15. Chapter 15
Colt
Ghost was on the line, and his voice was tight in a way that meant something had gone wrong. "We've got a situation at the Galveston safehouse. Someone's been inside. Nothing taken. Nothing obvious. But we've got signs someone's been conducting surveillance."
I was out of bed and dressed in under five minutes. Ditch was waiting in the garage with Ghost and three other brothers when I pulled up.
"Details?" I asked.
"The property manager noticed a window that shouldn't have been accessible had been tampered with," Ghost said.
"Showed signs of picking or drilling. No alarm triggered—whoever did it knew the security setup well enough to avoid it.
They got in, looked around, and left without taking anything or causing damage. "
"How long ago?"
"Could be days. Could be weeks. Depends on when the tampering happened."
We drove to Galveston in a convoy. Three vehicles. Radio communication every five minutes. The safehouse was a nondescript property that looked like any other coastal house—two story, weathered from salt air, surrounded by enough privacy that nobody would notice surveillance activity.
But someone had noticed. Someone had come here and studied the place carefully enough to bypass the security system.
Inside, Ghost walked us through what he'd found. The window in the back bedroom. The lack of forced entry damage, which suggested professional tools. The positioning of a chair in an upstairs bedroom that overlooked the property's perimeter and the street beyond.
"They were watching," I said. "Observing patrol patterns. Testing defenses."
"That's what I'm thinking," Ghost confirmed.
We spent the next three hours documenting everything. Took photographs. Dusted for prints even though whoever did this probably wore gloves. Checked every room for surveillance equipment. Found nothing electronic, but the evidence of their presence was clear.
Someone had been here. Multiple times, based on the wear patterns on the chair. Someone who knew the value of the property and wanted to understand how to compromise it.
Back at the club, Ditch called an emergency meeting.
"We've got three confirmed surveillance operations on Lords properties," Ditch said, pulling up a map marked with locations. "Galveston. Austin. San Antonio. Different properties. Different dates. But the same pattern. Someone's been gathering intel."
"Could be local criminals," one of the brothers suggested.
"Doesn't fit their pattern," Ghost said flatly. "Organized crime focuses on robbery or trafficking opportunities. This is reconnaissance. Military or paramilitary tactics. This is someone planning something larger."
The room went quiet as the implication settled over everyone.
"Don's network," I said.
"Possibly," Ditch said. "We thought Xtinction was dismantled. But Ghost found something interesting during the Galveston investigation."
He pulled up photographs on his phone. Evidence bags containing personal effects left at the safehouse. A patch. Not official Xtinction colors, but close enough. Modified insignia. The kind of thing that suggested a splinter group trying to establish legitimacy.
"Surviving Xtinction members," Ditch said. "Regrouping. Gathering intelligence. We don't know if it's a full reformation or just scattered remnants. But they're active. They're organized. And they're targeting Lords properties."
"Which means they'll target us," I said. "The Serpent Sinners are connected to the Lords. If they're planning something, we're part of the target."
"That's what I'm assuming," Ditch said. "Which is why I'm implementing increased security protocols immediately. Dusk-to-dawn watch on all club properties. Armed security at all safehouse locations. No solo patrol operations. Nothing happens without backup."
I raised my hand. "I'll take the watch rotations. Every night if necessary."
"I'm volunteering too," Ghost said.
"All hands on deck for the next phase," Ditch confirmed. "We don't know what we're dealing with yet, but we're going to be ready."
As the brothers dispersed to receive their assignments, I felt something familiar settle into my chest. Purpose. The clarity that comes from knowing there's a threat that can be fought.
It was easier than confronting my own emotions. Easier than sitting with the knowledge that Caroline was waiting for something. Easier than admitting that I wanted her in ways that made the professional boundary feel fragile.
That night, on the first watch rotation, I sat in the darkness outside the club property and I let my mind settle into tactical mode. Threat assessment. Security protocols. Defense strategies. External focus.
Anything but thinking about the way Caroline looked at me. The way her concern sounded when she told me to be careful. The five months stretching out before us like a sentence or a promise.
Danger was simpler than that. Danger was something I understood.
Over the next week, as more surveillance evidence accumulated, the picture became clearer. Xtinction wasn't gone. They were regrouping. Studying. Planning.
And they were coming for us.
I threw myself into the security work. Coordinated with Ghost on defense strategies. Worked with Ditch to map out response protocols. Took every watch rotation offered. Volunteered for every investigation that needed conducting.
Partly because my family needed protection.
Partly because staying busy meant I didn't have to think about Caroline.
Didn't have to calculate how many more weeks until I could stop pretending that the line between appropriate and inappropriate mattered.
Didn't have to acknowledge that I was falling for her in ways that went beyond attraction or physical chemistry.
It was something deeper. Something that made me want to be someone worthy of her. Someone who could face the danger ahead and come out whole on the other side.
At the end of the week, Ditch found me in the garage.
"You're avoiding something," he said.
"I'm doing my job."
"You're doing more than your job. You're running from something. Or toward something." He paused. "Is it Caroline?"
I didn't answer. Didn't need to. Ditch could read me better than anyone.
"You know the ethics of that situation are complicated," he said. "She was your therapist. That creates a power dynamic that doesn't just disappear because you referred out."
"I know. That's why we're waiting. Six months, and then—"
"And then what? You think dating your former therapist isn't going to come with complications?"
"Probably not. But I also don't think I can just ignore what I feel because it's complicated."
Ditch leaned against the workbench. "She cares about you. I can see it. But caring isn't the same as being ready for what comes next. Make sure you're both clear on that before you cross that line."
"I will."
For the rest of the night, I thought about Ditch's warning.
About the complications of being involved with someone who'd been trained to understand trauma and psychological patterns.
About whether loving someone meant accepting that they'd always see you through a clinical lens, even after the professional relationship ended.
But I also thought about the way Caroline had looked at me at the fundraiser. The way she'd said "be careful" like it meant something beyond just professional concern. The way she'd been gathering evidence about my case file because she couldn't stand the thought of me being in danger.
That was love. Not the clean, uncomplicated version. But love nonetheless.
And I was willing to wait five months for it. Was willing to throw myself into protecting my family while the countdown began. Was willing to let danger serve as a distraction from the vulnerability of caring about someone.
Danger was something I understood.
Love was going to be infinitely harder.
But when the six months were over, I was going to be ready.