Chapter 16
The chapel smelled like gun oil and determination.
Paige stood at the end of the scarred wooden table, acutely aware that she was the only person in the room without a patch.
The brothers filled the space—Permafrost at the head, Tundra and Ice flanking him, Ironside by the door.
Whiteout leaned against the far wall, cleaning a rifle with methodical precision.
Tourniquet sat to her left, close enough that their shoulders almost touched.
"Let's hear it," Permafrost said.
Paige stepped forward.
"Mitchell Greer operates out of a project office in Virginia.
Commercial building, second floor. He meets clients there, stores acquisition records, runs his entire operation from behind a desk.
" She pulled a hand-drawn map from her pocket—rough but accurate, built from three years of observation and three weeks of focused intelligence gathering.
"He's there every weekday, nine to five.
Saturdays, he does site walks at his active construction projects. "
"Security?" Tundra asked.
"Before, his crew doubled as muscle. But we've eliminated Shale, Beale, and Janney.
His construction workers are laborers, not soldiers.
They build things—they don't fight for them.
" She traced the building's outline on the map.
"He might have hired new muscle after Janney went down, but I doubt it.
He's been operating on the assumption that his legitimate reputation protects him.
That no one would actually come for him. "
"He was wrong," Ironside said.
"Very wrong."
Permafrost studied the map. "Access points?"
"Main entrance faces the street. Fire exit in the back leads to a parking lot. His office is at the end of a hallway on the second floor—corner unit, windows on two sides."
"Escape routes?"
"One stairwell. Elevator's been broken for months. He complains about it to everyone who'll listen." Paige's mouth curved slightly. "When we hit him, he's got nowhere to go but down those stairs. Right into whoever's waiting."
Ice pulled up satellite imagery on his tablet, comparing it to her hand-drawn map. "She's right. Single stairwell, one main entrance, fire exit leads to an enclosed lot. Clean approach, limited variables."
"What about witnesses?" Whiteout asked from the wall.
"Friday afternoon, the building's mostly empty. Most tenants are construction-adjacent—they knock off early for the weekend. Greer stays late to do paperwork." Paige had spent enough time watching his patterns to know them by heart. "Hit him at four o'clock, the building's a ghost town."
Permafrost was quiet for a long moment, processing.
"His crew's gutted," the president said finally. "His operation's exposed. His buildings are burning—ours, not his anymore. Why hasn't he run?"
"Because he thinks he's untouchable." Paige had thought about this, turned it over during sleepless nights. "He's a legitimate businessman. County commissioner on his side. Reputation for bringing investment to dying towns. In his mind, we're criminals—and criminals don't win against the system."
"He doesn't understand what we are," Tundra said.
"No. He thinks this is a legal dispute that got out of hand. He's probably on the phone with lawyers right now, trying to figure out how to spin Janney's death as unrelated to his operation." Paige shook her head. "He has no idea what's coming."
"Then we educate him," Permafrost said.
The president stood, and the room sharpened to attention.
"Friday. Four PM. We hit Greer's office." His cold eyes moved around the table. "Whiteout on the street, watching approaches. Tundra and Ironside clear the building, secure the exits. Tourniquet—"
"I want point."
The words came quiet and certain. Paige turned to look at Tourniquet, saw the set of his jaw, the intensity in his eyes.
"He burned her shop," Tourniquet continued. "Destroyed her business. Nearly killed civilians with his arson. I want to be the one who ends it."
Permafrost studied him for a long moment.
"This personal for you?"
"Yes."
"That going to be a problem?"
Tourniquet's gaze flicked to Paige—brief, loaded—then back to his president.
"No. It's going to be a solution."
Silence stretched. Then Permafrost nodded.
"Point's yours. Don't make me regret it."
"I won't."
The meeting shifted to logistics—approach routes, timing, contingencies. Paige contributed where she could, answering questions about the building layout and Greer's habits. But her attention kept drifting to Tourniquet.
The controlled stillness of his body. The focus in his eyes. The way he'd said I want point like it was already decided, like nothing could stop him from being the one who faced Greer at the end.
He was going to kill the man who'd destroyed her life.
And she was going to let him.
Church ended with the scrape of chairs and the rumble of voices.
Brothers filtered out, some heading for the garage, others for the armory. The machinery of war grinding into motion. By Friday, Mitchell Greer would be dead, and everything he'd built would burn the way he'd burned her shop.
Poetic, in a dark sort of way.
Paige lingered in the hallway as the chapel emptied.
Tourniquet found her there, leaning against the wall, arms crossed.
"You okay?" he asked.
"Shouldn't I be asking you that?"
"I'm not the one who just stood in front of the entire club and laid out intel for a hit."
"No. You're the one who asked to personally execute the target." She studied his face. "You sure about this?"
"I've never been more sure of anything."
"Reed—"
He stepped closer, crowding her space in a way that should have felt threatening but only felt like shelter.
"He took something from you," Tourniquet said quietly. "Four years of work. Proof that you survived. Everything you built to show you could exist outside the war." His hand found her hip, possessive and grounding. "I'm taking something back."
"It's not the same thing."
"No. It's not." His eyes held hers. "But it's what I can give you. An ending. Closure. The knowledge that the man who did this doesn't exist anymore."
She thought about Greer. The buyout offers. The escalating threats. The casual cruelty of a man who treated human beings like zoning obstacles.
"I don't need you to kill for me."
"I know."
"I could do it myself, if it came to it."
"I know that too." His mouth curved slightly. "That's why I'm doing it instead. Because you shouldn't have to carry that. Not when I'm right here."
She reached up and touched his face—the stubbled jaw, the intensity that never quite faded, the man underneath the patch who'd somehow become her whole world in the space of weeks.
"Come back to me."
"Always."
"I mean it, Reed. Whatever happens in that office—you come back. Promise me."
"I promise."
She kissed him. Hard, demanding, a claim staked in the hallway where anyone could see.
He kissed her back with equal force, his hands pulling her close, his body a wall between her and everything that wanted to hurt her.
When they finally broke apart, his eyes were dark with want and something fiercer.
"Two days," he said. "Then it's over."
"Two days."
He stepped back, and she felt the distance like a physical loss.
"I need to prep with the brothers. Weapons check, route planning." He was already shifting into operational mode, the focused intensity that made him lethal. "Stay in the compound. Don't leave for any reason."
"I know the drill."
"Humor me."
"I always do."
His mouth twitched—almost a smile—and then he was walking away, toward the garage where engines were already turning over.
Paige watched him go.
The man she loved—and she could admit that now, could name the feeling that had been building since the moment he'd stepped beside her in the flower shop—was about to ride into violence.
Again.
For her.
She pushed off the wall and followed him outside.
The yard was chaos—bikes being checked, weapons being loaded, brothers moving with the grim efficiency of men preparing for war. Tourniquet stood beside his bike, running through a final inspection with hands that knew every bolt and cable.
She crossed to him.
He looked up as she approached, question in his eyes.
She took his hand—the burned one, the scarred palm that mapped the cost of heroism—and pressed it to her chest, right over her heart.
"This is what you're fighting for," she said. "Not revenge. Not the shop. This."
His breath caught.
"Paige—"
"Come back to me."
"I will."
She released his hand and stepped back.
The engines turned over, filling the yard with thunder.
Tourniquet mounted his bike, and the last thing she saw before he rode out was his eyes finding hers across the chaos—a promise, a claim, a declaration of war fought on her behalf.
Then he was gone.
And Paige stood in the compound yard, watching dust settle, waiting for the man she loved to end the war he'd started for her.