Chapter 16 Last Light
LAST LIGHT
TANK
The compound had gone quiet in a way that made my skin itch.
Not silent—there was still movement, still the low murmur of voices and the occasional clang of metal on metal.
But the usual noise was missing. No music from the clubhouse, no laughter spilling out of open windows, no prospects arguing over whose turn it was to man the gate.
Just men moving with grim purpose, checking weapons, loading gear, saying things to each other that might be the last words they ever exchanged.
Axel was by the vans with three prospects, supervising the installation of makeshift armor plates—scrap metal welded to the doors and panels, not pretty but functional.
It wouldn't stop a rifle round, but it might deflect something smaller, buy a man an extra second to find real cover.
Every second mattered when bullets were flying.
Santos was running an inventory of ammunition at a folding table near the armory, counting magazines and boxes of shells with the grim efficiency of a quartermaster preparing for a siege.
Marco sat beside him, field-stripping rifles and laying them out in neat rows, his movements mechanical, his eyes distant.
I stood on the porch and watched the sun bleed out across the western sky, painting everything in shades of red and gold.
Beautiful, in a way that felt almost obscene given what was coming.
Somewhere out there, Cross was preparing too.
Getting ready to spring his trap. Thinking he had us exactly where he wanted us.
He was wrong. But being wrong didn't mean we'd all walk away from this.
"You should eat something."
Irish's voice pulled me back. He was sitting in one of the porch chairs, his wounded leg propped on a crate, frustration carved into every line of his face. Ghost sat beside him, crutches leaning against the railing, looking equally pissed about being left behind.
"Not hungry."
"Didn't ask if you were hungry. Said you should eat." Irish's jaw tightened. "Can't fight on an empty stomach, brother."
"I'll grab something later."
Ghost snorted. "You'll grab Tyler later, you mean. We've all seen the way you two—"
"Finish that sentence and I'll break your other leg."
But there was no heat in my voice, and Ghost knew it. He just grinned, the expression not quite reaching his eyes. None of us were really joking tonight. The humor was armor, thin and brittle, barely holding back the fear underneath.
"Watch your six out there." Irish's voice had gone serious. "Both of you. I don't want to be learning new names because you got careless."
"We'll be careful."
"Careful gets you killed. Be smart. Be fast. And come the fuck home."
I looked at him—at both of them, these men who'd become my brothers in every way that mattered.
Irish, who'd nearly bled out on a desert road a week ago and was already chomping at the bit to get back in the fight.
Ghost, barely out of his prospect year, young and eager and too brave for his own good.
"Hold the compound," I told them. "That's your job. Anyone comes through those gates that isn't us, you put them in the ground."
"With pleasure." Irish's smile was sharp, dangerous. "Now go. Eat something. Or don't. Just stop standing there looking like you're already at your own funeral."
I pushed off the railing, but before I could head inside, a hand caught my shoulder.
Blade. He looked different in the fading light—the hard angles of his face softened slightly, the permanent scowl eased into something almost human.
We'd never been close, Blade and I. He ran with the officers, I worked the jobs, and our paths crossed mainly in church or on runs.
But he'd been patched longer than almost anyone except Hawk, and that earned its own kind of respect.
"Walk with me."
It wasn't a request. I fell into step beside him as he headed toward the row of vans being prepped for tomorrow. The armored panels glinted dully in the sunset, patchwork shields against whatever Cross had waiting.
"You and the fed." Blade's voice was low, pitched for my ears only. "It's real? Not just blowing off steam?"
"It's real."
He nodded slowly, processing that. "Cross is going to use it. You know that. He'll try to get to you through him, or him through you. He'll find the crack and drive a wedge into it."
"Let him try."
"I'm serious, Tank." Blade stopped, turned to face me.
Up close, I could see the lines around his eyes, the gray threading through his beard.
He'd seen more fights than I could count, lost brothers, buried friends.
He knew exactly what we were walking into.
"Whatever happens tomorrow, whatever Cross throws at us—don't let him get in your head. Don't let Tyler become a weakness."
"He's not a weakness."
"No." Blade's expression shifted—something almost like approval flickering through. "He's not. I've seen him fight. Seen him ride. Seen the way the club's taken to him." He paused. "But Cross sees it differently. Cross sees a lever he can pull. Don't give him the satisfaction."
I held his gaze, let him see the steel underneath my words. "I won't."
"Good." He clapped a hand on my shoulder, the gesture surprisingly warm. "Watch your six in that drain. It's tight quarters down there. Things go wrong, they go wrong fast."
"Watch yours out front. You're the ones who'll be taking fire."
"That's the idea." His smile was grim. "We make a lot of noise, draw a lot of attention. Give you and your team time to get in position. When Hawk gives the signal..." He trailed off, shook his head. "Just be ready. Once it starts, there's no stopping it."
"We'll be ready."
Blade looked at me for a long moment, something unreadable in his expression.
Then he nodded once, turned, and walked back toward the vans.
I watched him go—watched him bark orders at the prospects, check the armor plates with his own hands, move with the easy authority of a man who'd been doing this his whole life.
We weren't friends. But tomorrow we'd be brothers in the truest sense. Bleeding for the same cause. Fighting for the same home.
The garage was dark when I pushed through the door, lit only by the work lights I'd strung up months ago.
The smell hit me first—motor oil and metal, grease and old leather.
The smells of my childhood, of Danny teaching me to change a tire when I was barely tall enough to reach the lug nuts, of late nights wrenching on bikes that should have been scrapped years ago.
The Shovelhead sat in the center of the space, chrome gleaming dully, the cherry red paint I'd finally applied catching the light like fresh blood.
Danny's bike. Danny's dream. The project that had kept me sane through six years of grief, and that I'd nearly abandoned more times than I could count.
I grabbed a wrench and started checking bolts I'd already checked twice. The repetitive motion was soothing—turn, test, move on. Turn, test, move on. My hands knew what to do even when my mind was elsewhere, finding the familiar rhythm that had carried me through countless sleepless nights.
And my mind was definitely elsewhere. Tomorrow we'd roll out before dawn, hit the warehouse while Cross thought we were still planning.
Blade would take the front with the vans, draw fire, give them something to shoot at.
Hawk would be on the ridge, watching through a scope, putting down anyone who got too close.
And Tyler, Axel, and I would crawl through a drainage pipe that might lead nowhere, gambling everything on a hunch and a hand-drawn map.
It was insane. It was the best plan we had. I tightened a bolt that didn't need tightening and tried not to think about all the ways it could go wrong.
Tyler in the crossfire. Tyler caught in Cross's trap. Tyler dragged back into the hell he'd barely escaped, this time with no way out. Cross's hands on him. Cross's voice in his ear, whispering all the poison that had nearly destroyed him once before.
The wrench slipped, scraped my knuckles. Blood welled up, dark in the dim light, and I sucked it from the cut without really registering the pain.
I'd been scared before. Every fight carried fear—anyone who said otherwise was lying or stupid. But this was different. This wasn't fear for myself, for my own life. I'd made peace with dying years ago, the night I found Danny cold on his apartment floor. Death didn't scare me.
Losing Tyler did. The realization hit me like a fist to the chest. I'd spent so long convincing myself I didn't need anyone, didn't want anyone, that caring too much was a weakness I couldn't afford.
Danny's death had taught me that love was just another word for grief waiting to happen.
Better to keep everyone at arm's length. Better to stay alone.
Then Tyler had crashed into my life with his government credentials and his haunted eyes, and every wall I'd built had crumbled like paper.
I set the wrench down before I broke something—the tool or my hand, either seemed equally likely at this point.
Braced my palms on the workbench and let my head hang, breathing through the fear that wanted to crawl up my throat and choke me.
"You've checked those bolts three times."
Tyler's voice came from the doorway, soft and steady. I turned to find him leaning against the frame, arms crossed, watching me with eyes that saw too much. The garage door swung shut behind him with a soft click—deliberate, I realized. Giving us privacy.
"Needed something to do."
"I can think of something better."
He crossed the space between us, footsteps barely audible on the concrete floor. The work lights caught the planes of his face, the sharp line of his jaw, the curve of his lips. A month ago he'd been a stranger—another fed, another complication, another problem for the club to solve. Now he was...
Everything. He was everything.