23. Red Flag Run #2
City whistles. “Ohhh, look at that. Crusher’s trying to protect her AND act serious at the same time. Dangerous combo. You’re actually glowing, man.”
I spin on him, hard, but Steel’s eyes are already on the table, waiting for input.
I bite back a curse, returning my attention to the map, but Nevaeh’s gaze catches mine, a little spark in her eyes, and I know she gets it.
The subtle teasing, the push and pull between me and City, and the fact that in this room, she’s both safe and in danger, depending on how this goes.
Steel’s got the map spread out on the table, coffee going cold beside it. “Primary targets Dominic Vassaro.” He taps a section of the yard with two fingers. “He’s running the southside staging. Half the guns coming into the city pass through him first.”
That name hits the room like a gunshot. Rock’s jaw flexes. Rampage mutters a curse.
“He’s the one who greenlit Jordan’s hit,” Rock says.
The memory flashes of Jordan bleeding out in my arms, whispering for help. My knuckles creak against the table. I’ve known it for months, but hearing it out loud still grinds against bone.
“Which means,” Steel goes on, “this isn’t just a disruption run. We take him off the board, it’s a message the Syndicate won’t mistake.”
Nevaeh’s eyes flick to me. She doesn’t ask, but she sees how my shoulders go rigid, how my breathing shifts. Vassaro’s been a ghost on every run, always a step ahead. But not tonight. Tonight, he’s cornered.
I swallow, forcing my eyes back to the map. “If we cut them off here and here…” I trace the streets with my finger, trying to act calm, act professional, but the way she watches me, that little spark in her gaze, makes it impossible to ignore City’s jab entirely.
City, of course, notices the shift. “Whoa, Crusher’s actually blushing. Nice. Didn’t think I’d see the day.”
Nevaeh doesn’t say anything, but she leans just a touch closer, her notebook shielding her face from City’s line of sight. “Ignore him,” she murmurs softly, voice just for me. “Focus. You’re doing fine.”
That single, quiet line cuts through all the noise. It’s private, intimate, a tether just for us in the middle of a war council. My chest eases, my tension shifts, and I find a rhythm again, planning, calculating, leading.
I glance at Nevaeh, my hand still near hers, and she gives me that tiny, almost mischievous smile, just enough for me to know she sees everything.
City may tease, the Syndicate may threaten, and the maps may glow with danger, but in this room, in this moment, she’s mine to protect, mine to trust, and mine to fight alongside.
Nevaeh leans closer, pointing. “And here, too. If we block both gates, they won’t have any way to retreat. You’ll force a confrontation on your terms.”
“Exactly,” I murmur, heart pounding. Her insight sharpens the plan, makes me look smarter, and makes me want to protect her all at once.
City snickers behind me. “I don’t know if I should be impressed or terrified. She’s practically running your operation, Crusher. And you? You’re sitting there like a lovesick idiot.”
I grit my teeth, trying not to laugh or punch him.
Instead, I glance at Nevaeh, who’s casually scribbling notes, eyes flicking up at me with that small, satisfied smile.
And I know… I don’t care what City says.
I’ll follow her anywhere, fight anyone, plan anything because right now, she’s part of this, and she belongs in my world.
By the time the sun settles behind the landscape and the moon is peaking her head through the clouds, the yard’s a controlled storm.
Engines rumbling low, the smell of exhaust and gun oil heavy in the air.
Brothers move between bikes like a pit crew on instinct, tapping shoulder to shoulder, slapping mags into rifles, tightening straps.
The sound of Velcro tearing, steel snapping into place, and buckles cinching down.
It’s the music of men about to ride into a fight.
Steel steps up on the old cinderblock by the gate, his cut creaking with the movement.
His voice cuts through the noise, steady but edged.
It carries over the engines, clipped and sharp, the kind of language that only means something if you’ve bled in the same colors.
“Full colors, locked and loaded. No stragglers.” It’s not just an order.
It’s code. Full commitment. No turning back.
“Two-up where it counts. Nose heavy. Stagger left on the stretch, close in on the turn. Kill the lights at the signal. On my mark, you hit hard, you hit fast, and you don’t stop ‘til I say we’re clear. Any questions?”
No one answers. Not because we all know the plan, but because hesitation has no place here.
I’m strapping my shotgun to the side of the bike when I see Nevaeh standing by my ride, her chin up, eyes level, like she knows she doesn’t belong here but dares anyone to say it.
“You’re not staying,” I say, not a question.
“Not where I’m out of your sight,” she answers, calm as stone. She knows I’ll worry more if she’s behind walls I can’t see.
Only two prospects, Killian, still patching up from the last run, and Caine on clubhouse watch, are staying behind. Everyone else is rolling out.
I hand her the helmet, leaning in so only she can hear me. “You don’t get off this bike until I tell you. You see me move, you move. You see me stop, you lock on like your life depends on it because it does.”
Her lips twitch into a faint smirk. “Copy that.”
When she climbs on behind me, her arms lock tight around my waist, her grip the kind that says she’s not letting go, no matter what happens.
City leans over from his bike, grinning at me just enough for Nevaeh to see it. “You ready for your first date night with the Syndicate?”
“Shut up,” I mutter, but Nevaeh’s lips twitch behind her helmet visor.
Rampage swings a leg over his ride, pointing two fingers at Rock. “You take point on Steel.” Rock answers with one sharp nod, the kind that says got it without wasting breath.
Nevaeh’s eyes track the way they talk without words. Hand signals, quick nods, a tap on a gas tank, the flick of a headlamp cover sliding down. It’s not chaos. It’s precision, born from years of knowing the man next to you will kill or die on your say-so.
Steel’s gaze lands on Nevaeh just before he drops back to his bike. “You hold on to him like your life depends on it, sweetheart, because it does.”
Nevaeh doesn’t flinch. “Wasn’t planning on letting go.”
Steel’s mouth twitches like he almost approves, then he fires up his bike. Engines roar in unison, the ground vibrating under our boots. In the dim yard light, exhaust smoke curls up around the rows of chrome and steel like ghostly fingers.
“Kickstand up!” Steel shouts.
The metallic clack of twenty stands snapping into place is the only answer. Then we roll, slow at first, falling into formation as the gate swings wide, the street opening up in front of us like a dark throat ready to swallow the Saints whole.
The ride to the south side is a blur of roaring engines and the scent of oil and steel, the club stretched into two tight columns. Steel at point, Rock and Rampage flanking, the rest staggered so we can cover every angle.
Every rev of the engine is a countdown. Every light we pass, every shadow that slips across my visor, is another second closer to Dominic Vassaro. The brothers ride tight, the hum of the pack vibrating through my bones.
When Steel’s voice crackles over comms, “Remember, Vassaro’s mine or Crusher’s. Everyone else stays out of that kill.” The air between my ribs feels tighter. This isn’t just another job. This is the one I’ve been waiting for.
Nevaeh doesn’t know every detail, but she’s pressed against my back, arms locked tight, and I can feel her pulse through my cut. She knows enough to hold on.
We cut the lights three blocks out, formation tightening until we’re a single shadow moving down the street. Steel’s voice is steady in my ear, breaking down positions, but my focus snags ahead to chrome glinting under a security lamp. Black sedan. Long, low, armored.
I’ve seen it in photos from our intel briefings. Dominic Vassaro’s car.
It’s parked just inside the chain-link gate like it owns the pavement, Syndicate guards flanking it. The sight hits me like a fist to the chest. Months of chasing his name, watching his moves from a distance, all come down to this. He’s here.
Steel raises a gloved fist, and the line reacts instantly, splitting into two teams, peeling off into pre-set positions. My boots hit gravel as I dismount, shotgun in hand, eyes scanning the shadows. Not tonight, Dom. You don’t slip away tonight.
The warehouse looms ahead, its windows dark except for the glow spilling from the loading dock. Voices carry over the cold night air. Syndicate muscle laughing, unaware the Saints Outlaws are about to blow their night to hell.
“Go,” Steel’s voice snaps in my earpiece.
The first shots crack like thunder. Metal screams as bullets chew into the vans. I’m moving before the first body drops, Rock at my side, his rifle barking short, controlled bursts. We push through the gate, close and fast, taking cover behind a stack of pallets when I hear it.
A low, commanding voice, cutting through the chaos. “Lock down the dock! Get the shipment out of here, now!”
Dominic Vassaro.
Even without seeing him, the sound spikes my pulse. I’ve heard recordings, snippets on intercepted calls, but hearing it in person is different. The arrogance, the certainty that men will jump the second he speaks, makes my teeth grind.
I shove past two Syndicate soldiers, Rock on my flank, cutting through the path toward that voice. Every shot I fire, every step I take, is aimed at closing the distance between us. I don’t care about the rest of the warehouse. He’s mine.