Chapter 19
Tyson
T he cold hit me first. Not air conditioning cold or early morning cold—the specific absence-cold of sheets that should have held warmth but didn't. My hand swept across empty fabric, searching for purple hair and soft skin and finding only the ghost of her vanilla scent.
"Lena?"
Her name came out rough, sandpaper against the silence. No answer from the bathroom. No coffee sounds from the kitchen.
Then I saw the note.
Her handwriting stared up at me from her pillow.
Gone to the shop. Need to process through painting.
The paper crumpled in my fist before I realized I'd grabbed it. She wasn’t meant to be alone, and she knew that. Something felt off—badly off.
"Fuck." I was already moving, yanking on jeans and boots with muscle memory while my brain caught up.
The first call went straight to voicemail. So did the second. By the third, my hands were steady but my chest felt like someone had reached in and squeezed. This wasn't her avoiding a difficult conversation. All my instincts said it was more than that.
Tracker app. Thank Christ for paranoia and technology.
The compass rose icon blinked on my screen, showing her moving through the city.
But not toward downtown where her shop waited.
She was heading northwest, into the industrial district.
Into areas where civilians had no good reason to be at eight in the morning.
"Baby, what did you do?"
The words came out as prayer and accusation both. My phone exploded with notifications before I could process what I was seeing. Tank's name flashed first: "Fire at Eddie's place. Whole building's going up."
Then Duke: "Get here NOW."
More texts flooded in—brothers reporting, questioning, mobilizing. But my eyes stayed locked on that little compass rose, watching it move deeper into territory that made my military brain scream warnings.
The ride to the clubhouse took six minutes. Felt like six hours. The tracker showed Lena moving steadily, purposefully. Not the erratic pattern of someone taken against their will. The deliberate path of someone going somewhere specific.
The clubhouse was controlled chaos. Brothers everywhere, some still pulling on cuts, others huddled around the TV where news footage played on loop. A massive warehouse fire, flames reaching three stories high, black smoke visible across half the city.
"Eddie's inside," Switchblade reported, not looking away from the screen. "Neighbors saw him go in around seven-thirty. Haven't seen him come out."
"Jesus." Tank's voice cracked slightly. "First Rico and Johnnie, now Eddie . . ."
But I wasn't listening to their grief. Couldn't afford to.
My phone screen showed that compass rose moving through streets I recognized, heading toward an intersection that made bile rise in my throat.
The border between our territory and theirs.
The line Eddie would know we rarely crossed without serious backup.
"She went to him." The realization hit like a physical blow. "Eddie. She went to fucking Eddie."
Every head turned. Duke materialized at my shoulder, reading my face with those eyes that missed nothing.
"What?"
"Yesterday." The words tumbled out while I watched her tracker creep deeper into enemy territory. "Found them talking in the chapel. By the memorial. She said he was telling her about Johnnie, but . . ." My fist slammed the table. "He was working her. Playing on her guilt."
"Eddie's burning in a warehouse," someone protested. "He can't—"
"Body?" I cut them off, voice gone to command mode. "Anyone actually see a body? Confirmed remains? Or is it all just hearsay?"
Silence spread like infection. On screen, reporters discussed the intensity of the blaze, how identification would take time, how the building's age made it a tinderbox. Perfect for destroying evidence. Perfect for covering tracks.
Duke's face underwent a transformation I'd seen before—the moment understanding crystallized into action. "Fire's one hell of a distraction. Keeps cops busy, makes us think he's dead . . ."
"While he delivers Lena to Cruz." The tracker icon flickered on my screen, signal weakening as she moved deeper into areas with poor coverage. "She's in Serpent territory. Signal's dying."
"Could be coincidence," Tank argued, but his voice lacked conviction. Twenty years of brotherhood warred with tactical assessment on his scarred face. "Maybe she really did go somewhere to process. Maybe—"
The tracker went dark.
"Signal's gone." My phone creaked in my grip. "FUCK!"
"Mount up." Duke's command voice filled the space, cutting through shock and confusion. "Full force. Every brother who can ride. If Eddie's alive and did this—"
"He's dead either way." I was already moving, checking weapons with hands that wanted to shake but wouldn't. "But first, we get her back."
The prospect nearest the door scrambled to spread the word.
Engines roared to life outside, the sound of retribution warming up.
But all I could see was that dead tracker, that last position before everything went dark.
She'd trusted someone she shouldn't have.
Walked into a trap wrapped in sympathy and shared grief.
My fault. Should have seen it. Should have known Eddie's pride wouldn't let those public humiliations stand. Should have protected her better.
Should have, should have, should have.
But should-haves wouldn't bring her back. Only violence would do that now. The kind of violence I'd trained for, fought with, lived through. The kind that left men in pieces and questions unasked.
They wanted war? They'd get it. But first, I'd get her back.
No matter who stood in the way.
T wenty minutes. That's what I gave them.
Twenty minutes to mobilize while I turned the office table into a war room.
Maps spread across carved wood like battle plans, marked with every Serpent stronghold we knew, every safe house we'd identified, every corner where they did business.
My hands moved with purpose even as my mind screamed her name.
"Last signal was here." My finger stabbed the intersection where the tracker died. Industrial district, old warehouses and abandoned factories. Perfect for what Cruz would need—privacy, soundproofing, multiple exits. "Three possible locations within a mile radius."
Thor leaned over my shoulder, his good arm braced on the table. "Old Bracken facility, Crockett's abandoned processing plant, or that complex near the river."
"We hit all three." The words came out clipped, tactical. "We’ll start at the river complex—most likely based on defensive positions, and move to the others after."
"What about the fire?" A younger brother—Dominic—gestured toward the window where smoke still darkened the sky. "Cops will be crawling all over this area. Emergency vehicles blocking roads."
"Exactly." Duke's smile held no humor. "Perfect distraction. Every cop in the district is playing firefighter. Eddie might be a rat, but he's smart."
Tank still looked like someone had gutted him. Twenty years of brotherhood didn't die easy. "I sponsored him. Brought him to his first church. He knows our playbooks, our protocols, how we think."
"Then we go off-book." I straightened, meeting every eye in the room. "Military tactics, not MC. Urban warfare, not biker brawl. They're expecting Heavy Kings. We give them something else."
"Hooah," someone muttered, and others picked it up. Half these men had served. They understood what I was asking.
"ROE?" Thor asked, all business now.
"Weapons free on combatants. Cruz lives—he's mine. Anyone sees Eddie . . ." I let that hang. Everyone understood what happened to traitors.
"Speaking of." Duke pulled out a burner phone. "Got a text from our guy at the fire. They found three bodies so far. Too burned for visual ID."
Three bodies. I processed that, mind calculating. "Eddie lived alone."
"Yeah." Duke's expression said he'd done the same math. "Vagrants, probably. Wrong place, wrong time."
Or bodies placed there. Eddie covering his tracks with corpses that would take weeks to identify through dental records. By then he'd be ghosts and shadows, counting money somewhere warm.
"Remember, we need different tactics.” I rolled up the maps, decision made. "Flash-bangs instead of rushing. Suppressing fire instead of charging. We've gotten comfortable being the biggest dogs. Time to remember how to be wolves."
Duke checked his weapon, movements sharp with barely controlled violence. "Five minutes to mount up. Full combat load. Anyone not ready stays behind."
The tavern emptied with purpose. Brothers who'd been drowning in grief transformed into soldiers. The kind of transformation that happened when you gave men a mission, a target for their rage.
I stayed behind, staring at the dark phone screen where her tracker had been. One last attempt to reach her—straight to voicemail again. Her recorded voice cheerful and bright: "This is Lena! Leave me something fun!"
"I'm coming, baby," I told the recording. "Hold on. Just hold on."
Tank appeared in the doorway, tactical vest over his cut. "Ready?"
"Yeah." I strapped on my own gear, each piece of equipment a promise. Knife for close work. Pistol for precision. Rifle for sending messages. "Let's go get her."
T he first location reeked of failure and methamphetamine.
We breached hard and fast—flash-bangs turning the dawn into white fire, brothers flowing through doors and windows like violent water.
But the Bracken facility was a ghost, abandoned in haste.
Cooking equipment still warm, chemicals puddle on concrete, but no Serpents. No Lena.
"Clear," Thor reported, disgust thick in his voice. "Recent activity. Maybe six hours old."
Six hours. When she was still safe in my bed, dreaming whatever dreams brave girls dream. Before she made a choice that might get her killed.
"Next location," I ordered, already moving. No time for what-ifs.