Chapter Three
The chapel smelled like gun oil and old leather.
Sandman stood at the head of the table, facing his brothers in the converted tobacco warehouse that served as Black Ops Brotherhood's heart.
Legion sat at the president's chair, silver hair catching the overhead light, his weathered face unreadable.
Ghost flanked him on one side, Trooper on the other.
The rest of the brothers filled the remaining seats—Forge, Cargo, Static, Recon—men who'd served at the tip of America's spear and found purpose in this room when the Army had none left to offer.
"Glen Harmon." Sandman let the name hang in the air. "Former Fayetteville PD, fired for excessive force five years ago. Currently running an extortion operation out of a security consulting front on Bragg Boulevard."
"How big?" Legion's voice was gravel over stone.
"Fifteen men, maybe more. Mix of disgraced cops and ex-military who washed out for the wrong reasons. They're targeting immigrant-owned businesses in the neighborhoods around Liberty—grocery stores, restaurants, laundromats. Places run by people who won't go to police."
"Because Harmon was police." Ghost spoke without inflection. "They go to the cops, they're going to the same people who trained him."
"Exactly." Sandman pulled out his phone, scrolled to the notes he'd taken while Michelle made coffee and answered his questions.
"He's been operating for at least two years, probably longer.
Started small—vandalism, intimidation. Built up to a full protection racket.
Two thousand a month per business, with 'interest' collected directly from registers when owners resist."
Forge leaned forward, his massive arms crossed on the table. "How many businesses?"
"I don't have a full count yet. The woman I met tonight—Michelle Torres—says there are at least a dozen owners in her neighborhood alone who've been hit.
None of them will talk to authorities. Half of them have immigration concerns.
The other half have seen what happens when people complain about cops to other cops. "
"Smart operation." Recon's flat voice cut through. "Targeting people with no recourse. Classic predator behavior."
"There's more." Sandman met Legion's eyes.
"His crew operates like a unit. Shifts, territories, collection schedules.
They've got a primary enforcer named Derek Poole—former MP, handles the physical intimidation.
And an intelligence coordinator—older guy, former detective, identifies targets and monitors for threats. "
"So not just thugs." Trooper drummed his fingers on the table. "Organized. Disciplined."
"Disciplined enough to avoid federal attention for five years." Sandman nodded. "They know how investigations work, know which victims won't file reports, know exactly how much they can take before anyone notices."
Silence settled over the chapel.
Legion studied the table for a long moment, his expression carved from the same stone that had commanded ODAs in places that didn't appear on maps. When he spoke, his voice carried the weight of twenty-four years leading men into darkness.
"These communities around Liberty." He looked up. "Military families. Immigrants who serve the base economy. Veterans trying to rebuild."
"Our people." Static's voice was hard. "Whether they know it or not."
"Our territory." Legion's jaw tightened. "And some former cop thinks he can run a protection racket in the middle of it."
"He's been doing it for years." Sandman kept his voice level, but he felt the anger building in his chest—the same cold fury that had served him in villages where warlords preyed on people who couldn't fight back. "Nobody's stopped him because nobody with teeth has noticed."
"We've noticed." Ghost's words fell like stones into still water.
Legion looked around the table, reading his brothers the way he'd read a hundred teams before operations that never officially happened.
"Vote," he said. "Do we move on this?"
Forge's hand went up first. "Aye."
"Aye." Ghost.
"Aye." Trooper.
One by one, every hand rose. Unanimous.
Legion nodded once. "Then it's decided. Glen Harmon's operation ends. The only question is how."
"We need intel first." Recon leaned back in his chair. "Locations, schedules, the full picture of his crew. Can't dismantle what we can't see."
"That's where I come in." Sandman pulled up a photo on his phone—Michelle's store, the damage visible through the windows. "The woman who brought this to us—she's connected. Knows the neighborhood, knows the other business owners. She's been trying to organize resistance."
"Organize resistance?" Cargo raised an eyebrow. "Against fifteen armed men?"
"She's stubborn." Sandman heard something in his own voice he hadn't intended—a warmth, a protectiveness. From the look Ghost shot him, he wasn't the only one who noticed. "Stupid brave, maybe. But the kind of brave that makes people follow."
"Sounds like someone's already claimed territory." Static's mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile.
"I'm doing my job."
"Uh-huh."
Legion cut through the ribbing with a raised hand. "The woman—you trust her?"
Sandman considered the question. He'd known Michelle Torres for less than three hours.
Had watched her sweep up the wreckage of her livelihood with shaking hands and a spine that wouldn't bend.
Had seen her weigh the risk of trusting strangers against the certainty of what would happen if she didn't.
"Yeah," he said. "I trust her."
"Then you're our way in." Legion stood, and the brothers rose with him. "Embed with her. Learn the neighborhood. Get us the full picture of Harmon's operation—his crew, his routes, his schedules. We need to know where he's weak before we hit him."
"And while I'm gathering intel?"
"We prepare." Ghost's voice was ice. "When you give us targets, we'll be ready to move."
Sandman nodded. This was how the brotherhood worked—patient when patience served, overwhelming when the time came. They'd learned it in places where mistakes meant body bags and mission failure meant villages burning.
Glen Harmon had no idea what was coming for him.
"One more thing." Legion's eyes found Sandman's. "The woman. Michelle. Is she going to be a problem?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, is she going to get in the way? Try to handle things herself? Make moves that compromise our operation?"
Sandman thought about the fire in Michelle's eyes when she'd talked about her community. The way she'd challenged him even when she was scared. The stubborn set of her jaw when she'd agreed to meet his people.
"She's not going to sit back and wait to be rescued," he said carefully. "That's not who she is."
"Then make sure she doesn't get herself killed." Legion's voice softened, just slightly. "Civilians who want to help are the most dangerous variables in any operation. They've got heart but no training. Keep her close. Keep her safe. And keep her out of our way when the shooting starts."
"Understood."
The chapel emptied as brothers filed out, conversations shifting to logistics and preparation. Sandman stayed behind, staring at the phone in his hand—at the photo of the ruined store and the woman who refused to let it break her.
Keep her close.
That wasn't going to be a problem.
"Brother." Ghost appeared at his shoulder, moving silent as always. "A word."
"What?"
"I saw the way you looked when you talked about her." Ghost's expression revealed nothing, but his eyes missed even less. "The protective tone. The warmth."
"She's a civilian in danger. I'm supposed to protect her."
"You're supposed to gather intel." Ghost's mouth twitched. "Protecting her isn't the job. It's what's happening around the job."
Sandman didn't have an answer for that.
"I'm not saying it's wrong." Ghost clapped him on the shoulder. "Just saying—be careful. When you start caring about the assets, the mission gets complicated."
"She's not an asset."
"No." Ghost's voice dropped. "She's not. That's exactly my point."
He walked away, leaving Sandman alone in the chapel with the weight of what he'd taken on pressing against his chest.
Glen Harmon was running a protection racket in Black Ops Brotherhood territory. That was a problem with a solution—violence, applied correctly, until the problem stopped existing.
But Michelle Torres...
She was something else entirely. Something he hadn't expected. Something that made the calm assessment he'd relied on for thirteen years feel suddenly inadequate.
Keep her close. Keep her safe.
Sandman pocketed his phone and headed for the door.
He had a feeling both were going to be easier said than done.