23. Red Flag Run #3
Another Syndicate soldier rounds the corner with his gun up. Rock drops him with a clean headshot. It’s chaos. Flashes of muzzle fire, shouts, the tang of blood and cordite in the air. And in the middle of it, movement catches my eye. On the catwalk above, a shooter is lining up on Rock.
“Rock!” I bark, but I’m too far.
Movement flickers at the corner of my vision, Nevaeh.
She’s sprinting along the narrow service stairs that zigzag up the wall, chain wrapped around her fist. Her boots slip on a rung slick with oil, metal shrieking under her sole.
She stumbles, one hand catching the railing just as a round smashes into the steel beam inches from her head, showering her with hot sparks and the tang of scorched paint.
For a split second, she freezes. I can see her chest heave, see the decision hang in her eyes to stay low and survive, or push forward into the line of fire.
She goes forward.
Her breath’s ragged as she clears the last step.
The chain slides in her grip, cold and greasy from the oil, but she yanks it tight and swings with everything she’s got.
It cracks across the shooter’s forearm, the sound sharp as breaking bone.
His rifle clatters over the rail, hitting the concrete below with a hollow clang.
Before he can grab her, she drives a knee into his gut, the air whooshing out of him in a grunt. She shoves hard, her boots skidding on the catwalk grating as he topples over the edge.
He hits the floor with a wet crunch.
Rock glances at her, just once, and nods. “Owe you one.” Then he’s back to work.
The black sedan is still there when I hit the dock, its chrome fenders smeared with dust and someone’s blood. I don’t need a nameplate to know who it belongs to. Vassaro’s ride hasn’t left my head since I saw it at the gate.
And then I see him.
Dominic Vassaro stands in the shadow of a half-loaded van, long coat swaying, suit pressed like he didn’t just crawl through a warzone.
Even now, even with his men bleeding into the concrete, there’s that smug curve to his mouth.
The same one I heard in his voice when he barked those orders inside.
The same one that’s been etched into my brain through grainy photos and intel briefings.
“Crusher,” he says, like we’re at a goddamn reunion. “Finally.”
I don’t answer. I close the distance, slam him against the van hard enough to rattle the frame, my forearm pinning his throat. My pistol digs into his ribs.
He coughs, still smiling. “You can’t kill me. I’m the one who...”
The butt of my pistol cracks against his jaw, cutting him off. Blood blooms down his chin. “You’re the one who had Lena snatched. Who put a knife in Jordan. Who’s been pulling strings while good people bled out in alleys.” My voice is low, steady. “You’ve been on my list a long time, Dom.”
His laugh is wet with blood, but the arrogance never leaves. “You think killing me stops it?”
“No.” I shove the barrel between his teeth, leaning in until my breath fogs against his cheek. “But it stops you.”
The shot is quick. Clean. His body slumps before the echo dies.
When I step back out into the cold, the weight in my chest is lighter. Months of hunting his shadow, chasing his name through back channels and blood trails, end here on this cracked strip of concrete beside his car. And for the first time in too damn long, I feel like I can breathe.
We burn the vans where they sit, their frames hissing and groaning as fire eats through metal.
The bodies stay where they dropped. Signs to anyone else thinking about stepping onto our streets.
The night stinks of smoke, gasoline, and the metallic tang of blood.
Sirens are still distant when the last bike roars off, the sound swallowed by the dark.
The ride back is a quiet one. No chatter over comms, no posturing. Just the steady thrum of engines in formation.
By the time we roll into the clubhouse yard, the silence fractures.
Helmets come off, backs get slapped, voices rise sharp and loud, riding the high that comes after staring death in the face.
That post-battle rush has its own rhythm.
Laughs that cut too quickly, drinks poured with shaking hands, the air thick with cigarette smoke and relief.
Inside, Nevaeh’s at the bar. She doesn’t shrink from the noise, doesn’t step aside when the brothers crowd the space. She just stands there steady, watchful.
Rock crosses the room, rifle still slung over his shoulder, his boots leaving a faint trail of dirt on the wood floor. He sets a shot of whiskey in front of her without a word.
“Saints’ tab,” he says. Then, almost as an afterthought, “And for that swing with the chain, you’ve got a mean right arm.” He tips his chin once before walking away. That’s not a drink, it’s an acknowledgment.
The prospect, Killian, slides in quietly behind the bar, refilling her glass before it’s empty. Doesn’t look at her, doesn’t need to. That’s his way of saying she’s under the umbrella now.
Across the room, I catch Steel’s eyes. He glances at her, then back at me, giving the smallest nod before turning to City. For Steel, that’s as close as it gets to open approval.
What I notice more than anything is the space. Brothers still close enough to watch her back, but none crowding her. No questions, no testing. Just that subtle shift of the room, making room for her.
I step in behind her, arm sliding around her waist, grounding both of us in the middle of the chaos. “You proved yourself tonight,” I murmur.
She leans into me, her voice steady. “We both did.”
I look around. Split knuckles, half-healed scars, the empty spaces where some of us should be, and I know she’s right. We’re still here. And for now, that’s enough.