Chapter 3 — Dean
The clubhouse smells like stale beer and motor oil and grief.
I pull in at eight fifteen. Bikes already line the lot. Clint's, Tate's, Cain's. Roan's truck parked near the door because he came straight from home.
Inside it's quiet in the wrong way. Brothers standing in small groups. Nobody talking loud. Nobody talking much at all.
Perry's death sits in the room like something you can touch.
Clint is at the head of the table when I walk into church. He looks at me and nods once. I take my seat. Tate is across from me, jaw tight. Cain has his laptop open, already pulling data. Roan sits three chairs down. He doesn't look at me when I sit.
Chuck is the last one in. He closes the door and leans against it like standing takes effort.
"Alright," Clint says. "Chuck found him at five this morning. Outside his apartment. Three rounds. Close range. Execution."
The word lands heavy.
Perry's chair is empty. Eight years in that exact seat.
Last Tuesday he asked me about carburetors. Had a problem with his bike. I walked him through the fix in the parking lot while he nodded and took notes on his phone.
He thanked me three times. That was Perry, never took anything for granted.
Now someone put three bullets in him and left his body on the pavement like garbage.
I realize my hands are fisted on the table. Force them flat.
Tate's hands curl into fists on the table. Cain doesn't look up from his screen. Roan's breathing changes, gets slower and more controlled.
"Marrow?" I ask.
"Yeah." Chuck's voice is rough. "Left a playing card. Their calling card from back when they wanted credit. They want us to know this was them."
"Why Perry?" someone asks.
"Because he lived alone," Cain says without looking up. "No old lady. No kids. No one waiting up when he didn't come home on time. Marrow's been watching routines. Looking for vulnerabilities. Perry was the easiest target."
That sits wrong in my chest. Perry died because he was alone. Because no one was there to notice when he didn't come back.
"Where's his body now," I say.
"County morgue," Clint answers. "Coroner won't release it until Monday. Funeral's Tuesday."
The room goes quiet again. We all know what comes next. This isn't a conversation about grief. It's a conversation about retaliation.
"Chuck," Clint says. "What do we know about Marrow's current location?"
Chuck straightens. "They abandoned the clubhouse after we hit them two weeks ago. Cain tracked them to a warehouse property in an industrial zone. No residential nearby. Three structures on the lot, main one is where they're operating from."
"How many inside?"
"Best guess, five to seven. Sully for sure. Two others Chuck ID'd from surveillance photos. The rest are unknowns."
"Dutch?"
"Still recovering from the beating Diesel gave him. Unlikely to be operational."
Clint looks around the table. "We hit them tonight. Midnight. Six riders. Dean leads."
I nod. Expected this.
"I want Tate, Cain, Roan, Axel, Ford," Clint continues. "Objective is clear. We dismantle what's left of their operation in this county. Sully doesn't leave that warehouse."
No one asks for clarification. We all know what dismantle means. This is a kill mission.
"Intel package will be ready by noon," Cain says. "Floor plans, entry points, known weapons cache."
"Good." Clint looks at me. "Questions?"
"Rules of engagement?"
"Minimum necessary force to complete the objective." Translation: we're not torturing anyone, but we're not taking prisoners either.
I nod.
"Anything else?"
The room is quiet.
"Alright. Noon briefing. We leave at ten tonight. Dismissed."
Chairs scrape. Brothers stand and drift toward the bar. I stay at the table. So does Roan.
When everyone else clears out he looks at me. "You good to lead this?"
"Yeah."
"Perry was your friend."
"That's why I'm good to lead it."
He studies me for a long moment. "Zoe staying at your place?"
"Yeah."
"She give you trouble about it?"
"Some. She thinks you're hovering."
"I am hovering. Marrow was three blocks from her apartment." His jaw tightens. "She say anything else?"
I think about Zoe's hands on my chest this morning. The way she looked at me in my kitchen. The kiss I gave her before I left.
"No," I lie.
Roan holds my eyes like he's looking for something. Then he nods and stands. "Keep her there until we know Marrow's done. I'll feel better knowing she's with someone who'll watch her."
"She's safe," I say.
He leaves.
I sit at the table alone for a few minutes. Perry's empty chair is visible from where I'm sitting. He sat there for eight years. Quiet, steady, never caused problems. Never asked for more than he gave.
Now he's in the morgue and we're planning how many of Marrow we're going to kill to answer it.
The day drags. Noon briefing happens. Cain walks us through floor plans projected on the wall. Entry points, blind spots, likely defensive positions. It's thorough. Precise. Cain's good at this.
By two we've war-gamed the approach six different ways. By three we're checking weapons and equipment. By four I'm standing in the parking lot watching the sun drop lower and thinking about Zoe sitting in my house.
She could've left. I gave her the opportunity this morning when I told her to stay. Could've walked out, gone back to her apartment, protected herself from getting deeper into this.
She stayed.
That means something. I don't have words for what, but it sits in my chest like weight.
Tate comes out and lights a cigarette. Looks at me. "You ready for this?"
"Yeah."
"Good." He takes a drag. "Perry deserved better than what he got."
"Yeah."
"We giving him better tonight?"
I look at him. "We're giving him what we can."
He nods. Finishes the cigarette. Walks back inside.
I stay in the lot another twenty minutes. Then I get on my bike and head home.
The ride takes fifteen minutes. The whole time I'm aware that I have five hours before I leave for the raid. Five hours and Zoe's at my house and I don't know if I'm coming back.
Perry thought he had time. We all think we have time.
I pull into my driveway at five. Kill the engine. Sit for a second before I go inside.
When I open the door she's in the living room. Sitting on the couch with her legs pulled up under her, laptop open on her thighs. She looks up when I walk in.
Stands.
Doesn't rush to me. Just looks at me and waits.
"Are you okay?" she asks.
I close the door behind me. Lock it. "No. Perry's dead and we're burning Marrow's base tonight and I don't know if that's justice or violence and right now I don't care."
She closes the laptop. Sets it on the couch. Walks to me.
Her hand comes up and presses flat against my chest. Right over my heart. The touch grounds something that's been loose in me all day.
"How long until you leave?" she says.
"Five hours."
"Then we have five hours."
I cover her hand with mine. "Zoe."
"Stop pretending we're not going to do this." Her voice is steady. Certain. "I want you. You want me. We might not get another chance."
The words land like a fist.
"If we do this," I say, "I'm not going to be able to walk it back."
"Good. I don't want you to walk it back." She steps closer. "I want you to come back to me tonight and I want to know that you're mine."
The possessiveness in that breaks something in me that's been holding since yesterday.
"You understand what you're asking for," I say.
"I understand you're about to walk into something dangerous and you might not come home. I understand that if I don't do this now, I might not get another chance. I understand I've been in love with you for over a year and I'm done waiting for perfect timing that doesn't exist."
I stare at her. "You're in love with me."
"Yes."
"For over a year."
"Yes."
"Jesus, Zoe."
"Are you going to tell me I don't know what I feel? That I'm too young to mean it?" Her eyes are dark. Unwavering. "Or are you going to stop protecting yourself from wanting me back?"
I could lie. Could tell her this is a bad idea. Could walk away from this and keep the distance that's kept me safe for the past year.
Instead, I say, "I'm terrified. But yeah. I'm sure."
Her hand fists in my shirt. "Then take me to bed."
I kiss her before I can think past the wanting. My hand in her hair. Pulling her head back so I can get my mouth on hers properly. She opens for me immediately. Her tongue against mine, and the taste of her drowning out every reason this is wrong.
I walk her backward down the hallway without breaking the kiss. She follows. Her hands on my chest, my shoulders, my neck. When we get to my bedroom door, I push it open with my boot.
The bed is unmade from this morning. Sheets tangled, but I don't care. I turn us so her back is to the bed and break the kiss long enough to look at her.
"Last chance," I say. "You want to stop, you tell me now."
"I don't want to stop."
"Once we do this—"
"Dean." She grabs my face with both hands. "Shut up and fuck me."
The bluntness of it hits me in the chest. I kiss her again. Harder this time. My hands sliding down to grip her ass, lifting her. She wraps her legs around my waist, and I carry her the last three steps to bed.
When I lay her down, she doesn't let go. Pulls me down with her until I'm covering her body with mine. The weight of me pressing her into the mattress. Her curves soft everywhere I'm hard.
I pull back enough to look at her. Her hair spread across my pillow. Her lips swollen from kissing. Her chest rising and falling fast.
"You're sure," I say one more time.
"I've been sure for a year," she says. "Are you sure?"
I think about Perry. About walking into violence in five hours. About all the reasons this is complicated and all the ways it could go wrong.
Then I think about Zoe sitting in my house waiting for me to come back.
"Yeah," I say. "I'm sure."
She pulls me back down. "Good. Then stop talking and show me."