Chapter 3
Anvil had expected vandalism.
What he found was a siege.
The property sat at the end of a dirt road south of Spring Lake, forty acres of Carolina scrubland with a farmhouse, a barn, and a small building that looked purpose-built for distilling.
He'd barely cleared the tree line when he spotted the damage—slashed tires on a truck that had been patched with mismatched replacements, a tool shed with the door hanging off its hinges, and a woman standing on the porch with a shotgun aimed at his chest.
He killed the engine and raised his hands.
"Cipher sent me," he called out. "Name's Anvil."
The shotgun didn't waver. "He said tomorrow morning."
"It is tomorrow morning."
"It's two in the afternoon."
Anvil almost smiled. "Morning's relative."
She studied him for a long moment—taking in his size, his cut, the scars on his hands resting on the handlebars. Whatever she saw must have passed muster, because the shotgun lowered an inch.
"You're bigger than I expected."
"Most people say that."
"It wasn't a compliment."
Definitely wasn't what he'd expected.
He swung off the bike and approached slowly, giving her time to adjust. Up close, she looked exactly like what Cipher had described—sharp-tongued and sleep-deprived, running on fumes and fury.
Sun-streaked brown hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, calloused hands that knew their way around equipment, and eyes that dared him to underestimate her.
He wasn't stupid enough to try.
"Mind if I look around?"
"That's why you're here, isn't it?" She finally lowered the shotgun all the way. "Start with the barn. That's where they hit hardest."
Anvil walked the property with the methodical attention of a man who'd spent his life assessing structures. The barn first—six oak barrels that smelled like chemical waste instead of fermenting grain. He didn't need to be a distiller to know that mash was ruined.
"When did this happen?"
"Sometime last night." Jocelyn had followed him inside, keeping distance but not hiding. "My dog's too old to hear anything anymore. They walked right past him."
"Professional job." Anvil crouched beside one of the barrels, examining the residue. "Whatever they used, it wasn't hardware store stuff. This was meant to be permanent."
"Everything they do is meant to be permanent."
He moved through the rest of the property, cataloging damage.
The tool shed had been ransacked—equipment scattered, some of it broken, the lock cut clean through with bolt cutters.
The truck's tires had been slashed in a pattern designed to destroy the sidewalls, not just flatten them.
Even the mailbox was gone, knocked into a ditch and left to rust.
This wasn't random vandalism. This was systematic destruction designed to wear her down piece by piece.
"How long?" he asked.
"Four months since Embry made his first offer." Jocelyn leaned against the barn door, arms crossed. "Longer if you count the county suddenly finding code violations that didn't exist before."
"He bought the inspectors."
"He bought everyone." Bitterness sharpened her voice. "Sheriff won't take my calls anymore. County commissioner told me I should 'consider my options.' Even the fire department took forty minutes to respond when someone set my brush pile on fire last month."
Anvil straightened and turned to face her. In the afternoon light, he could see the dark circles under her eyes, the tension in her shoulders, the way she held herself like a woman who'd been fighting alone for too long.
Something stirred in his chest. Something he didn't want to examine too closely.
"Tell me about the man on your porch."
"Big guy. Prison-hard. Showed up last week while I was eating dinner." Her jaw tightened. "Started talking about how accidents happen on rural properties. How a woman alone should think about her safety."
"What did you do?"
"Pointed my grandmother's shotgun at his chest and told him to get off my land."
"And he left?"
"After he laughed." Her eyes met his, fierce and unapologetic. "He thought it was funny. A woman with a shotgun, threatening a man like him. Three days later, my tires were slashed and my mash was ruined."
Anvil felt something shift in his gut. The same feeling he'd had watching contractors cut corners, watching Danny fall, watching powerful men hurt people because they could.
"You know who he was?"
"Lonnie Farr. Embry's head enforcer." Jocelyn's voice was flat. "Harold—the man who gave me your number—he told me about Farr. Former corrections officer. Knows how to hurt people without leaving evidence."
"He won't be hurting you again."
The words came out harder than he'd intended. Jocelyn's eyebrows rose.
"That a promise?"
"That's a fact."
They stood in the barn doorway, the ruined mash between them and the afternoon sun cutting through the gaps in the old wood. Anvil was suddenly aware of how close she was—close enough to see the pulse jumping in her throat, close enough to smell hay and copper and something floral underneath.
Close enough to want things he had no business wanting.
"I should get back," he said. "Report to Cipher."
"And then what?"
"Then we figure out how to keep you safe while we deal with Embry."
"I don't need to be kept safe." The words came out sharp. "I need help fighting back. There's a difference."
Anvil looked at her—really looked, past the exhaustion and the defiance to the steel underneath. Four generations of women had held this land. She wasn't going to be the one who lost it.
"There is," he agreed. "And I heard you."
Something flickered in her expression. Surprise, maybe. Like she wasn't used to men actually listening.
"I'll be back tomorrow," he said. "With materials to reinforce your barn and windows. Embry's going to escalate—that's what men like him do. When he does, you need to be somewhere he can't reach."
"This is my home."
"I know." He held her gaze. "That's why I'm going to help you keep it."
The ride back to the compound gave Anvil too much time to think.
He kept seeing her face—the way she'd held that shotgun like she knew how to use it, the fierce pride that wouldn't let her back down even when she was clearly running on empty.
Women like that didn't ask for help easily.
The fact that she'd shown up at the compound meant she was more desperate than she'd let on.
And more stubborn than anyone he'd met in a long time.
Cipher was waiting in the chapel when Anvil arrived, laptop open, the patient focus of a man planning an operation.
"Report."
"It's worse than she said." Anvil took a seat across from his president. "This isn't vandalism—it's a siege. They've hit her systematically: transportation, equipment, supplies, even her support network. The old man who sells her copper fittings? He's probably next."
Cipher's expression darkened. "Embry's playbook."
"Professional and patient. He's not trying to scare her off—he's trying to break her. Cut off every resource until she has no choice but to sell."
"Will she?"
Anvil thought about Jocelyn in the barn doorway, shotgun lowered but not put away, eyes daring him to underestimate her.
"No. She'll die first."
"That's what I was afraid of." Cipher pulled up a map on the laptop, rural properties marked in red.
"Embry's been expanding his operation for years.
Meth distribution through Cumberland County, using rural land as cook sites and stash houses.
Her forty acres sit right here." He tapped the screen.
"Between two of his key properties. He needs the corridor. "
"So this isn't just about her land."
"It's about his network. He's been creeping into veteran communities around Spring Lake—cook sites near family housing, runners using roads our people travel. Taking him down protects more than just one woman's property."
Anvil studied the map. The red markers formed a pattern, a web of acquisition that had been building for years. Jocelyn's land was the missing piece—the connection point that would let Embry move product efficiently through the region.
"Two missions," he said.
"Two missions." Cipher nodded. "Protect her property while we gut his operation. But the second part has to come first. We can't defend her land forever—Embry has too many resources. We have to take him down."
"What do you need from me?"
"Right now? Assessment complete. Tomorrow, start reinforcing her property. Make it defensible." Cipher's eyes met his. "And keep her alive until we're ready to move."
Anvil stood. "I'll need materials. Lumber, steel, security hardware."
"Take what you need from the shed. I'll have prospects load a truck tonight."
"One more thing." Anvil paused at the door. "The enforcer who threatened her. Lonnie Farr. I want him."
Something shifted in Cipher's expression. "Personal already?"
"He laughed at her." The words came out cold. "Thought it was funny that she tried to defend herself. Men like that don't stop until someone stops them."
"Farr's Embry's right hand. Taking him out sends a message."
"That's the idea."
Cipher studied him for a long moment. "We'll discuss it in church. But Anvil—don't let this get personal before we're ready to move."
"It's already personal." Anvil met his president's gaze. "Four months she's been fighting alone while that bastard tore her life apart piece by piece. Someone should have helped her a long time ago."
He walked out before Cipher could respond.
The compound was quieting down for the evening, brothers drifting toward the bar or their quarters. Anvil headed for his room and the half-finished gate that was waiting for his hands.
But when he picked up the welding torch, he didn't think about scrollwork.
He thought about Jocelyn Avery standing in her barn doorway, surrounded by the wreckage of everything she'd built, refusing to break.
Two missions, Cipher had said.
Protect her property. Gut Embry's network.
Anvil added a third: make sure Lonnie Farr never laughed at a woman with a shotgun again.