Chapter 17
Seventeen
Tommy Boy
The call comes just before noon.
I’m in the garage tightening the chain on my bike when Tripp’s name flashes across my phone. The sound alone drops my gut into my boots.
“Yeah?” I answer.
His voice is level, but the edge underneath it is steel. “Caputo just called. He did what he promised — supply’s cut. Mason’s line is gone. But he has word from his competitors. They’re already sniffin’ around for a new source.”
My jaw tightens. “They don’t learn.”
“No,” he replies. “They don’t. And that makes them dangerous. Karma’s got intel — five men running the show now. Seven women trapped in their web. Another motel off the main highway.”
I wipe my hands on a rag, heart already pounding like an engine about to redline. “You want me there?”
He exhales. “I’m not telling you no. Meet at the clubhouse. Ten minutes.”
By the time I pull into the lot, the others are already there.
Crunch leans against the wall, his jaw working like he’s chewing gravel. Red’s pacing. Pretty Boy’s tapping a rhythm on his thigh, steady, focused. Tripp, Tank, BW, Kick, and Karma stand by the table with maps spread wide.
“This is the place,” Karma says, pointing to the circled mark on the county map. “Motel by the bypass. Old property. They run girls out of the back rooms. Cops don’t bother. Owner’s on payroll.”
He slides a sheet toward me — names, ages, partial histories. “Seven women. We got a social worker lined up through the foundation Doc Kelly runs. Rehab in Greenville, safe houses. Quiet help, no trail back to us.”
Tripp folds his arms. “We go in quiet, talk first. Make the point clear. If they want to keep breathin’, they’ll pack up and disappear. We don’t want a war, we want peace.”
“Sometimes peace comes at a cost,” Red mutters.
Tripp’s eyes cut to him. “Yeah. But we decide what we’re willing to pay.”
I meet his gaze. “Then let me lead the talk.”
He hesitates only a moment. “You sure?”
“This started in my house,” I explain. “I’ll finish it.”
Crunch claps a hand to my shoulder. “Then we ride.”
The air is thick like rain is coming as we roll down the highway, the storm sitting heavy somewhere just behind the horizon. Five bikes, two vans — quiet enough not to draw attention, but loud enough that nobody mistakes what we are.
We pull into the lot of the motel just before sunset. The building’s in a state of disrepair, paint peeling, neon flickering, shadows thick around the corners. A place built for secrets and silence.
Karma nods to a door near the end. “That’s them. Room 15. Back rooms are theirs. The women are in the last row.”
I cut the engine and swing my leg over the bike, the hum of adrenaline running through my hands. I can feel the eyes on us before I even knock.
The door cracks open. A man with a crooked smile and too much confidence looks me over. “Can I help you, brother?”
“You can try,” I say, stepping forward. “We need to talk.”
He doesn’t invite me in, but I walk past him anyway. The room stinks of smoke, old sex, and stale liquor. Three more men sit at a table playing cards. Another leans against the dresser. They all look the same — tired men without a clue about life filled with real loyalty.
“Tommy Boy Oleander,” the leader says, leaning back in his chair. “Heard the Hellions were done with this kind of work. You already took one of my girls. We didn’t retaliate. I let you take out my trash. Why come back? What brings you here now?”
His words slice through the air and make my blood boil. I study him. He’s got that look of someone who’s used to women flinching when he raises his voice. It makes my hands itch.
“You got a serious problem,” I tell him. “Caputo cut you out. You’re done running women and drugs in Pamlico, well anywhere in the Carolinas.”
He laughs, a sharp, ugly sound. “That so? We’ll find another supplier. Always someone needs to offload.”
Crunch moves behind me. “That’s not a choice you got.”
The leader smirks. “You come here to give orders?”
I step closer, slow and deliberate, until we’re almost nose to nose. “I came here to end something. You don’t stop, we’ll make sure you can’t continue.”
The air tightens. His hand drifts toward his waistband.
Pretty Boy tenses. Red’s hand drops near his jacket. I see it all happening like a movie in slow motion. The man pulls a gun. Points it right at my chest.
For a second, everything goes quiet — even my heartbeat. I can smell his sweat, the fear that’s not mine.
I take one step forward until the barrel presses against me. “Pull it,” I challenge, voice steady. “Do it. Because that’s the only way you stop me from ending this tonight.”
He hesitates. Just a fraction. It’s enough.
I move. A quick shift, a grab, a twist. The gun slides across the floor. Chaos explodes — shouts, movement, a few pops — and then silence again, fast and final.
When the dust settles, the only men left standing wear the same cut as me. No one speaks. The room smells of blood, sweat, and aftermath.
Tripp steps in from outside, eyes scanning the scene. “You good?”
I nod once. “It’s done.”
He doesn’t ask for details. He doesn’t need to.
Pretty Boy checks the hallway. “Women are in the back. They’re scared.”
Crunch moves first. “Let’s get them out.”
It takes time. We move careful and quiet. The women flinch at every sound, every shadow. Some can barely stand. One clutches a small bag to her chest like it’s the only thing she owns.
I kneel beside her. “You’re safe now,” I tell her softly. “There’s a van outside. Someone’s gonna take you somewhere clean. You’re gonna get the support you need. You don’t owe anyone anything anymore.”
Her eyes flick up to mine, confused. “Why?”
“Because someone helped the woman I love once,” I share. “And I’m paying it forward.”
Doc Kelly’s contact — the social worker — arrives within minutes, wearing plain clothes and calm eyes. She moves through the group like she’s done this before, her voice steady and kind.
“We’ll take care of them,” she promises. “Anonymous intake. No paperwork that leads back.”
Tripp hands her an envelope. “Funds for whatever they need. No names.”
She nods. “You boys just did something good. Don’t let anyone tell you different.”
We watch as the vans pull away — seven women, seven new chances.
Pretty Boy lights a cigarette and exhales slowly. “Think they’ll make it?”
“Some will,” Crunch says. “Some won’t. But they got a shot now. That’s more than they had yesterday.”
Tripp claps his shoulder. “That’s what we can give them, a second chance.”
Karma calls the cleanup crew. They’ll handle what’s left behind — erase the trail, close the book. The motel will be shut down. Maybe reopened with new owners. Maybe not. Doesn’t matter. The poison’s gone.
The ride home is quiet. The engines hum low, a chorus of ghosts and relief. The storm that had been threatening finally breaks, rain hitting our cuts, washing the dust from our faces.
By the time I pull into our driveway, it’s near midnight. The lights are dim, the world still.
I park the bike and stand there for a long time, letting the rain soak through my shirt. The sound is steady, grounding.
Inside, the house is dark except for one lamp by the window. She’s there curled under a blanket, head resting against the arm of the couch. She must’ve fallen asleep waiting for me.
I take off my boots quietly, not wanting to wake her, but she stirs anyway, eyes blinking open.
“Tommy?”
“Yeah, baby. It’s me.”
She sits up, rubbing her eyes. “You’re late.”
“Ran long.”
Her gaze sharpens, tracing the rain dripping from my hair, the exhaustion in my shoulders. “You’re okay?”
“Yeah.” I sit beside her, taking her hand. “It’s done.”
She studies me for a long time, the silence between us full but gentle. She doesn’t ask what done means. Maybe she doesn’t need to. Maybe she already knows.
Instead, she leans into me, her head finding its place on my shoulder.
“You smell like rain,” she murmurs.
“Washin’ off the day,” I say quietly.
She tilts her face up to mine. “You did what you had to, didn’t you?”
I nod once. “Yeah.”
“Then don’t carry it,” she whispers. “You already carried enough for both of us.”
Her words undo me.
I kiss her forehead, breathing her in — soap, warmth, home. “They’re safe now,” I share with her. “All of them. The people who hurt you — they’re gone. They won’t hurt anyone else. Every piece of that world is gone.”
She closes her eyes, and I feel her exhale like she’s finally letting go of something she’s held too long.
We sit there until the rain fades, the quiet thick with peace and exhaustion.
When she finally drifts back to sleep against me, I whisper to the empty room, “No one touches her again. No one. Not while I’m breathing.”
Outside, thunder rolls far off in the distance, but inside, everything is still.
The next morning, sunlight breaks through the blinds. The storm’s washed the world clean.
Jami wakes slow, stretching, her fingers finding mine automatically. “You stayed up?”
“Didn’t want to miss a minute.”
She smiles, small and sleepy. “You look tired.”
“Earned it.”
She sits up, brushing her hair from her face. “You really think it’s over?”
“Yeah,” I say, meaning it. “The women are safe. The men who tried to profit off pain, they’re no ones memory.”
She studies me, then nods. “Then maybe we can start living instead of surviving.”
“Exactly what I was thinkin’.”