Chapter Eighteen
Church was not what Nadine had expected.
She'd imagined something ceremonial—robes, maybe, or at least formal arrangements.
Instead, she found herself standing in a converted conference room that smelled like cigarette smoke and motor oil, surrounded by men who looked like they'd rather be anywhere else but understood that this was necessary.
Pitfall stood beside her, close enough that their shoulders touched. His presence was the only thing keeping her nerves from showing.
"You sure about this?" he murmured as brothers filed in, taking seats around a scarred wooden table.
"I have information that could help. I'm not sitting in another room while you plan my future."
His mouth quirked. "That's my woman."
The words sent warmth spreading through her chest, even as Reaper took his place at the head of the table and the room went silent.
"We all know why we're here." The president's voice carried the weight of absolute authority.
"Maggard's operation is bleeding out. His enforcers are dead.
His nephew's dead. His network's in shambles.
" His eyes swept the room. "But the man himself is still breathing, and as long as he's breathing, he's a threat. "
"Intel from Hammond's laptop gives us his distribution center." Grit spread papers across the table—maps, satellite images, building schematics. "Old textile mill outside Whitesburg. Counterfeit goods stage there before getting pushed out to compromised shops across three counties."
"How compromised are we talking?" Sledge's rumble came from the far end of the table.
"Dozens of businesses." Grit's jaw tightened. "Maybe more. Hard to tell which ones are willing participants and which ones got pressured like Miss Combs here."
Every eye in the room turned to Nadine.
She'd prepared for this. Had spent two days organizing everything she remembered—every suspicious shipment she'd noticed, every shop owner who'd seemed nervous, every pattern that hadn't made sense until it did.
"I can help with that."
Reaper's eyebrow rose. "Go on."
Nadine stepped forward, pulling the notebook she'd filled from her back pocket. Her hands wanted to shake. She didn't let them.
"When Maggard's people first approached me, they mentioned expanding into the area.
That means they already had a network somewhere else—established shops that were already moving product.
" She flipped to her notes. "I started noticing things after that.
Shops that suddenly had inventory that didn't match their usual stock.
Owners who avoided eye contact when I asked about new suppliers. "
"Names?" Grit asked.
"Three for certain. Probably more." She read them off, watched the brothers exchange glances.
"The hardware store on Main started carrying designer tool sets two months ago.
The gift shop by the highway has knockoff electronics in the back room—I saw them when I picked up a delivery that got mixed up.
And there's a furniture store in Whitesburg that's been pushing counterfeit rugs since spring. "
"You noticed all this?" Timber sounded impressed.
"I notice patterns. It's how I built my cooperative—figuring out which artisans were being cheated, which dealers were honest, where the gaps in the market were." She met Reaper's eyes. "The same skills work in reverse."
Silence. Then Reaper nodded slowly.
"Good intel. We can use this."
The tension in her shoulders eased slightly. She'd proven her worth. Now she just had to convince them to let her be there for the end.
The planning took hours.
Nadine watched as the brothers dissected every aspect of the assault—entry points, guard rotations, escape routes, contingencies. Pitfall was deep in it, studying the building layout with the focused intensity she'd come to recognize as his combat mode.
"Basement access?" he asked, tracing a line on the schematic.
"Service tunnel from the old loading dock." Switchback tapped the map. "Built for textile deliveries back when the mill was operational. Should still be clear."
"That's my route."
"You sure?" Grit's eyes narrowed. "Basement assault worked at the warehouse, but this is different. Bigger. More guards. Maggard himself might be down there."
"Then that's where I need to be." Pitfall's voice was flat, certain. "I know how to move in the dark. Let me do what I'm good at."
Reaper studied him for a long moment. Something passed between them—assessment, maybe, or acknowledgment. The president nodded.
"Basement's yours. Take Timber as backup." He turned to the rest of the room. "Grit leads the main assault through the front. Sledge takes the loading dock. Switchback covers exits, same as always."
"What about me?"
The words were out before Nadine could stop them. The room went quiet again, but this silence had a different quality. Surprise, maybe. Or resistance.
"You've given us good intel." Reaper's voice was careful. "That's your contribution."
"My contribution is being there when Maggard dies." She held his gaze, refusing to back down. "This started with my shop. My artisans. My life. I'm not hiding at the compound while you finish what they started."
"This isn't a negotiation—"
"She can handle herself." Pitfall's interruption cut through the tension like a blade. "I've seen her in action. She dropped a man with a shotgun during the warehouse assault. Took another down with a tire iron at the safehouse."
"She's a civilian."
"She was a civilian." Pitfall stepped forward, positioning himself beside her. "Now she's mine. And I'm telling you—she's earned the right to see this through."
The claiming in his voice was unmistakable. Not asking permission. Stating fact.
Reaper's eyes moved between them, calculating. The other brothers watched in silence, waiting for the president's decision.
"You stay with Pitfall." The words came out measured, final. "Basement team. You follow orders, you stay behind the line, and if things go sideways, you run. No arguments."
"No arguments," Nadine agreed.
"This goes wrong, it's on you." Reaper pointed at Pitfall. "Both of you."
"Understood."
The president held his gaze for another moment, then turned back to the maps.
"Alright. Let's finish this."
The planning continued, but something had shifted.
Nadine found herself included now—not just tolerated, but consulted. When questions came up about the compromised shops, brothers turned to her. When discussions of Maggard's psychology arose, her observations from that first meeting in her cooperative carried weight.
She was becoming part of this. Not just Pitfall's woman. Part of the club.
"After this is done," Grit said during a break, appearing at her elbow with two cups of coffee. "There's going to be a vote."
"A vote?"
"Pitfall's patch." He handed her a cup, his expression unreadable. "He's been prospecting long enough. Done more than enough to prove himself. Once Maggard's handled, we bring it to church."
"And you think they'll say yes?"
"I think he's earned it." Grit's eyes found Pitfall across the room, where he was still studying schematics with Timber. "I also think you're a big part of why."
"Me?"
"He was always good. Capable. But he was also... holding back. Like he was afraid to want anything too much." Grit took a sip of his coffee. "Since you showed up, that's changed. He fights like he's got something to lose. Something worth fighting for."
Nadine watched Pitfall trace routes on the map, his focus absolute.
"He does," she said.
"I know." Grit's mouth almost curved into a smile. "That's why he's going to get his patch."
He walked away before she could respond, leaving her with a warm cup and a heart full of things she didn't know how to say.
The meeting wrapped up near midnight.
Brothers filtered out in ones and twos, heading for bed or drinks or whatever rituals helped them sleep before battle. Nadine stayed, helping gather the maps and schematics, organizing the scattered papers into something like order.
Pitfall found her by the table, his hand settling on the small of her back.
"You okay?"
"More than okay." She leaned into his touch. "I'm part of this now. Really part of it."
"You were always part of it."
"Not like this." She turned to face him, found his expression soft despite the hardness of the past few hours. "Grit told me about the vote. After tomorrow."
Something flickered across Pitfall's face. Hope, maybe, quickly buried.
"It's not guaranteed. The vote could go either way—"
"It won't." She cupped his jaw, made him look at her. "You've earned this. Everyone in that room knows it."
"You don't know how club politics work."
"I know how you work." She smiled. "And I know these men. They respect strength, loyalty, sacrifice. You've given them all three."
He was quiet for a moment, his expression unreadable.
"I've wanted this for so long," he said finally. "The patch. The belonging. The proof that I'm worth something." His hand covered hers where it rested on his face. "But somewhere along the way, you became more important than any of it."
"It's not a competition."
"I know. That's what I'm saying." He turned his head, pressed a kiss to her palm. "Tomorrow, we end Maggard. And whatever happens after—whether I get my patch or not—I've already got what matters."
"You're going to get your patch."
"Maybe."
"Definitely." She rose on her toes, kissed him softly. "And then you're going to claim me in front of everyone, and we're going to build a life together, and none of the things that tried to destroy us will matter anymore."
His arms wrapped around her, pulled her close.
"Promise?"
"Promise."
They stood there for a long moment, holding each other in the room where wars were planned and futures were decided. Tomorrow would bring violence. Tomorrow would bring endings. But tonight, there was only this—two people who'd found each other against all odds, ready to face whatever came next.
The door opened behind them.
"We're rolling out at dawn." Reaper's voice cut through the silence. "Get some sleep. Both of you."
Pitfall nodded, but didn't release her. "We'll be ready."
"You better be." The president paused in the doorway, his expression unreadable. "This ends tomorrow. One way or another, this ends."
Then he was gone, and the weight of what was coming settled over them like a shroud.
"You heard the man." Pitfall finally stepped back, took her hand. "Let's get some rest."
"Will you actually sleep?"
"Probably not." He led her toward the door. "But I'll lie next to you and pretend, and that's almost the same thing."
They walked through the quiet compound, past brothers preparing weapons and women watching with worried eyes, until they reached the room that had become theirs.
Tomorrow, the war would end.
Tonight, they had each other.
It would have to be enough.