Chapter 19 #2
Crockett's processing plant told a different story. Fresh tire tracks in old oil stains. Cigarette butts still smoldering. Someone had been here recently—multiple someones based on the footprint patterns. My team swept through with textbook precision, but found only echoes and trash.
"Blood here," Tank called from a loading dock. "Still tacky. Maybe two hours old."
Two hours. When I was spreading maps and making plans, she was already gone. Already in their hands. The knowledge sat like broken glass in my chest.
"Boss." One of the younger brothers held up something that made my vision tunnel. A purple hair tie, the kind she used when working. Could be coincidence. Could be anyone's.
Could be hers.
"Third location," I said, voice steady despite the storm building inside. "Now."
The river complex squatted against the morning sky like a cancer. Three buildings connected by covered walkways, perfect for defense or detention. And the parking lot . . .
"Jesus," someone breathed. "That's a lot of bikes."
Forty at minimum, probably more. Serpent colors bold in the morning light, parked in defensive clusters. And other vehicles with Cartel colors. They weren't trying to hide. This was a statement—we have her, come and try.
But one bike made my blood sing with recognition. Scratches on the tank where it had been laid down recently. Fresh mud on the tires despite no rain for days.
"Eddie's bike," Tank confirmed, voice gone deadly quiet. "That's his custom exhaust."
So the rat had scurried here after making his delivery. Probably counting his thirty pieces of silver while Lena faced whatever Cruz and the Serpents had planned. The thought made my trigger finger itch.
"Forty defenders minimum," Duke calculated, scanning windows and defensive positions. "Plus whatever's inside. Could be looking at sixty, seventy total."
"Don't care if it's seven hundred." The words came out flat, final. "She's in there."
Duke studied me with those presidential eyes, weighing odds and outcomes. Then nodded once, sharp. "How do you want to play it?"
"Hard and fast. Military breach. Windows and doors simultaneously." I pulled up the building schematic on my phone—public records were beautiful things. "Three teams. Duke, take the north entrance. Thor, you're south despite that arm. I'm going through the loading dock."
"My arm's fine," Thor growled, which was bullshit but the kind of bullshit I needed right now.
We positioned with the kind of silence that came from practice and purpose. Hand signals replaced words. Brothers who'd never served picked up the rhythm from those who had, violence being a universal language.
Duke's ribs had to be screaming, but he moved smooth as water. Thor kept switching his weapon between hands, finding his balance with the sling. Both of them should have been in the hospital. Both of them were here anyway, because that's what brotherhood meant.
Three flash-bangs in my hand. Standard dispersal pattern for maximum coverage. Through the dirty windows, I could see movement—Serpents lounging with the confidence of superior numbers. They expected us to come roaring in, pipes blazing, berserker style.
They were about to learn different.
I held up my fist. Hold. Hold. Every brother coiled like a spring, ready to explode into motion. One of the Serpents stepped outside to smoke, casual as Sunday morning. No idea death waited in the shadows.
My fist opened. Five fingers. Four. Three. Two.
One.
Hell came to breakfast.
The flash-bangs turned windows into stars, concussive force rattling the whole structure. We flowed in behind them, controlled violence given purpose. The smoking Serpent never saw me coming—stock to temple, down and done.
Gunfire erupted from everywhere at once. But we had momentum and surprise. They had hangovers and overconfidence. The math worked in our favor.
I moved through them like death's accountant, tallying sins in blood and brass. One Serpent tried to radio for help—my knife disagreed with his communication plans. Another scrambled for cover—my boot introduced his ribs to his spine.
"Where's Cruz?" I grabbed a wounded Serpent, probably broke his wrist in the process. Didn't care. "Where is he?"
"Top floor!" he gasped, young face twisted in pain. "Office. Got the girl."
The girl. Not her name, not a person. Just the girl. Property to be retrieved or discarded.
"Anyone else?" I pressed harder, feeling bones grind. "Your money man? The traitor who delivered her?"
His eyes flickered with that specific fear that meant truth. "Gone. Left right before you hit. Said his job was done."
Eddie. Alive and running like the cockroach he was. I had to focus on Lena for now.
"CRUZ! VENOM!" My voice carried over the combat noise, parade ground volume that cut through everything. "SHOW YOURSELF!"
For a moment, the gunfire paused. Both sides processing the challenge, the gauntlet thrown. Then, from somewhere above:
"Up here, soldier boy! Got something you want!"
The words dripped arrogance and ownership. Cruz, playing games while my girl was trapped in his web. Time to teach him why some games had deadly stakes.
The upper office was a tactical nightmare. One entrance, no cover, windows painted black from inside. Cruz had turned his last stand into a killing box, and he had the one thing that would make me walk into it.
I took the stairs two at a time, brothers covering angles behind me. The door hung open—invitation and trap combined. Through it, I could see overturned furniture, papers scattered like snow, and in the far corner...
Her.
The first sight of Lena hit harder than any bullet. Bruises painted her face in purple and yellow, blood dried at the corner of her mouth. But her eyes—Christ, her eyes burned with fury that made my chest tight with savage pride.
She was bowed but not broken. Bloodied but not beaten.
Cruz had one arm wrapped around her throat, the other pressing a Glock to her temple. His perfect appearance had shattered—suit torn, hair wild, movements twitchy with desperation. This wasn't the controlled predator from her stories. This was a cornered animal.
"Drop the weapons or I decorate the wall with her brains," he demanded, words tumbling over each other.
I set my rifle down slowly, keeping my movements visible and non-threatening. The pistol at my back stayed hidden, along with the knife in my boot. "Let her go. This is between us."
"Everything's between us!" Cruz's laugh had edges like broken bottles. "You took her. Corrupted her. Look what you've done to my perfect doll!"
"Not. Your. Doll." Each word from Lena came out raw but strong, defiance despite the gun at her head.
Cruz tightened his grip, making her gasp. "Still that mouth. Even now, even with a gun to your head, you can't just behave."
"Must be frustrating," I said, taking a careful step closer. "All that money, all that power, and you still can't make her want you."
His face flushed ugly red. "She loved me!"
"I feared you." Lena's voice cracked but didn't break. "Never loved. Never wanted. Just survived."
"Shut up!" The gun wavered as his control frayed. "You'll learn again. Once he's dead, once you understand there's nowhere to run, you'll remember how good we were."
"She's right," I said conversationally. "You know she is. All that money, all that manipulation, and she still chose a biker over you. Must sting."
"I gave her everything!" Spittle flew from his lips. "Culture! Refinement! A life above her st—"
But he never had time to finish the sentence.
I watched as Lena's heel drove down into his instep with enough force to crack bone. As he howled and loosened his grip, her elbow found his ribs. Her head snapped back into his nose with a wet crunch that sprayed blood.
The gun wavered, pointing at empty air.
I crossed the space in two strides, muscle memory taking over. My hand trapped his wrist, squeezing until bones ground together. The gun clattered away as I spun him, driving him face-first into the wall hard enough to leave a dent.
He swung wild, desperate. I let it connect—wanted him to feel like he had a chance. Then I educated him on the difference between gym muscles and battlefield experience.
My fist found his solar plexus, driving air from his lungs. An elbow to the temple sent him staggering. When he tried to rush me, I sidestepped and crushed my boot to his knee. The joint bent sideways with a sound like breaking kindling.
He screamed, dropping to writhe on the filthy floor. I could have ended it there. Should have, probably. Put a bullet in his head and simplified everyone's life.
But death was too easy.
"You know what's worse than dying?" I asked, kneeling beside him. His perfect face was a ruin—nose crushed, teeth scattered, one eye already swelling shut. "Living. Especially in federal lockup."
"Please," he wheezed through blood and broken teeth.
"I know people inside. Guards who lost brothers in Afghanistan.
Inmates who really, really don't like men who hurt women.
" I zip-tied his hands and feet, probably tighter than necessary.
"You're going to live a long, educational life.
Every day you'll wake up knowing she's free and you're not.
That she's happy and you're not. That she won. "
"Kill me," he begged. Actually begged, this man who'd held himself so far above everyone.
"No." I stood, pulling out my phone. "Duke? Need you to call our friend at the precinct. Tell him we've got him a career-making collar. Arms trafficking, kidnapping, conspiracy. The works."
"Copy that," Duke's voice came through tinny but satisfied. "Feds are already en route. Someone made sure they knew about the weapons cache here."
Of course he had. Duke always thought three moves ahead.
"Where's Venom?" I grabbed Cruz by his ruined face, forcing eye contact. "Where is he?"
"I don’t know!" Cruz coughed blood. "Only met him once.” He let out a wry, pained laugh. “Don’t think he liked working with me.”
“I wonder why.” I spat at his feet, and turned away from him.
Lena hadn't moved from where she'd fallen after the escape. She sat against the wall, knees drawn up, staring at nothing.
"Baby?" I approached carefully, hands visible. Sometimes trauma made people unpredictable, even with those trying to help.
Her eyes found mine, focused, unfocused, focused again. When she spoke, her voice was very small.
"Daddy?"
The word hit like a physical blow. She'd slipped into little space, retreating from the trauma into somewhere safer. My chest went tight with love and worry combined.
"Yeah, little one. Daddy's here." I kept my voice soft, soothing. "You're safe now. No more bad men."
"Where's Shelly?" Her eyes filled with tears. "I can't find Shelly."
Shelly. Her stuffed tortoise, the one she clung to when the world got too big and scary. I scanned the room, spotted her purse in the corner.
"Thor!" I called down the stairs. "Check the purse up here for a stuffed tortoise. Now!"
If he found the request strange, he didn't show it. Thirty seconds later he appeared with Shelly, the soft toy looking worse for wear but intact.
"Here she is, baby." I pressed the toy into Lena's arms, watched her curl around it like a lifeline. "Shelly's safe too. Everyone's safe."
She made a small sound—relief and exhaustion and little girl trust all rolled into one. When I lifted her carefully, she curled into my chest without hesitation, Shelly trapped between us.
"Home?" she whispered.
"Yeah, little one. Let's go home."