Chapter 7
The safehouse went loud at two in the morning.
Diesel was on the couch, boots off but clothes on, when Fang's phone buzzed with an alert from the motion sensors. He was on his feet before the second buzz, tire iron already in hand.
"Company," Fang said from the front window. "Ten men. Harker's leading."
Ten men. For a waitress and two guards. Dale Berkman wasn't taking chances.
"Karen?"
"Upstairs. Told her to stay in the bedroom, lock the door."
"She listen?"
Fang's mouth twitched. Almost a smile. "She argued first. Then she listened."
That was his girl. Diesel crossed to the window and looked through a gap in the curtains. Black vehicles parked at both ends of the street. Men moving in formation—not military, but close enough. Clint Harker's big frame was unmistakable, directing the approach with hand signals.
"They made Fang's bike," Diesel said. "Tailed him from the compound."
"Doesn't matter how. Matters what we do about it."
Diesel pulled out his phone and sent two words to Alpha: SAFEHOUSE BLOWN.
The response came in seconds: EN ROUTE. HOLD.
Hold. Easy to say when you weren't staring down ten hijackers with nothing but a tire iron and a brother who preferred knives.
The first kick hit the front door like a battering ram.
The wood held. Barely. Fang positioned himself to the left of the frame while Diesel took the right. Second kick. Third. The hinges screamed.
Fourth kick, and the door exploded inward.
The first man through caught Diesel's tire iron across the face. The impact was wet and final—jaw shattering, body dropping, weapon clattering to the floor. Diesel stepped over him and met the second attacker in the narrow hallway.
Close quarters. No room to swing. Diesel drove the iron into the man's gut, doubled him over, then brought his knee up into the falling face. Teeth scattered across the hardwood.
Fang moved like smoke beside him. His knife opened throats with surgical precision—one man, two men, bodies dropping in the doorway and blocking the entrance. The attackers had expected a waitress and a single guard. They hadn't expected this.
But there were still too many.
They pushed through the bottleneck by sheer numbers, boots trampling their fallen comrades. Diesel gave ground, drawing them into the living room where he had space to work. The tire iron sang through the air—ribs, elbows, skulls. Men screamed and fell and kept coming.
A gunshot cracked through the chaos. Diesel felt heat graze his shoulder—close, too close. He grabbed the shooter's wrist, twisted until bone snapped, and used the man's own weapon to drop the two behind him.
"Kitchen!" Fang shouted.
Diesel turned. Three men had circled around through the back, and Clint Harker was leading them toward the stairs.
Toward Karen.
Something red and primal flooded Diesel's vision. He crossed the room in four strides and caught the first man from behind, snapping his neck with a brutal twist. The second turned to face him and died with a tire iron through his eye socket.
Harker was already at the kitchen door, boot raised to kick it in.
"HARKER!"
The big man turned. His face split into a grin—the kind of grin that said he'd been waiting for this, hoping for it.
"The trucker," Harker said. "Dale figured you were the one sniffing around. Said you'd been coming to the diner for years, probably thought you owned that waitress."
"I don't own her." Diesel advanced, tire iron dripping. "But I'm going to kill anyone who tries to touch her."
"Big words."
"Let's see if you can back yours up."
Harker charged.
He was fast for a big man—prison fast, the kind of speed that came from years of fighting for survival in places where losing meant death. His fist caught Diesel's cheek, snapping his head sideways. Stars exploded across his vision.
Diesel rolled with the momentum, came up swinging. The tire iron connected with Harker's ribs, and he felt bone give way. Harker grunted but didn't stop, driving forward, slamming Diesel against the kitchen counter.
Dishes shattered. A knife block toppled. Diesel grabbed a blade and drove it into Harker's shoulder.
The big man roared and staggered back, yanking the knife free with his good hand. Blood poured down his arm, but his eyes were still focused, still lethal.
"That all you got?"
Diesel's answer was the tire iron across Harker's kneecap.
The crack was loud in the enclosed space. Harker went down, leg folding at an angle that meant he'd never walk right again. But he was still reaching for his weapon, still trying to fight, still thinking he had a chance.
Diesel ended that illusion.
The final blow caved in Clint Harker's skull. The big man's body slumped against the kitchen cabinets, blood pooling across the linoleum, and didn't move again.
Diesel stood over him, breathing hard, tire iron hanging loose in his grip. His shoulder burned where the bullet had grazed him. His face throbbed where Harker's fist had connected. None of it mattered.
Karen was safe. That was the only thing that mattered.
Engines roared outside. Diesel crossed to the window in time to see three bikes tear onto the street—Alpha in front, Razor flanking, Scout bringing up the rear. The remaining attackers scattered like roaches in light.
Most of them didn't make it far.
Alpha caught one trying to reach a vehicle and put him down with a single shot. Razor took two more in the alley behind the building. Scout ran down a fourth who'd made the mistake of running toward the highway instead of away from it.
In under three minutes, it was over.
Diesel walked to the front door, stepping over bodies, and raised a hand to his President. Alpha killed his engine and dismounted, surveying the carnage with cold approval.
"Harker?"
"Kitchen. Won't be running operations anymore."
"Clean?"
"Clean enough." Diesel looked back at the safehouse. "Karen's upstairs. I need to get her out."
"Do it. Compound's the only safe place now—they know she's connected to us." Alpha's eyes swept the street. "We'll handle cleanup. Move fast."
Diesel climbed the stairs two at a time. The bedroom door was locked, just like he'd told her. He knocked twice.
"Karen. It's me."
A pause. Then the lock clicked, and the door swung open.
She stood there in jeans and a sweater, face pale but eyes steady. Her gaze dropped to the tire iron still in his hand—blood-soaked, dripping onto the hallway carpet—then back to his face.
"Is it over?"
"For tonight." He reached for her with his free hand, needing to touch her, needing to confirm she was real and whole and breathing. "We're moving. Now."
"The compound?"
"Yeah."
She didn't argue. Didn't ask questions. Just grabbed her coat from the chair and her bag from the floor and walked toward him like she'd been waiting for exactly this moment.
"You're hurt," she said, looking at his shoulder.
"It's nothing."
"It's bleeding."
"Karen." He cupped her face with his clean hand, smearing someone else's blood across her cheek. "We need to go. Right now. Can you do that for me?"
Her eyes searched his face. Whatever she saw there made something in her expression shift—fear giving way to trust, uncertainty giving way to resolve.
"I can do that."
"Good." He took her hand and led her toward the stairs. "Stay behind me. Don't look at the floor."
She looked anyway. He felt her flinch when she saw the bodies in the hallway, the blood on the walls, the destruction that had been a quiet safehouse an hour ago. But she didn't stop. Didn't freeze. Just kept moving, her hand tight in his, her breathing steady.
Alpha met them at the front door. His eyes took in Karen—the set of her jaw, the way she stood close to Diesel without clinging—and something like approval flickered across his hard face.
"You the waitress?"
"I'm the diner owner." Karen's voice was steady. "And I assume you're the one in charge."
"I'm Alpha. And yeah, I'm in charge." He stepped aside. "Diesel, get her on a bike. Scout's running point to the compound."
"What about the diner?"
"We'll have brothers watching it by dawn. Dale's going to know his assault failed—he'll be pulling back, regrouping. Won't hit the diner until he figures out his next move."
Karen looked back at the safehouse one more time. Bodies on the porch. Blood on the steps. The quiet street transformed into a war zone.
"This is because of me," she said quietly.
"This is because of Dale Berkman." Diesel pulled her toward his bike, parked in the garage where Fang had hidden it. "None of this is on you. None of it."
"People died tonight."
"Bad people. People who came here to hurt you." He handed her a helmet, waited while she strapped it on. "Feel bad about it later if you want. Right now, we ride."
She climbed onto the bike behind him, arms wrapping around his waist, body pressing close. Even through the leather and the adrenaline, he could feel her shaking.
But she was alive. She was with him. And Clint Harker would never watch her windows again.
The engine roared to life. Scout pulled out ahead, and Diesel followed, Karen holding tight as they wound through Bridgeport streets toward the compound.
Behind them, Alpha and Razor stayed to clean up the mess.
Ahead of them, a war was just beginning.
But tonight, they'd won the first battle. Tonight, Diesel had put down the first of Dale Berkman's lieutenants and proven that the Wolves would kill to protect what was theirs.
Karen's arms tightened around him as they hit the highway.
His woman. His to protect.
And God help anyone who came for her again.