Chapter Six
They came at dawn.
Diesel's growl was the first warning—low and savage, hackles raised, his body pointed toward the access road like a compass needle finding north. Three seconds later, Anvil heard the engines.
Multiple vehicles. Moving fast. No attempt at stealth.
"Back room. Now."
Josie was already moving, hammer in one hand, Diesel at her heels. She didn't argue, didn't hesitate, just disappeared through the doorway like they'd rehearsed this a dozen times.
Anvil pulled his backup piece from his ankle holster and crossed to her.
"You know how to use this?"
"Point and squeeze."
"Close enough." He pressed the pistol into her palm, his hand lingering on hers for half a second longer than necessary. "Stay in this room. If anyone comes through that door who isn't me, you put rounds in them until they stop moving."
"And if it's you?"
"Then we're leaving." He held her eyes. "I'm coming back for you. Understand?"
Something fierce flickered in her gaze. "You better."
He turned and moved to the front of the cabin, positioning himself beside the window with the shotgun in his hands.
Through the glass, he watched two trucks roll to a stop at the end of the access road, blocking any escape.
Eight men piled out— Harlan Weeks in front, mean face set in the satisfied expression of a hunter who'd finally cornered his prey.
Behind him, a twitchy tweaker was pointing at the cabin and talking fast. Anvil recognized the type—desperate for his next fix, willing to sell out anyone for the cash to get it. Probably recognized Diesel from one of Josie's client visits.
Didn't matter now.
"Come on out!" Harlan's voice carried through the morning air. "We've got you boxed in. No reason this has to get messy."
Anvil didn't respond. Just checked his load, settled his weight, and waited.
"Last chance! Send out the woman and maybe we let you walk away!"
Still nothing.
Harlan's expression shifted from satisfaction to irritation. He gestured to his men, spreading them out, preparing to approach the cabin from multiple angles.
That's when the first shot cracked from the tree line.
One of Harlan's men dropped, rifle round through his shoulder, screaming as he hit the dirt. The others scattered, diving for cover behind their trucks while more shots rang out—Whiteout, Anvil realized, somewhere in the pines with his rifle, doing what he did best.
The Savage brothers had arrived.
Anvil kicked open the cabin door and moved.
The first man to come around the corner never saw him—Anvil's shotgun blast caught him center mass and threw him backward into the dirt. The second tried to bring his weapon up and took a round of buckshot to the face before he got it level.
Two down. Six to go.
The fight became chaos—gunfire from multiple directions, men shouting, engines revving as someone tried to escape and found the road blocked by Savage bikes that had materialized from nowhere.
Ironside appeared from the tree line with his sledgehammer, that massive Swedish body moving with surprising speed, and the sound it made when it connected with a tweaker's skull was something Anvil would remember for a long time.
Tundra came from the other direction, pistol up, dropping a runner with two controlled shots before the man made it ten feet.
And through it all, Anvil hunted.
He moved through the chaos with the particular calm that had made him the best bouncer in Minneapolis—reading the fight, positioning himself where threats were about to emerge, always one step ahead of the violence.
A tweaker with a knife went down to a shotgun blast. Another tried to flank the cabin and met Anvil's fist instead, bones crunching as the man crumpled.
But Harlan wasn't among the fallen.
Anvil found him trying to slip away through the trees, moving toward a backup vehicle he must have hidden down the road. Smart. Methodical. The same patience that had let him track Josie's schedule and plan the fire that destroyed her life.
"Weeks."
Harlan spun, pistol coming up, but Anvil was already inside his guard.
He grabbed the gun hand, twisted, felt the wrist snap with a satisfying crack.
Harlan screamed, but Anvil wasn't done—he drove his elbow into the man's face, feeling cartilage give way, then swept his legs and put him on the ground hard enough to drive the air from his lungs.
Harlan lay in the pine needles, broken wrist cradled against his chest, blood streaming from his shattered nose.
"Please—" he gasped. "I was just following orders. Brogan said—"
"I don't care what Brogan said."
Anvil dropped to one knee beside him, close enough to see the fear in the man's eyes. Close enough to see him understand what was about to happen.
"You burned her truck. Her tools. Everything she owned." His voice was quiet. Almost conversational. "You tried to kill her while she slept. You came here to finish the job."
"I can give you Brogan! I know everything—the routes, the cook sites, where he keeps his money—"
"The club will find all that without your help."
"Please—"
Anvil's hands closed around Harlan's throat.
The man thrashed, clawed at Anvil's wrists, tried to buck him off. But Anvil had done this before—knew exactly how much pressure to apply, exactly how long to hold it, exactly what it felt like when someone stopped fighting.
Harlan Weeks stopped fighting.
Anvil held on for another ten seconds, making sure. Then he released his grip and stood, looking down at the man who'd burned Josie's life to ashes.
The man who burned her truck is dead.
The thought settled into his chest like something finding its proper place.
The gunfire had stopped. Anvil turned to find the fight over—eight of Brogan's men down, the survivors either dead or close to it.
Ironside was wiping blood off his sledgehammer with a rag that looked like it had been white once.
Whiteout was emerging from the tree line with his rifle over his shoulder.
Tundra was checking bodies, making sure none of them were going to cause problems later.
"Clear," Tundra called. "They're done."
Anvil walked back toward the cabin, his boots crunching on fallen pine needles, his hands sticky with blood he hadn't bothered to wipe away. The door was still open, the way he'd left it, and he could see the shadows of the back room where he'd put Josie.
"Josie."
She appeared in the doorway a second later—backup pistol still in her hand, hammer tucked into her belt, Diesel pressed against her legs. Her eyes swept the yard, taking in the bodies, the brothers, the blood that covered the ground.
Then she looked at him.
"You're hurt."
Anvil glanced down. There was blood on his shirt, his hands, probably his face. Most of it wasn't his.
"I'm fine."
"That's not what I asked."
"I'm fine," he repeated. "It's over. Harlan's dead."
Something shifted in her expression—relief, maybe, or the particular exhaustion that came after adrenaline finished burning through your system.
"The man who burned my truck."
"He won't be burning anything else."
She stared at him for a long moment. Then she crossed the yard, picking her way around bodies without flinching, until she was standing in front of him close enough to touch.
"Thank you."
"Don't thank me for that."
"I'll thank you for whatever I want." Her voice was steady, but her hands were shaking when she reached up to touch his face, her fingers coming away red with blood that wasn't his. "You came back."
"I told you I would."
"Yeah." Something cracked in her voice. "But people tell me a lot of things."
Anvil caught her hand before she could pull away, pressing her palm flat against his chest where she could feel his heart still pounding.
"I keep my promises."
The moment stretched—the two of them standing in a yard full of bodies, brothers moving around them, the morning light turning the blood on the ground to copper. Then Josie nodded once, sharp, and stepped back.
"Okay," she said. "What happens now?"
"Now we go back to the compound." Tundra appeared at Anvil's shoulder, his cold eyes assessing the scene. "Brogan just lost his distribution guy and eight of his men. He's going to be pissed, but he's also going to be scared. That gives us an advantage."
"The bodies?"
"We'll handle it." Ironside's accent was thick with satisfaction. "Plenty of mine shafts in these woods. Brogan's not the only one who knows how to use them."
Josie's face went pale, but she didn't look away. Didn't flinch. Just nodded like they were discussing disposal of broken equipment instead of human remains.
Christ. This woman.
"Get your dog," Anvil said. "We're leaving."
He turned to help his brothers with cleanup, but Josie's voice stopped him.
"Anvil."
He looked back.
She was standing in the morning light, blood on her hands from touching his face, Diesel pressed against her legs, the backup pistol still clutched in her grip like she'd forgotten she was holding it.
"You were on the right side of the wall this time."
The words hit him like a fist.
He hadn't told her about Danny. Hadn't told her about the thirty feet he couldn't cross, the parking lot, the blood on the asphalt. But somehow she'd seen it anyway—seen the guilt he carried, the failure he couldn't let go, the reason he volunteered for every watch and never stopped standing guard.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "I was."
He turned away before she could see what that meant to him.
There was work to do. Bodies to dispose of, evidence to clean, a compound to return to. Brogan was still out there, still dangerous, still hunting the woman Anvil had sworn to protect.
But Harlan Weeks was dead.
And for the first time in years, Anvil had been standing on the right side of the wall when it mattered.