Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
RJ
I call Da at six in the morning, Florida time.
That makes it eleven in Dublin—late enough that he'll be awake, early enough that he won't be buried in Brotherhood business.
I slip out of bed carefully, leaving Dalla warm and sleeping, and take my phone to the basement common area.
The concrete floor is cold under my bare feet.
The clubhouse above is silent, that strange hush that settles over places in the hours before dawn.
I settle onto the worn couch and dial.
He answers on the second ring.
"RJ." His voice is gruff, familiar. The same voice that taught me how to shoot, how to fight, how to survive. "I was wondering when you'd check in."
"Been busy."
"So I've heard." There's a note of amusement in his tone. "Doran's been talking. Says you've gotten... close to your principal."
Shite.
Of course Doran's been talking.
The man's married to Dalla's twin sister—there's no way Rev hasn't been giving him updates, which means Greer knows, which means the whole bloody Mackenzie network knows.
"It's handled," I say.
"Is it?"
"Da."
He sighs, and I hear the creak of leather—his office chair, the one he's had since before I was born. "I'm not going to lecture you, boy. You're a grown man. You make your own choices. But I need to know your head's in the game. She's still your principal. Her safety still comes first."
"I know."
"Do you?"
"Her safety is the only thing that matters." The words come out fierce, sharper than I intended. "I'd die before I let anyone touch her."
A pause. When Da speaks again, his voice is softer. "Aye. I believe you would."
We sit in silence for a moment.
This is how we communicate—in silences and understood things.
Da raised me alone after my mother left, poured everything he had into making me capable, competent, deadly.
We don't do feelings.
We don't do heart-to-hearts.
We just... understand each other.
He's not going to push.
He's not going to pry.
He's just going to trust that he raised me right and let me handle my own life.
"What's the situation in Dublin?" I ask, steering us back to business. "The Krajncs?"
"Quiet. Too quiet." I hear him shift, papers rustling. "They made a big move at that showing—three shooters, coordinated attack. That takes resources, planning. You don't do something like that and then just... disappear."
"You think they're regrouping?"
"I think they're waiting. For what, I don't know. But it doesn't feel right. Something's brewing." He pauses. "They've pulled back from their usual operations in Belfast too. Usually they're running product through the docks every week. Nothing in the past ten days."
"That's not normal."
"No. It's not."
I think about the dark sedan. The one that watched the compound for days and then vanished. "Something feels off here too."
"The MC handling it?"
"They're aware. I'm working with them."
"Good. Don't try to be a hero. You're one man. Use the resources available."
"I will." I hesitate, then ask the question that's been burning in my chest since I woke up this morning. "Da... how long am I staying with her?"
He doesn't answer immediately.
I can picture him in his office, considering the question from every angle the way he considers everything.
The dim light from the window behind him.
The stack of files on his desk.
The photo of me at twelve, holding my first gun, that he keeps in the corner where he thinks I don't see it.
"As long as it bloody takes," he says finally. "You know how this works."
I do know.
Protection details don't have end dates.
You stay until the threat is neutralized or the principal no longer requires your services.
It could be weeks. Months. Years.
My chest tightens with something that feels dangerously like hope.
"And if the threat is neutralized?" I press. "What then?"
"Then we reassess. There's always another assignment, RJ. Another principal who needs protecting."
Another assignment. Another principal.
Another life that isn't this one—waking up next to Dalla, holding her while she sleeps, watching her sketch and hum and exist in all the ways that make me feel more alive than I've ever felt.
The thought of leaving her—of being assigned somewhere else, protecting someone else—makes my stomach turn.
"Right," I say. "Of course."
Da is quiet for a moment. "She matters to you."
It's not a question.
"She does."
"Then make sure she stays safe. That's the best thing you can do for her—keep her alive long enough for this to be something real."
The words hit harder than they should. Because he's right. Whatever this is between us, whatever it could become—none of it matters if I can't protect her from the people trying to hurt her.
"I will," I say. "I promise."
"Good lad. Check in again in a few days. And RJ?"
"Yeah?"
"Be careful. Not just with the threats. With yourself."
He hangs up before I can respond.
I do a full perimeter check after the call, needing to move, needing to think.
The compound is quiet in the early morning, most of the club still sleeping off whatever happened last night.
I walk the fence line first, checking for gaps, weaknesses, anything that looks disturbed.
Then I expand outward, into the tree line beyond the property.
This is where they were watching from.
The dark sedan, parked on the road.
But the road is too far for good surveillance—you'd get the gate, the entrance, not much else.
If someone wanted real intel on the compound...
They'd need to get closer.
I move through the trees carefully, scanning for anything out of place.
Broken branches. Disturbed earth. Signs that someone has been here who shouldn't be.
I almost miss it.
It's small—maybe the size of my fist—mounted on a tree trunk about fifteen feet up.
The casing is designed to blend in with the bark, mottled brown and gray.
If I hadn't been looking specifically for surveillance equipment, I never would have spotted it.
A satellite camera. Professional grade.
Weatherproof housing, solar panel for power, probably cellular transmission for the feed.
This isn't something you buy at a spy shop.
This is military-grade equipment, the kind that costs thousands of dollars and requires serious connections to acquire.
Someone has been watching this compound for a lot longer than a few days.
I photograph it from multiple angles, then carefully remove it from the tree, making sure not to damage anything that might yield fingerprints or other forensic evidence.
My mind is racing.
The sedan was a distraction, or maybe a secondary surveillance point.
But this—this is the real operation.
Someone has been mapping this compound, studying its patterns, looking for weaknesses.
Reconnaissance for what?
I need to talk to Runes, so I head inside the clubhouse and head for his office, hoping he’s awake and up at this hour.
The door is solid oak, reinforced—I can tell by the weight of it when I knock. "Come in."
Runes is behind his desk, paperwork spread out in front of him.
He looks up when I enter a hot cup of coffee beside him, his expression shifting from neutral to guarded when he sees what I'm carrying.
"Found this in the trees," I say, setting the camera on his desk. "About two hundred yards past your eastern fence line. Satellite uplink, solar powered. Someone's been watching your compound."
He stares at the camera for a long moment.
When he looks up, his eyes are cold. "Show me where."
We walk the perimeter together, and I point out the tree where I found the device, the sight lines it would have captured, the likely transmission range.
Runes listens without interrupting, his expression growing darker with each detail.
"This isn't the Krajncs," he says finally. "Those Slovenian fucks operate in Belfast and in parts of Europe. They don't have resources in Florida."
"No," I agree. "This is something else."
We walk back to the clubhouse in silence. When we reach his office, he closes the door and gestures for me to sit. "What do you know about our situation here?" he asks. "The local threats?"
"Only what I've observed. The sedan watching the compound. This camera. Dalla mentioned something about trouble in the past, but she didn't have details."
Runes is quiet for a moment, studying me. Making a decision.
"A few months ago, we took down a trafficking operation," he says finally. "Man named Eddie. He was running girls through our territory—young ones, some of them barely teenagers. We put a stop to it. Permanently."
"You killed him."
"I did what needed to be done." His voice is flat. Unapologetic. "But Eddie wasn't the head. He was a front. Someone else was running the show, and we never found out who."
"And now they're back."
"Activity's picked up again. Same MO, same routes. Whoever's really in charge, they've been rebuilding. Waiting." He gestures at the camera on his desk. "This tells me they're planning something. Something big."
"What do they want?"
"What traffickers always want. Money. Power. Territory." His jaw tightens. "Or revenge. We killed their front man. Burned their network. They might want payback."
I think about Dalla. The president's daughter. The perfect target if someone wanted to hurt this club.
"Does Dalla know?"
"She knows there was trouble. She doesn't know the details." He holds my gaze. "I'd like to keep it that way. She's got enough to worry about with the Irish situation."
"Agreed. But if she's a target—"
"She's always been a target. Since the day she was born." Something weary crosses his face. "That's why I wanted her away from here. That's why I supported her move to Jacksonville, her fashion career. I wanted her to have a life that wasn't this."
"She came back."
"She came back." He almost smiles. "Stubborn, that one. Gets it from her mother."
I don't know what to say to that, so I say nothing.
"The Mackenzies sent you to protect her from the Krajncs," Runes continues. "But this—" he taps the camera— "this might be a bigger threat. I need to know you're prepared for that."