Chapter 8
The call came at midnight.
Cottonmouth's voice was flat, professional. "Movement on the lake road. Three trucks, same ones from earlier. Heading back toward the bluff."
Channel's blood went cold. "They found us."
"Someone talked. Property records, maybe. Doesn't matter now." A pause. "Limestone and I are thirty minutes out. Hold position."
"Copy."
He ended the call and turned to find Reagan already on her feet, bat in hand, eyes sharp with the focused calm of a woman who'd been waiting for this moment since the trucks passed at dusk.
"They're coming," she said. Not a question.
"Twelve men. Maybe more." Channel crossed to the duffel he'd brought from the compound, unzipping it to reveal the weapons inside. "My brothers are on the way, but we've got thirty minutes to hold."
"Then we hold."
No argument. No panic. Just steel.
God, he wanted to kiss her.
Instead, he pulled a .38 revolver from the duffel and held it out. "You know how to use this?"
Reagan took the gun, checked the cylinder with hands that didn't shake, and clicked it closed. "Point and pull. Simple enough."
"Six shots. Make them count."
"I don't plan on missing."
Channel grabbed his own weapon—a Glock 19 he'd carried since his first deployment—and moved to the window. Through the trees, he could see headlights climbing the bluff road. Three sets, moving slow, hunting.
"Back door," he said. "Same as before. Anyone comes through, you put them down."
"And if they come through the front?"
"Then I put them down first." He turned to look at her—bruised, fierce, holding a gun like she'd been born with it in her hand. "Stay alive. Whatever happens, you stay alive."
"Same goes for you."
Something passed between them. Understanding. Promise. The kind of communication that didn't need words.
Then the headlights hit the hidden drive, and there was no more time for anything but survival.
Channel killed the lights and took position beside the front window. Outside, engines growled as the trucks navigated the narrow path. He could hear men's voices—rough, confident, the sounds of a crew that expected easy prey.
They had no idea what they were walking into.
The first truck crested the ridge and stopped. Doors opened. Boots hit gravel.
"Cabin's there," someone called. "Lights just went out."
"Surround it." Culver's voice, sharp with authority. "Nobody gets out."
Channel counted shadows in the darkness. Twelve men, spreading into a loose circle around the cabin. Bad tactics—they were bunched up, moving without coordination, trusting numbers over discipline.
Amateurs.
But twelve amateurs with guns could still kill, and Reagan was behind him with nothing but a revolver and a baseball bat.
His phone buzzed. Text from Limestone: In position. On your signal.
Channel smiled.
The Ridgerunners had arrived.
He typed back one word: Now.
Gunfire erupted from the access road.
The convoy had stalled on the narrow grade, just as Channel had known it would—the bluff road pinched to a single lane where the ridge dropped away, and Limestone and Cottonmouth had taken position above it.
Muzzle flashes lit the tree line as his brothers opened up on the trucks from higher ground.
Culver's men scattered, caught between the cabin and the ambush. Screams and curses filled the night. The disciplined assault became chaos in seconds.
"What the hell—"
"They're in the trees!"
"Return fire! Return fire!"
Channel watched three men go down before the rest found cover. That left nine—still too many, but the odds had shifted.
And Culver was pushing forward.
Through the chaos, Channel tracked the big man's silhouette. While his crew scrambled, Culver was moving toward the cabin, using the confusion as cover, a pistol in his hand and murder in his stride.
Coming for Reagan.
Channel's vision went red.
He hit the front door at a dead sprint, bursting onto the porch with his Glock up and firing. Two of Culver's men were flanking the cabin—they dropped before they could raise their weapons, center-mass shots that punched them off their feet.
Culver spun, his pistol tracking toward Channel, but he was too slow. Channel closed the distance in three strides and drove his shoulder into Culver's chest, sending them both crashing into the dirt.
The pistol went flying.
They hit the ground hard, Culver's bulk absorbing most of the impact.
Channel felt hands grab his jacket, felt the world spin as Culver threw him off and scrambled for position.
The bigger man was strong—construction worker strength, the kind built by years of moving heavy things—but Channel had two tours of hand-to-hand combat training and the cold certainty that this man had put bruises on Reagan's skin.
He wasn't walking away from this.
Channel rolled to his feet and met Culver's rush head-on. A fist caught him in the jaw—pain exploded through his skull—but he took it and kept moving, driving a knee into Culver's stomach, an elbow into his temple. Culver staggered.
"You picked the wrong woman," Channel snarled.
He caught Culver's wrist as the man swung again, twisted, and felt bone crack. Culver screamed. Channel didn't let go—he wrenched the broken wrist higher, using the leverage to drive Culver to his knees.
"You put your hands on her." Each word was punctuated by pressure on the shattered joint. "You threatened to burn her out. You thought you could take everything she built."
"She's just—" Culver choked on the words. "Just a thrift store—"
"She's mine."
Channel drew his knife.
The blade caught moonlight as it came out of the sheath—carbon steel, eight inches, the kind of knife designed to end things permanently. Culver's eyes went wide, real fear replacing the arrogance for the first time.
"Wait—"
Channel didn't wait.
He drove the blade into Culver's throat with the precision of a man who'd done this before. Blood sprayed hot across his hands, across his jacket, and Culver made a wet, gurgling sound that faded into nothing.
Channel held him there, watching the life drain out of eyes that had looked at Reagan like she was property to be taken. Watching the man who'd bruised her arms and threatened her livelihood bleed out in the dirt like the animal he was.
When it was done, he let the body drop.
Gunfire still crackled from the access road, but it was sporadic now—Limestone and Cottonmouth mopping up the survivors. Channel scanned the darkness, counting bodies, making sure no threats remained near the cabin.
Four down around him. Three more on the road. The rest were running.
Good.
Let them run. Let them carry word back to Farris about what happened to men who threatened Ridgerunner territory.
The cabin door slammed open.
Channel spun, weapon up—and found Reagan on the porch, .38 in one hand, bat in the other, eyes wild as she scanned the carnage.
"Two came around back," she said. Her voice was steady, but her hands were shaking. "I handled it."
Channel looked past her. In the moonlight, he could see two shapes on the ground behind the cabin. Neither was moving.
"You shot them."
"One of them." A ghost of a smile crossed her face. "The other one got the bat."
Christ. She'd held the back door against two armed men with a revolver and a baseball bat, and she was standing here making jokes about it.
He crossed the porch in two strides and pulled her against him.
She stiffened for a second—just a second—and then her arms came up around him, the gun and bat clattering to the porch as she grabbed fistfuls of his jacket and held on. He could feel her trembling, could feel the adrenaline crash hitting her, and he held her tighter.
"You're okay," he said into her hair. "You're okay. It's over."
"There's blood—" She pulled back, staring at his jacket, his hands. "You're covered in—"
"Not mine." He cupped her face, made her look at him instead of the blood. "It's not mine."
"Culver?"
"He won't be touching anyone else."
Something shifted in her expression. Not horror—she was too practical for that. Not relief, exactly. Something closer to acceptance. Understanding that this was the world she'd stepped into, and the man holding her was capable of things that would make most people run.
She didn't run.
She leaned up and pressed her forehead to his, breathing hard, eyes closed.
"I thought—" Her voice cracked. "When you went out the door, I thought—"
"I'm right here." He kissed her forehead, her cheek, the corner of her mouth. "I'm not going anywhere."
Footsteps crunched on gravel. Channel pulled back just as Limestone and Cottonmouth emerged from the tree line, weapons out, checking the bodies as they moved.
"All clear on the road," Limestone reported. "Seven down, five running. We let them go."
"Good. They'll carry the message."
Cottonmouth stopped beside Culver's body, nudging it with his boot. "Farris's recruiter. Nice work."
"He had it coming."
"That he did." Cottonmouth's gaze shifted to the porch, to Reagan standing there with blood spatter on her shirt and steel in her spine. His eyes narrowed, reassessing. "Two down behind the cabin. She do that?"
"She did."
Limestone whistled low. "Prospect picked himself a fighter."
Reagan lifted her chin, meeting the patched brother's gaze without flinching. "I pick myself. He just happened to be there."
For a long moment, Limestone stared at her. Then he smiled—a rare thing, from what Channel had seen—and nodded once.
"Fair enough."
"We need to move," Cottonmouth said. "Shots will bring attention. Cops, maybe more of Farris's people. Compound's the safest place until we figure out our next move."
Channel looked at Reagan. "Your inventory—"
"Can be replaced." She grabbed the bat and the .38 from where she'd dropped them. "My life can't."
He wanted to kiss her again. Wanted to pull her inside and make sure she understood exactly what she meant to him, that watching her walk onto that porch ready to fight had done something permanent to his chest.
But Cottonmouth was right. They needed to move.
"Load up," Channel said. "We're going to the compound."
Reagan didn't argue. She grabbed one box from inside—the jewelry she'd been pricing, the pieces she couldn't bear to lose—and headed for her truck.
Channel watched her go, this woman who'd held a back door against armed men and come out swinging. Who'd looked at him covered in another man's blood and hadn't run. Who'd fit into his world like she'd been born to it.
Mine, he thought again.
This time, he was pretty sure she knew it too.
He climbed onto his bike, kicked the engine to life, and led the way down the bluff road. Behind him, Reagan's truck fell into line between Limestone and Cottonmouth, protected on all sides.
Farris had sent twelve men to take her.
Seven of them were dead, including the one who'd put bruises on her skin.
Let him send more. Let him send fifty. The Ozark Ridgerunners would be ready.
And Channel would be standing between Reagan and every single one of them, bloody knife in hand, until there was no one left to threaten her.
The compound gates appeared in his headlights, and for the first time since he'd walked into that thrift store, Channel felt something that might have been peace.
She was safe. She was his. And anyone who wanted to change that would die trying.