Chapter 19
They called her to church.
Delaney had never been inside the chapel—the reinforced room at the back of the lodge where the Ridgerunners held their meetings. When Cottonmouth appeared at her cabin door with a curt "Still wants you," she'd assumed it was another interview. Another round of questions about Garvey's operation.
But when she walked through the door, every officer was already seated around a heavy wooden table. Still at the head. Limestone and Cottonmouth flanking him. Spillway, Proof, Tailwater, Current—the men she'd photographed, worked beside, watched defend the compound.
And Float, standing at the far end of the table with a look in his eyes that said he'd been waiting for her.
"Sit." Still gestured to an empty chair at Float's side. "You've got intel we need to hear."
Delaney sat.
The backup drive was already on the table—she'd handed it over to Proof two days ago, and he'd spent the time since extracting everything useful from the files she'd protected since this began.
"Tell them what you found." Still's voice was calm, but she could feel the weight of his attention.
Delaney pulled the laptop toward her and brought up the files she'd organized.
"Owen Garvey runs a surveillance operation covering most of the Ozark tourism region. Based on the photos I took at Brush Creek and the data Proof pulled from Ingle's servers, he's got cameras installed in at least forty rental properties, plus private homes and businesses."
She clicked through images, showing the scope. "His crews install during routine maintenance calls—HVAC, electrical, security system upgrades. The property owners never know. The cameras feed to a central server where Garvey stores everything."
"For what?" Spillway's voice was granite. "What's he doing with the footage?"
"Blackmail, mostly. Vacationers in compromising positions. Business meetings they don't want public. Affairs, drug use, anything he can leverage." Delaney pulled up a file Proof had extracted. "He's got a client list. People who pay for footage. People who pay to make footage disappear."
Silence around the table. The brothers exchanged looks—not shock, but the cold calculation of men assessing an enemy.
"Why target you?" Still asked.
"Because I photographed his installation crew." Delaney brought up the original Brush Creek images. "Background of a property shoot. I didn't even notice until Ellers broke into my studio and told me to delete everything."
"And instead of deleting, you made copies."
"I'm not good at following orders from men who threaten me."
Something that might have been approval flickered across Still's face.
"The server house," he said. "Where is it?"
"Residential street on the outskirts of Branson. Converted garage—no exterior security, no guards." Delaney pulled up the address. "Garvey doesn't trust anyone with the database. He reviews new footage himself, every Wednesday night. Alone."
"Tomorrow's Wednesday." Cottonmouth's voice was flat.
"Yes."
The brothers looked at each other. At Still. At Float, who hadn't spoken since Delaney sat down.
"What time does he arrive?" Still asked.
"Eight p.m., based on the footage patterns. He stays until midnight, sometimes later. No staff, no security detail. Just Garvey and his monitors."
"And his cameras." Limestone's jaw was tight. "He'll see us coming."
"He'll see the angles the cameras cover." Float spoke for the first time, stepping forward to pull up a different set of images. "But every system has blind spots. Delaney identified them from the installation photos—the same way we used them against Ingle."
He clicked through shots showing camera positions, angles, gaps in coverage.
"One approach from the north is completely blind. Garvey wired the house to watch the street and the back alley, but he didn't account for the neighbor's property line. We come through there, he won't see us until we're through the door."
Still studied the images. "Who do you want?"
"Cottonmouth, Limestone, Spillway. Proof on standby to pull whatever we can from the servers before we torch the place." Float's voice was steady, sure. "Small team. Fast entry. No survivors."
"And Garvey?"
Float glanced at Delaney. Something passed between them—not words, but understanding.
"Garvey's mine."
Still nodded slowly. "This operation started when he threatened your woman. Fitting you end it."
Your woman. The words hung in the air, and Delaney felt the weight of them settle into her bones. Not a claim being made—a claim being acknowledged. By the President. By the brotherhood.
"We hit tomorrow night." Still stood, and every brother rose with him. "Full prep. No mistakes. This bastard's been watching our territory for too long. Time to go dark."
Church broke with the scrape of chairs and the low murmur of men preparing for war.
Delaney watched the brothers disperse through the compound.
There was a rhythm to it—the pre-operation energy that reminded her of forward bases before a mission. Men checking gear. Confirming plans. The quiet intensity of professionals who'd done this before.
She'd documented operations like this from the outside. Now she was part of one.
The old ladies gathered near the lodge, watching their men prepare with expressions Delaney was learning to read. Concern wrapped in confidence. Fear tempered by faith. They'd been here before—watching brothers gear up, waiting for them to come home.
Maggie caught her eye from across the lot and nodded once. Not reassurance. Recognition. Welcome to the life you chose.
Delaney nodded back.
She returned to the cabin to wait.
Float found her two hours later, as the sun was setting over the compound.
She was sitting on the bed with the surveillance camera in her hands—the one from her studio wall, the one he'd dropped on Ingle's chest. She'd kept it since that night, turning it over in her fingers when she needed to remember why this was necessary.
"Hey." Float closed the door behind him and crossed to sit beside her. "Church went well."
"You presented a solid plan."
"Your intel made it solid." He reached out and covered her hands with his, stilling the camera between them. "You mapped his entire operation. Found the server house. Gave us the timing. Without you, we'd still be chasing shadows."
Delaney looked down at the camera, at his hands covering hers.
"I want to go with you."
Float went still.
"Delaney—"
"I know." She cut him off before he could argue. "I know why I can't. Security concerns. Operational risk. Distraction factor. I've heard all the arguments, and I understand them."
"Then why ask?"
"Because I needed to say it." She met his eyes. "Garvey sat in my studio. He sent men to smash my camera, destroy my life's work, take me. I want to be there when it ends. I want him to see my face."
Float's jaw tightened. She could see the war in his expression—the part of him that wanted to give her everything fighting the part that needed to keep her safe.
"If something happened to you in there—"
"I know."
"I wouldn't survive it."
"I know that too." Delaney squeezed his hands. "Which is why I'm not arguing. I'm just... asking for something else."
She pulled the surveillance camera free and held it between them.
The same device that had watched her studio burn. That had recorded the destruction of everything she'd built. That Garvey had left as a message—a reminder that no matter where she went, he could see her.
"Give this back to him." Her voice was steady. "Tell him the woman whose studio he destroyed sent it. Tell him she's watching now."
Float took the camera from her hands. His fingers closed around it, knuckles going white.
"I'll tell him."
"And then?"
"Then I'll end him." Float stood, the camera clutched in his fist. "And when I come back, we start building the life we talked about. The studio. The patch. Everything."
Delaney rose and kissed him—fierce and certain, a promise sealed with her mouth instead of words.
"Come back to me."
"Always." He pressed his forehead to hers. "You're the only thing I've ever wanted to keep. I'm not losing you now."
He turned and walked to the door.
"Float."
He stopped, looking back.
Delaney picked up the borrowed camera from the nightstand—the one she'd been using since hers was destroyed—and lifted it to her eye.
Click.
She captured him in the doorway, surveillance camera in one hand, murder in his eyes, ready to end the man who'd threatened everything they were building.
"Something to remember tonight by," she said, lowering the camera. "In case you forget to come home."
Float's expression softened. Just for a moment—a crack in the warrior's mask that showed the man underneath.
"I won't forget."
Then he was gone, and Delaney was alone with her photos and her fears and the knowledge that tomorrow night, everything would change.
She sat on the bed and looked at the image on the camera's screen.
Float in the doorway. Ready for war. Fighting for her.
She'd spent years photographing violence from a distance. Tomorrow, she'd wait while someone she loved walked into it.
The difference was everything.
And nothing.
Delaney set the camera aside and lay down on the bed that smelled like him, staring at the ceiling, counting hours until he came back.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow it would be over.
And then they'd start building something no one could steal.