Chapter 22 Birdie with a Bat
TWENTY-TWO
BIRDIE WITH A BAT
LARK
The thing about people who underestimate me is that they do it loudly. They do it with smirks and assumptions and the kind of swagger that makes my bat itch in my hands.
And tonight?
The Monarch is full of men who think they’re the apex predators.
I’m about to ruin their entire self-esteem.
The back alley is darker than it should be, which tells me the blackout wasn’t an accident. Someone cut power to create confusion. That someone is probably Dean’s team because nobody does chaos this clean unless they’ve got a playbook and a grudge.
brAVO is on the way.
I know that.
Arrow told me to wait.
I also know this: Knight’s in that building. And if I wait, my patience will spontaneously combust into a felony.
I slide my mask on and grip my bat. Then I move.
The service entrance door yields with a soft click.
The hallway beyond is shadowed and quiet, the bass from upstairs muted like it’s trapped behind velvet and ego.
A guard turns the corner with a flashlight.
I press into the wall and let the darkness hold me.
He sweeps the beam across the floor. Across the pipes.
Across the closed doors. Then he steps closer, squinting into the dark—because men with guns always believe the dark is afraid of them.
I swing once. A clean arc. The bat kisses the side of his head with a dull, controlled impact.
He goes down without a sound. I catch his body before it hits the floor. Drag him into a maintenance alcove.
Breathe.
Keep moving.
A second guard is posted near the stairwell door. He’s bigger. Wider stance. Smarter eyes. But he’s bored. Bored is a gift.
I roll a small metal bolt across the floor—something I pocketed in the alley because I am nothing if not resourceful and petty. The tiny ting echoes. His head turns. His flashlight follows.
I close the distance in three steps and drive the bat into his knee. He buckles. I twist behind him and clamp one hand over his mouth as I hook the bat under his throat—not hard enough to break anything, just enough to promise I could. “Sleep,” I whisper.
He goes slack. I lower him gently. Because I’m a lady.
The stairwell smells like old concrete and expensive cologne leaking down from the club above. I descend fast and silent. The deeper I go, the colder the air gets. The more the building changes from glamour to utility— from champagne sin to industrial truth.
The lights are still out down here. But that’s fine. I can see everything I need. The dark has never scared me. I grew up in it. I learned how to make it my ally.
At the bottom landing, two more guards stand outside a reinforced door. They’re arguing quietly, irritated by the blackout. One of them mutters something about getting the generator online. The other complains about “that Knight guy” being more trouble than he’s worth.
I inhale.
Exhale.
Then I become the storm. I step into range, swing high, and take out the first guard.
He’s down after I hit him in the head. I pivot and drive the bat into the second guard’s ribs—hard enough to drop him, controlled enough to keep the sound minimal.
The first one reaches for his gun. I plant my boot on his wrist and he hisses.
I lean down, calm as morning coffee. “Bad choice.” Then I tap his temple with the bat.
He goes out. I stand there for one beat, listening. No alarms. No shouting. No footsteps charging toward me.
Good.
I crack the door open.
The basement is the kind of place that tries to convince you it’s permanent. Concrete floors. Steel beams. A drain in the center like somebody planned for a mess.
Knight is there. Tied to a chair. Blood on his mouth. Anger in his eyes like a lit fuse.
Viktor Luka stands three feet away, half in shadow, flanked by two men. He’s mid-sentence when I step into the doorway. And because the universe enjoys timing— the lights flicker.
Then flare on. Bright. Harsh. The generator’s back. The stage lights, restored.
Viktor turns slowly toward me. His smile spreads with the delighted surprise of a man who just discovered a new toy. “Well,” he says. His gaze sweeps me—mask, bat, boots, posture. “Impressive.”
I take one step down. Then another. My heartbeat is steady. My grip is steady. My rage is a laser.
“I should hire you,” he says.
I tilt my head. “You couldn’t afford me.”
He laughs. A genuinely entertained sound. “I like you.”
“That’s unfortunate.”
His eyes gleam. “You’re the little bird,” he says softly.
I don’t flinch. “I’m the girl who’s about to ruin your night.”
He lifts a hand, casual. “Get her,” he tells his men.
They move. Two of them advance at once. They’re big.
They’re trained. They are not prepared for me.
The first one goes for my wrist. I let him.
Then I pivot my hips, use his momentum against him, and slam the bat into his shoulder joint.
He drops with a roar of pain. The second tries to flank.
I step in close and drive my elbow into his throat, then swing the bat up into his jaw.
He collapses in a heap of ego and bad choices.
Silence follows.
Viktor blinks like he’s recalibrating. “Okay,” he says, almost delighted. “That was excellent.”
“You’re not going to be so charmed in thirty seconds.”
He gestures toward Knight. “You came alone.”
I smile under my mask. “Do you think I’m alone because I’m stupid?”
His eyes narrow. “Or because you’re arrogant?”
“Or because I don’t wait politely while my boyfriend bleeds in basements.”
Knight makes a rough sound that might be a laugh. Or might be pain. I don’t look at him yet.
Because Viktor is still standing. And I’m not done. I start toward him.
Viktor finally shifts into something harder. “Grab her,” he snaps.
From a side door, two more guards surge into the room.
I brace— and then a voice cuts through the space like a knife.
“Hands where we can see them.”
The men freeze.
So do I.
Because that voice is the sound of consequences arriving with a badge. The door behind me fills with bodies. Not cops. Not yet. These are bigger shadows. Heavier footsteps. Controlled violence.
Maddox Security.
brAVO energy in human form.
I recognize the way they move before I recognize faces. The posture of men who’ve survived war and decided to weaponize their survival for the people they love.
One of them steps in first. Sharp eyes. Command presence. That quiet predator calm.
Sawyer.
Another is broader, colder.
Riggs.
And at the center— Dean Maddox himself appears like the storm Viktor tried to destroy.
Viktor’s smile falters for the first time. “Ah,” he says. “There you are.”
Dean doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to. He simply nods once.
And brAVO moves. Two men peel off to secure the side door. Another closes distance on Viktor’s remaining guards. In seconds the room becomes a controlled takedown—fast, precise, brutal without being sloppy.
I dart to Knight. “Hi,” I say tightly.
His eyes flare with relief and fury. “You disobeyed orders.”
I start sawing through his restraints with the concealed blade I pulled from my boot. “And you broke your promise.”
The last tie snaps. He surges to his feet, swaying slightly. I catch him.
He grabs my face with both hands like he has to confirm I’m real. “I’m so glad you came.”
I glare. “Of course I came.”
He closes his eyes for a beat. Then opens them with that raw, wrecked emotion he tries so hard to control. “I’m going to apologize for leaving.”
“Later.”
“I’m going to apologize a lot.”
“Also later.”
He makes a sound that might be a laugh. Then his gaze slides past me. Viktor is on his knees now, pinned by two brAVO operatives.
Dean stands over him like a judge who already knows the verdict. “You partnered with Serafina,” Dean says, voice cold.
Viktor’s grin is smaller now. But he tries anyway. “Business.”
Dean nods once. “Call it what you want.”
He looks toward Rae—who isn’t physically here but is probably in everyone’s earpieces, running the board like a queen.
“Local PD,” Dean says. “Now.”
The rest happens like a controlled avalanche. Sirens approach. The club upstairs goes into panicked lockdown. We’re moved out through a secured corridor while Maddox men seal the scene and hand Viktor over to the police the second they arrive.
The Monarch’s staff is herded into statements and shock.
The myth of Viktor Luka cracks in real time. And somehow—somehow—Knight and I make it above ground together.
Alive.
Breathing.
Unbroken where it counts.
Outside, the night air hits my lungs like freedom.
Knight keeps a hand at my lower back the whole time, possessive and steady, like he’s terrified I’ll evaporate if he lets go.
Good.
Let him be scared.
He earned that.
When we reach the curb, he turns me gently toward him. His face is bruised. His mouth is split. His eyes are bright with too much emotion.
“You shouldn’t have come in alone,” he says.
I lift an eyebrow. “I didn’t. I brought my bat.”
He huffs a laugh. Then his expression sobers. “I was trying to keep you out of harm’s way.”
“And I was trying to keep you alive,” I shoot back. “We can compare hero complexes later.”
His hands slide to my hips. He leans in, forehead to mine. “I broke the promise.”
“Yes.”
“I’m not doing that again.”
“Good.”
“Together,” he says.
I search his eyes.
He’s not saying it to soothe me. He’s saying it like a vow.
“Together,” I agree.
He kisses me right there on the sidewalk—slow at first, then deeper, like he’s pouring all the fear he couldn’t say into the only language that feels honest. I kiss him back like relief is a weapon. Like love is. Like we won.
When we break apart, Arrow is a few feet away, arms crossed, expression carved from exasperation and pride.
“I told you to stay put,” he says.
I grin sweetly. “I’m medically allergic to ‘stay put.’”
He shakes his head. “Gage is going to lose his mind.”
“Let him.”
Knight’s mouth twitches. Then he turns toward Arrow and Dean. “Serafina?” he asks.
Dean’s expression is unreadable. “Tonight was one piece,” he says. “Not the whole war. But Luka’s cooperation with her just got forcibly discontinued.”
Sawyer adds, “And now we have leverage, audio, and witnesses.”
I tilt my head. “Meaning?”
Dean smiles without humor. “Meaning we’re about to make her beg.”
By the time we’re back home, the adrenaline is fading.
Knight looks worse in softer light. So do I. We’re bruised.
Dirty.
Alive.
He cups my face again, like he can’t stop checking that I’m here.
“I’m furious at you,” I say.
“I know.”
“I’m also wildly proud of you.”
“I know.”
“And I’m going to kiss you again because I’m still mad.”
His smile is small and wrecked and so damn him. “Okay.”
We kiss. Because we survived. Because we choose each other. Because this was never going to be a story where I sit quietly on the sidelines while the man I love bleeds for me.
This is a story where we walk into the fire together— and walk out holding hands. And somewhere deep in Halo City, in a club that thought it could swallow us whole— the monsters just learned the hard way:
I’m not prey.
I’m not a prize.
I’m the girl with the bat.
And I don’t lose what’s mine.