Chapter 7
They came at midnight.
Forge heard them before he saw them—boots on gravel, whispered commands, the distinctive click of weapons being readied. Ten men, maybe more, moving through the darkness toward the safehouse like wolves closing on a wounded deer.
They thought this would be easy. One ex-con and a thrift store owner against Ray Stoltz's entire enforcement arm.
They were wrong.
Forge checked his weapons one final time—Glock in his hand, backup piece at his ankle, knife strapped to his thigh. The safehouse layout was burned into his memory: two entry points, three windows, a kitchen that would become a killing floor if anyone got past the main room.
"Dana." His voice was low, calm. The voice he'd used in Graterford when violence was coming and panic would get you dead. "Back room. Now."
She moved without argument, and something in his chest loosened slightly. She'd listened. She trusted him. Whatever happened next, she'd be behind a locked door while he did what needed to be done.
The first crash came from the front—the door splintering inward under a battering ram. Forge was already in position, back against the wall beside the entrance, letting the first two men rush past before he moved.
Prison violence was different from street fighting. In the yard, you learned that speed and brutality won over technique. You learned that hesitation got you killed. You learned that mercy was a luxury only the dead could afford.
Forge put two rounds into the first man's back before he'd taken three steps into the room. The second spun toward the muzzle flash and caught a bullet in the throat, dropping with a wet gurgle that was swallowed by the chaos erupting around them.
More men poured through the broken door. Forge moved like smoke, using the furniture as cover, putting rounds into center mass with the methodical precision of someone who'd had five years to think about how he'd fight when he got out. Two more went down. Three.
Then they started shooting back.
Bullets tore through the safehouse walls, shredding drywall and shattering what little furniture remained. Forge dropped behind the overturned couch, reloading by feel, counting bodies in his head. Six down. Four still moving. And somewhere in that chaos, Mike Tanner was directing traffic.
"Spread out!" Mike's voice cut through the gunfire. "He's one fucking guy! Find the woman!"
The woman.
Something dark and savage roared to life in Forge's chest. The woman. Like she was property. Like she was a thing to be collected and used.
Mine, that savage voice snarled. She's mine, and you're never touching her again.
He rose from cover and put two rounds into a man trying to flank toward the back bedroom. The body hit the ground three feet from Dana's door.
The firefight condensed into moments—trigger pulls and muzzle flashes and the copper stink of blood filling the air.
Forge moved through it like he was born for this, every motion economical, every shot placed with lethal intent.
Prison had forged him into a weapon. Tonight, that weapon had a purpose.
Glass shattered behind him—someone coming through the kitchen window. Forge spun, fired, caught the intruder in the shoulder but not center mass. The man tumbled through anyway, bleeding and cursing, raising his own weapon—
The front door exploded inward a second time, and Forge's brothers poured through like a tide of leather and violence.
Gallows first, stone-faced and deadly, putting two rounds into the wounded man before he could fire. Blackjack behind him, sweeping the room with cold efficiency. Pounder bringing up the rear, eyes bright with the manic energy of a man who loved a good fight.
"Brother!" Pounder's voice was pure joy. "Thought you might need backup!"
"Kitchen," Forge snapped. "Tanner's in the kitchen."
He'd tracked the voice, tracked the movements, tracked the man who'd put his hands on Dana three nights ago. Mike Tanner had slipped through during the chaos, probably heading for the back bedroom, probably thinking he could grab his prize while everyone else died as a distraction.
Forge was already moving.
The kitchen was dark, lit only by the muzzle flash still strobing from the main room. Mike Tanner stood against the far wall, gun raised, eyes wild with the desperation of a man who'd finally realized he was outmatched.
"Wait." Mike's voice cracked. "Wait, we can—"
Forge didn't wait.
He crossed the distance in three strides, batting the gun aside with his forearm and driving his fist into Tanner's jaw with every ounce of five years' worth of rage.
The bigger man staggered, tried to bring his weapon back around.
Forge grabbed his wrist and twisted, feeling bone grind against bone, hearing the snap that meant Mike Tanner would never hold a gun with that hand again.
The scream was satisfying. Not enough, but satisfying.
"You touched her." Forge's voice was ice. "In her store. You put your hands on her face."
"I was just—"
Forge hit him again, driving him back against the counter. Dishes shattered. Mike's head bounced off the cabinet with a crack that echoed.
"You threatened her. Told her you'd make her an example."
"Ray's orders!" Mike was crying now, blood streaming from his nose, broken wrist cradled against his chest. "I was just following orders!"
"Yeah." Forge grabbed him by the throat, slammed him against the wall hard enough to crater the drywall. "So am I."
He could see Dana through the doorway. She'd emerged from the back bedroom at some point—probably when the brothers arrived, probably when she heard the tide turning. She stood framed in the dim light, watching him with wide eyes that held no horror.
She was watching him about to kill a man, and she wasn't flinching.
Something primal roared in approval.
"You should've picked a different target," Forge said, his grip tightening on Tanner's throat. "You should've left her alone."
Mike's eyes bulged, his one good hand clawing uselessly at Forge's forearm. "Please—"
"She said no to your boss. That took courage. You punished her for it. That was a mistake." Forge leaned close, letting the dying man see exactly what he'd earned. "This is what happens to men who threaten what's mine."
He pulled his knife with his free hand and opened Mike Tanner's throat in one clean motion.
Blood sprayed across the kitchen cabinets, across Forge's hands, across the floor that would need to be scrubbed before the safehouse could be used again. Mike Tanner slid down the wall and didn't get back up.
Forge stood over him for a moment, breathing hard, the rage slowly ebbing as the kill satisfied something deep and ancient in his soul. Prison rules. You come for someone under protection, you die trying.
When he turned, Dana was still watching.
"Are you okay?" Her voice was steady. Steadier than it had any right to be.
Forge looked down at his blood-soaked hands, at the body cooling behind him, at the destruction he'd wrought in her defense. "You shouldn't have come out."
"Your brothers needed to get through that door. I moved." She crossed the kitchen toward him, stepping over debris without flinching. "Are you hurt?"
"No."
"Good." She stopped in front of him, close enough to touch, and reached up to wipe a smear of blood from his cheek. Her fingers were warm against his skin. "Then let's get out of here."
Something cracked open in Forge's chest—something that had been locked down since before Graterford, maybe since before the club. This woman had just watched him execute a man in cold blood, and she was touching his face like he was something worth gentleness.
Worth salvaging, her voice echoed in his memory. Nothing too broken.
"Dana—"
"Later." Her hand dropped to his, blood and all, and squeezed. "We can talk later. Right now, you've got bodies to deal with and I need to stop shaking."
He hadn't noticed she was shaking. She'd hidden it well.
"Main room's clear!" Gallows' voice carried from the front of the safehouse. "Eight down, two runners. Blackjack's on their trail."
Forge led Dana out of the kitchen, keeping his body between her and the worst of the carnage. The main room looked like a war zone—bodies sprawled across the floor, bullet holes stitching the walls, the couch he'd used for cover reduced to stuffing and splintered wood.
Pounder was grinning like a maniac, bloodied but uninjured, practically bouncing on his heels.
"Brother. Brother. That was beautiful. Gallows said you were holding them off alone, and I didn't believe it, but—" He gestured at the devastation with something like awe. "Five years didn't slow you down any."
"Five years gave me time to plan." Forge's voice was flat, the combat high fading into exhaustion. "Who's handling cleanup?"
"Already called it in. Prospects are on their way." Gallows crossed to them, stone face cracking slightly as his gaze landed on Dana. "This the one?"
"This is her."
The Sergeant at Arms studied Dana with the assessing look of a man who'd spent his career breaking people down. Whatever he saw seemed to satisfy him.
"You didn't panic," he said to her. It wasn't a question.
Dana's chin lifted. "I grew up in worse neighborhoods than this one."
Something that might have been approval flickered in Gallows' expression. He looked at Forge. "Patriot wants her at the compound. Full protection until this is handled."
"That's where we're heading."
"Good." Gallows jerked his chin toward the door. "We'll handle the mess here. Get moving before Ray sends round two."
Forge didn't argue. He holstered his weapon, took Dana's hand, and led her through the wreckage toward the back door where his bike was waiting. The night air hit them like a cold slap, clean and sharp after the blood-stink of the safehouse.
Dana didn't let go of his hand.
"You killed him," she said quietly as they approached the bike. Not an accusation. An observation.
"Yes."
"Because he touched me."
"Because he threatened you. Because Ray would've sent him again if I hadn't. Because—" Forge stopped, turned to face her in the darkness. "Because some things are worth killing for. Some people are worth protecting."
Dana held his gaze for a long moment. Then she rose on her toes and pressed a kiss to his jaw—the only part of his face not spattered with blood.
"Thank you," she whispered.
Forge pulled her against him, one arm locked around her waist, holding her close with a possessiveness he'd stopped trying to fight. She was warm and alive and his, and the men who'd tried to take her were cooling on a safehouse floor.
"Let's go," he said roughly. "The compound's waiting."
He swung onto the bike, felt her settle behind him with her arms wrapped tight around his waist. The engine roared to life, and Forge pulled out into the night with the woman who'd just watched him commit murder and kissed him anyway.
Behind them, his brothers were cleaning up the bodies. Ahead of them, the Sons of Liberty compound waited to welcome her under full protection.
Mike Tanner was dead. Ray Stoltz had lost his attack dog.
The war was just beginning.