Chapter Sixteen
The decommissioned marina sat dark against the water, rusted equipment silhouetted against the glow of the distant city.
Lakeshore crouched behind a concrete piling and counted heads. Four men on the dock—three loading cargo, one standing at the helm of a center-console boat that looked fast enough to outrun anything the Coast Guard had on the water.
Darko Mali?.
He recognized the build from the description Scout had pulled together.
Young, lean, moving with the coiled energy of a man who enjoyed violence for its own sake.
The gutting knife at his hip caught the moonlight as he barked orders at his crew, hurrying them along like he had somewhere important to be.
He did. He just didn't know it yet.
Lakeshore keyed his radio. "Eyes on target. Four hostiles, one vessel. Darko's at the helm."
Scout's voice crackled back. "Copy. Roads are clear. No backup incoming."
"Fang?"
"In position." The enforcer's growl came from somewhere to the left, invisible in the shadows of the breakwall. "Stockyard's got the north approach. Say the word."
Lakeshore watched Darko pace the deck, checking lines, preparing for a crossing he'd never complete. Somewhere behind him, in a compound three miles away, Tess was waiting. Trusting him to deliver the message she'd asked for.
The lake gives back what you throw in.
"Word," he said.
The night came alive.
Fang hit the dock from the shadows like something out of a nightmare—six-three of silent fury, taking down the nearest man before anyone could shout a warning.
The second hostile turned, hand going for his waistband, and Stockyard materialized behind him with the methodical efficiency of a man who'd grown up around slaughterhouses.
Two down in three seconds.
The third man panicked. Bolted for the boat, screaming Darko's name, trying to reach the only escape route left. Lakeshore let him run—let him reach the gunwale and start to climb—before rising from behind the piling and cutting off his retreat.
The man's eyes went wide. His hand came up with a pistol.
Lakeshore was faster.
He caught the gun arm and twisted, using momentum to slam the man face-first into the dock. The pistol skittered away. One punch to the back of the head, and hostile number three stopped moving.
That left Darko.
The young enforcer had scrambled for the helm, fingers flying over the ignition, trying to get the engine started before the Wolves could reach him. Smart. If he got the boat running, he might actually make it to open water.
He wasn't going to make it.
Lakeshore went into the water without hesitation. The April cold hit him like a fist—forty-five degrees, maybe less—but he'd swum in worse. Eight years of pulling bodies from Lake Michigan had taught him that cold was just another obstacle, another thing to push through on the way to the objective.
The boat's hull loomed above him, dark and sleek. He surfaced on the blind side, grabbed the swim platform, and hauled himself up in one smooth motion.
Darko didn't hear him coming.
The engine coughed, caught, and Darko let out a whoop of triumph that died in his throat when Lakeshore's hand closed around his collar.
"Going somewhere?"
He yanked Darko away from the helm and threw him against the gunwale. The younger man bounced off the fiberglass and came up swinging, that gutting knife appearing in his hand like it had grown there.
"You're dead," Darko snarled. "Gregor's going to burn everything you—"
Lakeshore didn't let him finish.
He caught the knife hand on the downswing and drove his knee into Darko's ribs. Something cracked. Darko gasped, stumbled, and Lakeshore followed him down, twisting the knife free and sending it spinning into the water.
The lake takes everything eventually.
"That knife," Lakeshore said, pressing Darko into the deck with one hand on his throat. "You left it in her counter. Along with a note."
Darko's eyes went wide. Recognition dawned—not just fear of the man pinning him down, but understanding of why.
"The bitch at the bait shop?" He laughed, choked. "That's what this is about? Some waterfront whore who wouldn't—"
Lakeshore hit him.
Not a punch—something more primal, more savage. His forehead connected with Darko's nose, and he felt cartilage shatter under the impact. Blood sprayed hot across his face, and Darko screamed, high and thin and satisfying.
"She's not a whore." Lakeshore grabbed a fistful of hair and slammed Darko's head into the deck. "She's not a bitch." Again. "She's mine."
The third impact left Darko dazed, groaning, his face a mess of blood and broken bone. Lakeshore hauled him up by his shirt and dragged him to the gunwale, bending him backward over the water.
"You threw her father's fish in the lake. Thirty years of memories. A trophy he caught the year she was born." He leaned close, letting Darko feel his breath, feel the cold fury that came from somewhere deeper than anger. "You want to know what she said when she saw what you did?"
Darko gurgled something that might have been a plea.
"She said the lake gives back what you throw in." Lakeshore smiled. It wasn't a nice expression. "I'm here to prove her right."
He let go.
Darko's body hit the water with a splash that seemed obscenely loud in the quiet marina. Lakeshore watched him surface, flailing, trying to swim with broken ribs and a shattered face. The cold would do most of the work—forty-five-degree water didn't forgive weakness.
But Lakeshore wasn't feeling merciful.
He dove in after him.
The fight was short. Darko was already gasping from the cold, his movements sluggish, his coordination shot. Lakeshore caught him from behind and wrapped an arm around his throat, holding him just above the surface.
"Please—" Darko choked. "I was just following orders—"
"Gregor's orders."
"Yes! He wanted to send a message. I didn't—"
"You destroyed her shop. Sank her boats. Threw her father's fish in this lake." Lakeshore's arm tightened. "You don't get to blame orders. You enjoyed it."
"I'll tell you where he is. Gregor. His primary location, his schedule, everything—"
"I already know where he is."
He squeezed.
Darko thrashed, hands clawing at Lakeshore's arm, legs kicking against water that didn't care whether he lived or died. The lake was cold and dark and patient, and it had been waiting for this moment since a trophy fish sank beneath its surface.
The struggling slowed.
Stopped.
Lakeshore held on for another thirty seconds, making sure, then released the body and swam back to the boat. Darko Mali? floated face-down in the dark water, one more secret the lake would keep.
The cleanup was efficient.
Fang and Stockyard had the dock secured by the time Lakeshore pulled himself back aboard the boat. Three hostiles zip-tied and waiting for whatever Alpha decided to do with them. One boat, fully fueled, ready for a crossing that would never happen.
"Darko?" Fang asked.
"Swimming with the fish." Lakeshore grabbed a towel from the boat's storage compartment and dried his face. "Or what's left of them."
"Message sent?"
"Message delivered."
They scuttled the boat properly—opened the seacocks, let the lake fill her from below. It would take an hour to sink completely, but by then they'd be long gone, and Gregor Petrovic would be left wondering why his fastest vessel and his most violent lieutenant had vanished into the night.
The ride back to the compound was quiet.
Lakeshore let the cold air dry his clothes as much as it could, feeling the adrenaline slowly drain from his system.
The faces would come later—Darko's among them, one more ghost to add to the collection.
But for now, there was only the satisfaction of a debt paid.
The lake gives back what you throw in.
Tess was waiting in the parking lot when they pulled in.
She didn't say anything. Just crossed to where Lakeshore stopped his bike and looked at him with those lake-water eyes, reading the answer in his face before he could speak.
"It's done," he said.
"I know."
"He's not coming back."
"I know."
She stepped closer, reached up, and wiped a smear of blood from his cheek that the towel had missed. Her touch was gentle, but her eyes were hard.
"Good."
That was all. No tears, no guilt, no second thoughts. Just acceptance of what had been done and why.
Lakeshore pulled her against him, not caring that he was still damp and cold, not caring that half the compound was probably watching. She fit against his chest like she'd been designed for it, and he held her tight enough to feel her heartbeat against his.
"Gregor knows we're coming now," he said quietly. "He's lost three lieutenants. His operation's falling apart. He'll either run or make a stand."
"Which do you think?"
"Men like Gregor don't run. They've spent too long being the biggest predator in the water." He pressed a kiss to her hair. "He'll make a stand. And we'll be ready."
"When?"
"Soon. Alpha's calling church tonight. We'll have a plan by morning."
She pulled back enough to look at him. "I want to be there. When you go after Gregor. I want to see it end."
"Tess—"
"Don't." Her voice was quiet but firm. "Don't tell me it's too dangerous. Don't tell me to wait at the compound. I've earned the right to see this through."
He should argue. Should remind her that what was coming would be worse than anything she'd seen so far—a final assault on a man who had nothing left to lose and everything to prove.
But she was right. She'd earned it.
"You stay behind me," he said. "No matter what. You see an opening to run, you take it. And if I tell you to get out—"
"I'll get out. I promise." She cupped his face in her hands. "But I won't miss this. I won't sit in the dark wondering while you fight my war without me."
"It's not just your war anymore."
"No. It's ours." She smiled, and there was nothing soft about it. "So let's finish it together."
Lakeshore looked at the woman in his arms—the woman who'd refused to sell her dock to a smuggler, who'd waded into freezing water to save her boats, who'd stood in the wreckage of her father's shop and demanded revenge instead of breaking down.
She wasn't the same person who'd rented him a skiff three weeks ago. Neither was he.
"Together," he agreed.
They walked into the compound side by side, ready to plan the end of Gregor Petrovic's reign over the lake.
Three lieutenants dead. One smuggler left.
The water was patient. And so were they.