubt aside and focus on what matters.
The children.
Room 14.
We approach slowly, carefully.
These kids have been through hell.
The last thing they need is more armed men bursting through doors.
"Let me," Tor says quietly.
I nod.
He holsters his weapon and takes a breath.
Closes his eyes for a moment—composing himself, maybe, burying the rage.
Finding the gentleness these kids need.
He knocks softly on the door.
"Hello? My name is Tor. I'm here to help you. The bad men are gone. You're safe now."
Silence.
Long.
Heavy.
I can almost feel them in there.
Huddled together.
Terrified.
Waiting for the next horror.
Then—a small voice.
"Are you going to hurt us?"
Tor's jaw tightens.
I see something shatter behind his eyes.
Something that was barely holding together in the first place.
"No, sweetheart. I promise. We're here to take you home."
More silence.
Then the click of a lock.
The door opens slowly.
A girl.
Maybe eight years old.
Matted hair that might have been blonde once.
Tear-stained cheeks.
A bruise on her arm that makes me want to resurrect Womack just so I can kill him again.
Eyes that have seen too much.
Eyes that belong to someone much older.
Behind her, five more children.
Huddled together on one of the beds, clinging to each other.
Ranging from maybe five to twelve.
All of them terrified.
All of them looking at us like we might be the next monsters, like hope is a trap they've learned not to fall for.
Tor crouches down and puts himself at eye level with the girl.
He makes himself small, non-threatening.
"What's your name?" he asks gently.
"Emma."
"Hi, Emma. I know you're scared. I was scared once too. People hurt me when I was young. Bad people. But I got out. And now I help other kids get out." He extends his hand. "Will you let me help you?"
She stares at his hand.
At his face.
Searching for the lie.
For the trick.
For the inevitable betrayal she's learned to expect.
She won't find it.
Not from Tor.
Not from any of us.
Slowly, hesitantly, she takes his hand.
Her tiny fingers wrap around his scarred ones.
"Okay," she whispers.
Tor stands, keeping her hand in his.
"We're going to get you all out of here. Somewhere safe. And then we're going to find your families. Does that sound okay?"
Nods from the other children.
Still scared.
Still uncertain.
But trusting us.
Just a little.
Just enough.
We lead them outside.
One by one.
Careful.
Gentle.
Like they're made of glass.
Like one wrong move might shatter them completely.
The parking lot is littered with bodies now.
I try to shield the kids from the worst of it.
Position myself between them and the carnage.
They've seen enough horror.
They don't need to see more.
No one escaped.
No one called for backup.
It's over.
Or at least, this part is over.
Rati approaches with a burner phone. "Anonymous tip to the authorities?" he asks.
Fenrir nods. "There's a church about ten miles south. Good people. The pastor there—he's helped us before. They'll keep the kids safe until the cops arrive and can reunite them with their families."
We load the children into the van—the same van that was probably going to take them to hell.
Now it's going to take them to safety.
The irony isn't lost on me.
Tor climbs in with them.
"I'll stay until we hand them off," he says. "They shouldn't be alone with strangers. They've had enough of that."
No one argues.
If anyone understands what these kids need, it's him.
The church is small.
White clapboard.
A cross lit up on the steeple, glowing against the dark sky.
The kind of place that actually practices what it preaches.
We pull up, make the handoff to a sleepy but immediately alert pastor who asks no questions and offers only kindness.
His wife appears moments later with blankets and warm milk.
"God bless you," the pastor says as the kids file inside, wrapped in quilts, clutching mugs. "Whatever you had to do to bring them here—God bless you for doing it."
I don't know about God, but I know those kids are safe.
That's enough.
That's everything.
Tor emerges last.
His face is wet.
I pretend not to notice.
"They're going to be okay," I say.
"I know." His voice is rough. Broken. "I just—I wish someone had come for me. When I was in there. I wished for it every night. Prayed for it. And no one came. It only stopped after I finally told my father."
"Shit, that’s rough."
"Yeah." He wipes his face with the back of his hand.
"And now you're paying it forward."
He nods.
Doesn't say anything else.
Doesn't need to.
Some things don't need words.
The ride home is quieter than the ride out.
The adrenaline is fading.
The exhaustion setting in.
The weight of everything we did pressing down on our shoulders.
But there's something else too.
Peace.
It's over.
The trafficking ring—dismantled.
Eddie Womack—dead.
The kids—safe.
Ingrid's attacker—already rotting in an unmarked grave somewhere.
We won.
I keep repeating it to myself as the miles disappear beneath my wheels.
We won.
It's over.
But that nagging feeling from Room 8 won't quite go away.
The way Womack hesitated.
The fear in his eyes that seemed directed at something other than us.
The operation felt almost too easy to take down.
Eight guys and a middle manager?
That's it?
That's the whole thing?
I push the doubt aside.
We have the intel.
We have the bodies.
We have the confirmation from Ted—and Ted is dead, so he's not lying.
Womack said he was the boss.
He's dead too.
It's over.
It has to be over.
I'm getting married.
I'm building a life with Ingrid.
I don't have room for more war, don't have room for more doubt.
The clubhouse appears on the horizon.
Lights blazing even with it being so late.
They're waiting for us.
The women.
The families.
Everyone who spent the night praying we'd come home.
I see her before I even kill the engine.
Ingrid, standing in the parking lot.
Hair loose around her shoulders, catching the light from the clubhouse.
Face still showing the fading bruises, the yellow-green remnants of what that bastard did to her.
But her eyes—
Her eyes are bright.
Alive.
Wet with tears she's not bothering to hide.
Fixed on me like I'm the only thing in the world.
I'm off the bike and moving toward her before I consciously decide to move.
My legs carrying me.
My heart pulling me.
She meets me halfway and crashes into my arms.
I catch her, lift her, hold her so tight I'm probably hurting her ribs.
She doesn't complain, just clings to me.
Her arms around my neck, her face buried in my shoulder.
Crying.
Laughing.
Both at once.
"You came back," she says against my neck.
"I promised."
"I know. But I was so scared—I couldn't breathe—every minute felt like an hour—"
"It's over." I pull back just enough to see her face. Cup her cheeks in my hands. "It's over, Ingrid. Womack is dead. The operation is gone. The kids are safe. All of it—over."
"Really?"
"Really."
She kisses me.
Hard.
Desperate.
Full of everything she couldn't say while I was gone.
All the fear.
All the hope.
All the prayers she sent into the darkness.
I kiss her back just as hard.
Tasting her tears.
Feeling her heart pound against my chest.
This.
This is what I fought for.
This is what I came home to.
This is everything.
"I love you," she whispers when we finally break apart.
"I love you too. More than anything. More than my own life."
"Take me home."
"We are home."
She shakes her head.
"No. Our home. Our house. I want to sleep in our bed. Just us. Just tonight. No clubhouse, no noise, no anything. Just you and me."
I smile.
The first real smile in what feels like forever. "Yeah. Okay. Let's go home."
We walk toward my truck, her hand in mine.
Behind us, the club is celebrating.
Cheers and laughter and the release of tension that's been building for weeks.
Brothers embracing.
Ol’ ladies crying with relief.
The sound of victory.
But we don't join them.
Not tonight.
Tonight is just for us.
For the future we almost lost.
For the life we're finally going to build.