Chapter 3
The compound's chapel smelled like gun oil and coffee, same as it always did before a war council.
Cargo spread the stolen manifests across the table, watching his brothers process what he'd brought them.
Legion at the head, silver hair catching the overhead light, eyes assessing the documents with the cold calculation of a man who'd spent two decades running unconventional operations.
Ghost to his right, deliberately forgettable face giving away nothing.
Forge, Static, Recon—all of them focused on the evidence of military theft laid bare before them.
"Sequential serial numbers," Legion said finally. "Someone's pulling entire shipments."
"That's what I told her." Cargo kept his voice flat. Professional. Not betraying the rage that had been building since Rebecca stumbled through his door with blood on her face. "This isn't opportunistic. It's systematic."
"The woman." Ghost's tone was neutral, but Cargo caught the weight underneath. "Where'd she come from?"
"Roadhouse off Bragg Boulevard. She tends bar there. Was dating a defense contractor named Warren Slade until he tried to kill her for finding these."
"Tried to kill her." Forge leaned forward, massive frame casting shadows across the table. "But she got away."
"She got away with evidence." Cargo tapped the manifests. "Enough to burn his whole operation if it reaches the right people."
"Which is why he'll be hunting her." Legion's jaw tightened. "What do we know about Slade?"
"Forty-six, defense contractor credentials, legitimate base access through Fort Liberty's logistics chain.
" Cargo pulled out the notes he'd compiled while Rebecca slept.
"She remembered him taking calls about 'the sergeant' and timing shipments with training rotations.
Someone inside is feeding him intel on what won't be missed. "
"Houser." Ghost said the name like a curse. "Glen Houser, supply sergeant with fifteen years of skimming. I've heard rumors about him for months—equipment walking off base, paperwork that doesn't add up. Never had proof."
"Now we do." Cargo gestured at the manifests. "Serial numbers match items that should be in Fort Liberty armories right now. Someone with inventory access is marking them as received, then diverting them before they're ever logged."
"And Slade handles the distribution." Legion's voice had gone cold. The voice he used when planning operations that ended with bodies. "Where's the equipment going?"
"International buyers. Rebecca saw a warehouse outside town, crates being loaded onto trucks with Arabic writing." Cargo forced himself to breathe through the fury. "We're talking military-grade weapons flowing to people who shouldn't have them. Night vision, communications gear, probably more."
The table went quiet. Every man in the room had spent years fighting enemies armed with exactly this kind of equipment. They knew what it meant when American weapons ended up in hostile hands.
"This brings federal attention." Recon spoke for the first time, his flat voice cutting through the tension. "ATF, FBI, maybe worse. We start poking at a military theft ring, we're painting targets on our own backs."
"We're already targets." Cargo's hands curled into fists on the table. "Slade's operation is running through our territory. Equipment's being stolen from the base where half our brothers served. If this blows up, we're the first people investigators will look at."
"Better we handle it ourselves," Forge agreed. "Clean it up before the feds start sniffing around."
"Agreed." Legion looked around the table. "Who's running point?"
"I am." Cargo didn't hesitate. "The woman came to me. She's my responsibility."
Something flickered across Ghost's face. Recognition, maybe. Or amusement.
"The woman," he repeated. "She got a name?"
"Rebecca." Cargo held Ghost's gaze without flinching. "Rebecca Paulson. And before you ask—yes, she's under my protection. Anyone got a problem with that?"
Silence. Then Static laughed, a short bark of sound that broke the tension.
"Brother's got that look," he said to nobody in particular. "Same look Legion had when Hannah showed up. Same look Ghost had with Natalie."
"There's no look." Cargo's jaw tightened.
"There's definitely a look." Forge grinned. "The 'touch her and I'll rip your arms off' look. I recognize it."
"Can we focus on the actual threat?" Cargo growled. "Slade's got resources. Military connections. Men who've made witnesses disappear across multiple countries. If he finds out where she is—"
"He won't." Legion's voice cut through the crosstalk. "She stays at the compound until this is handled. Full security protocols."
"And Slade?"
"We dig into his operation. Find out who's working with him, where the equipment's going, how deep this runs." Legion stood, signaling the end of formal church. "Cargo, you're primary. Ghost backs you up. Everyone else stays ready to move when we have targets."
The brothers dispersed, some heading for coffee, others for the garage where bikes waited for the morning's work. Cargo stayed at the table, gathering the manifests, trying to ignore the weight of Ghost's attention.
"You going to say it?" he asked without looking up.
"Say what?"
"Whatever observation you're chewing on." Cargo finally met his VP's eyes. "You've got something. Spit it out."
Ghost leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, expression unreadable. "You brought a woman to the compound. A civilian with no connection to the club beyond walking into your shop. And you're volunteering to run point on an operation that could bring federal heat down on all of us."
"Your point?"
"My point is you don't do that." Ghost's voice was calm, analytical. "Cargo doesn't get involved. Cargo maintains the armory, sources the weapons, keeps his distance from anything that might compromise his supply lines. That's been your whole thing for six years."
"Things change."
"Yeah." Ghost pushed off the doorframe. "They do. Just make sure you know what you're changing into, brother. Caring about someone makes you sloppy. Makes you take risks you wouldn't take otherwise."
"You speaking from experience?"
Something that might have been a smile crossed Ghost's face. "Natalie almost got me killed three times before I figured out how to protect her without losing my edge. Just saying—it's a learning curve."
He walked away before Cargo could respond, leaving him alone in the chapel with stolen documents and the uncomfortable truth of what his brothers had seen.
They'd noticed. Of course they had—these men had spent their careers reading people, identifying threats and assets and everything in between.
They'd watched Cargo bring a woman into their sanctuary, watched him volunteer for danger he'd normally avoid, watched his face when he talked about what Slade had done to her.
Touch her and I'll rip your arms off.
Was that really what he looked like? Like a man ready to burn down the world for someone he'd known less than twelve hours?
He gathered the manifests and headed for the back room where Rebecca was sleeping.
The compound's guest quarters were secure—reinforced doors, camera coverage, brothers within shouting distance at all times.
But he needed to see for himself. Needed to confirm she was safe before he could focus on anything else.
She was curled on the cot, still in the clothes she'd fled in, her dark hair spread across the pillow. Even in sleep, she didn't look peaceful. Her brow was furrowed, her hands clenched, like she was fighting battles in her dreams.
Cargo leaned against the doorframe, watching her breathe.
Ghost was right. This wasn't like him. He didn't get attached.
Didn't take responsibility for people outside the brotherhood.
His whole identity was built around maintaining supply lines without personal connection—sources he could burn, contacts he could abandon, nothing that could compromise him the way that cache in Afghanistan had been compromised.
But Rebecca wasn't a source. She wasn't a contact.
She was a woman who'd seen something she shouldn't have, survived a murder attempt through pure grit, and run to him because her instincts told her he could help.
She'd trusted him when she had no reason to trust anyone.
That meant something. It had to mean something.
"You're staring."
Her voice was rough with sleep. She hadn't opened her eyes, but somehow she'd known he was there.
"Checking security," he said.
"Liar." Now her eyes did open, finding his in the dim light. "You're worried about me."
"I'm worried about the operation. You're a key witness."
"Uh-huh." She pushed herself up on one elbow. "That's why you're standing in a doorway watching me sleep instead of, I don't know, doing something useful."
"Church is finished. The brothers are on board." He straightened, forcing himself to step back from the intimacy of the moment. "We're digging into Slade's operation. Finding out who's working with him, where the weak points are."
"And then?"
"And then we eliminate the threat."
She was quiet for a moment, processing. He watched her face, looking for the horror or revulsion that most civilians showed when confronted with the reality of how the club handled problems.
It didn't come.
"Good," she said finally. "He tried to kill me. I'm not going to feel bad about whatever happens to him."
"Most people would."
"Most people haven't survived what I've survived.
" She sat up fully, wincing as the movement pulled at sore muscles.
"Warren was charming and attentive and made me feel special for the first time in years.
And the whole time, he was using me as cover while he sold weapons to people who murder innocents.
Forgive me if I've run out of sympathy."
Cargo found himself moving closer despite his intention to maintain distance. "What you've survived—you want to talk about it?"
"No." The word was flat, final. "Not yet. Maybe not ever. But I appreciate the offer."
"It stands. Whenever you're ready."
Something shifted in her expression. Softened.
"You're different than I expected," she said quietly. "At the bar, you always seemed so... closed off. Like nothing could touch you."
"Nothing could." He met her eyes. "Until you walked through my door bleeding and scared and trusting me to keep you alive."
"And now?"
"Now I've got something to protect." The words came out rougher than he intended. "Something I didn't ask for and don't know how to handle. But here we are."
She held his gaze for a long moment. Then, unexpectedly, she smiled.
"Here we are," she agreed. "A bartender who dated a terrorist and a biker who collects weapons. We're quite a pair."
"Get some more sleep." Cargo stepped back toward the door. "We move to a safehouse this afternoon. Somewhere Slade's people won't think to look."
"And you? Are you sleeping?"
"I'll sleep when this is over."
"That's not healthy."
"Neither is arms trafficking, but here we are." He paused at the door. "Rest, Rebecca. You're going to need your strength."
He left before she could respond, walking back through the compound to his own quarters. The chapel was empty now, brothers scattered to their morning routines, but he could still feel the weight of their observations.
Same look Legion had. Same look Ghost had.
They thought he was falling for her. Thought this was the beginning of something that would change him the way Hannah had changed Legion, the way Natalie had changed Ghost.
Maybe they were right.
But right now, all Cargo could think about was the bruise blooming on Rebecca's cheek and the man who'd put it there. Warren Slade, defense contractor, arms trafficker, would-be murderer.
He'd made Rebecca a target. Tried to eliminate her like a compromised supply line.
Cargo was going to teach him what happened when you threatened things that belonged to the Black Ops Brotherhood.
Things that belonged to him.