Chapter 8
CHAPTER
EIGHT
Kendall
Jerome looms over me like a vulture, his shadow swallowing the faint light from the console.
He doesn't need to speak for me to feel his presence. The air in the room turns stale, thick with his arrogance and the scent of cold malice. I sit stiffly at the terminal, my fingers hovering over keys that feel like ice. He forced me to tap into the clubhouse security feed, a task I’ve performed a dozen times under his thumb. It’s a violation I can't stop.
Jerome’s presence is a heavy weight, his body heat radiating against me as he looms over the console.
He stays close, savoring the devastation he’s orchestrating.
He nudges me, his voice a gravelly rasp in my ear as he says, “Watch closely. That’s what happens to people who think they’re untouchable. ”
I stare at the screens. On the high-resolution feed, the Kings are pressed against the floor, their front door splintered into kindling.
Seeing their pride smashed makes my stomach churn.
I’m the one feeding him the codes to break them.
It’s a sick irony. My own skills are the weapon he’s using to crush the only people trying to save me.
I grind my teeth until my jaw screams, but I don’t blink.
I can’t let him see the rage boiling in my chest.
“Enjoying the show, Kendall?” Jerome sneers, his breath hot against my neck.
I keep my voice flat, lying to his face as I reply, “It’s hard to look away.”
He lets out a harsh, rasping laugh, clearly convinced he’s got me figured out.
He thinks I’m just some broken asset, a bit of code he can toss into the bin when he’s finished.
He’s wrong. He’s got no clue. He doesn't see that I’m counting every heartbeat, waiting for the split second where I can hit delete on his miserable existence.
My stomach flips when Shade hits the floor.
One second he looks resigned, his hands up and his head low.
Then his face shifts. The compliance vanishes, replaced by a cold, predatory stare.
He looks like a wolf sizing up the throat of its enemy so he can rip it out.
It’s a look that makes my blood run cold because I know what he’s thinking.
He wants to snap the neck of the tactical officer standing over him.
“Oh shit,” I softly say as I exhale. I keep my lips barely moving, praying the sound is too soft to be caught.
Jerome shifts behind me. His hand clamps onto my shoulder. It is heavy and possessive, and I know he is watching my reaction. He wants to see if I'm as invested in the violence as he is. “What did you say?” he asks, his voice barely a whisper in my ear.
“I said it's a total mess,” I lie again which seems to be customary whenever he’s around, forcing my voice to stay steady despite the way my heart is hammering against my ribs.
He digs his fingers into my shoulder. “It’s beautiful, is what it is, Kendall. Look at them. They're helpless.”
My eyes remain glued to the monitor where Shade has a menacing look locked on the fucker holding the rifle, straining to maintain his composure.
If his control slips, our entire strategy we have in place could fall apart, especially since he plays a vital role in dismantling Jerome and destroying his empire.
“They are,” I confirm, feeling the weight press down on me. I silently beg Shade to keep his composure.
Jerome leans closer, his grin widening as he watches the footage.
He’s not just looking for drugs or weapons.
He’s looking for a soul to crush. He doesn't realize he’s watching the only person in this room who is actually capable of ending him.
Shade shifts his weight, muscles bunching under his cut.
He’s a coiled spring. The officer with the rifle steps closer and digs his boot into Shade’s side.
I hold my breath. Shade doesn't flinch. He stares back with eyes that are cold and dead. He’s playing a dangerous game, but he’s buying us the time we need.
“You see that?” Jerome whispers, his hand sliding up to the back of my neck. “That’s the look of a man who knows he’s lost.”
“They haven’t found anything yet,” I point out.
“You hoping they get cleared? You going against me, Kendall?” Jerome repeats, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl. He twists a handful of my hair, forcing my head back until my neck aches.
“I'm not hoping for anything,” I gasp, blinking against the sharp pull of his grip. “I'm just observing. They haven't found a single thing yet. If they come up empty, they walk away clean. That's just how the law works.”
He sneers, his free hand tightening around my jaw. His thumb digs into my skin, hard enough to bruise. “You're getting bold, little bird. You think I don't see how your pulse skips when you look at that screen?”
“My pulse is just as tired of this as I am,” I say, my voice straining. “I've been staring at these monitors for hours. My eyes are burning. My head is pounding. I'm not playing sides. I just want this over.”
He stares at me for a long, suffocating moment, searching my face for the lie. He doesn't find it, or maybe he just decides it doesn't matter yet. He shoves me forward, releasing my hair with a rough jerk that leaves me stumbling against the desk.
“See that they don't,” he snaps, turning his back on me to pace the room. “I want that evidence planted. If you mess this up, you know what happens to Kolter.”
“The setup is complete,” I tell him, forcing my voice to remain level. “I left a clear trail for the search team to follow. Once they uncover the stashed weapons and the records Branson and I faked, the Kings won't stand a chance. Those bikers will be behind bars before the day ends.”
Jerome stops pacing and looks at me, his eyes narrowing as he tries to gauge my sincerity. The room feels claustrophobic, the silence stretching between us like a thin wire. He needs to believe this, or my cover is blown.
“Make sure they don't miss it,” he warns, his voice dropping into a dangerous growl. “I don't want any excuses when I turn on the news tonight.”
“They won't miss a thing if they’re smart,” I promise, meeting his gaze with everything I have. “It's all laid out for them.”
“Trusting other people to do things for you is annoying because if you want something done right, you do it yourself,” he drones. He grabs his jacket from the chair and stalks toward the door.
My blood runs cold. “You’re going there?”
He pauses with his hand on the knob. He turns to look at me, his smile not reaching his eyes. “I want to see the looks on their faces when they realize they’re finished. Plus, I want to make sure you don't pull a fast one on me.”
I struggle to keep my face neutral. “You don't need to be there,” I argue, my heart hammering against my ribs. “If you show your face, you risk everything. You stay in the shadows. That’s your power.”
He laughs, a body shivering sound. “My power is what I decide it is, Kendall.” He opens the door. “Stay here. If I come back and find out you betrayed me, don't worry about yourself. Worry about the boy.”
He slams the door and the lock clicks into place. I am alone. I stare at the monitors, panic clawing at my throat. I have to warn them. I have to signal Booker before Jerome arrives and finds the truth.
I watch with bated breath as the authorities search the premises, finding absolutely nothing incriminating enough to lock the Kings away.
Knowing that Icer and Indiana thoroughly swept the property and uncovered every single item that was planted before they left town, I realize Jerome is going to be absolutely furious.
“He’s gonna blame this failure on me,” I mutter. My voice sounds small in the hollow quiet of the room. I shove the chair back and start pacing. Every step feels like a countdown to my own funeral. I can’t sit still when my life is hanging by a thread.
I need to send the signal to Booker before Jerome arrives. If Jerome walks through those doors and realizes I set him up, Kolter won’t survive the day. I reach for the keys again, my fingers clumsy and shaking. I have to make this count.
I send an encrypted message, one he can open at a later time once they’ve put the clubhouse back to rights.
My fingers fly across the board, dropping the hidden data package into the secure relay.
I map out the grid coordinates of the safehouse where Jerome is stashing Kolter and Branson's family, detailing the guard shifts and the perimeter fence blind spots we flagged earlier.
I type out a final warning, telling Booker that Jerome is completely unhinged and on his way to the compound right now to check the results of the failed raid himself.
With my chest tight and my breath hitching against my cracked ribs, I hit send and watch the progress bar tick to completion, knowing this single burst of static is the only lifeline my boy and I have left before the storm hits.
I conclude the message with a final, urgent plea for him to gather his crew and launch a coordinated strike on the target locations I provided, mobilizing the Kings of Anarchy brothers to hit the safehouses.
They need to extract my five-year-old son, Kolter, along with Branson's captive twin sister and the rest of their family from the guards before Jerome realizes we failed to execute his plan and he sends them orders to end their lives.
Everyone must be rescued safely and quickly, before Jerome uncovers our deception and returns to this place.
The sheer terror of what Jerome might do once he discovers the empty hands of the authorities presses down on my chest, making every shallow breath agonizing.
The countdown has begun, and the margin for error has shrunk to nothing.
I know the exact moment the realization hits his twisted mind, the retaliation will be swift and merciless.
My hands shake as I close out the terminal window, my fingers lingering on the cold plastic keys.
I have given the Kings everything they need—the blueprints, the guard schedules, the structural blind spots that took months to map out.
Now, their survival, and the survival of the innocent blood held in those hidden rooms, rests entirely on Booker deciphering the data stream before the clock runs out.
I can handle whatever punishment comes my way. It isn't the first time I’ve taken a hit. My ribs scream in protest, it’s a familiar, ugly landscape of pain, a price I’ve paid a thousand times over just to keep my boy breathing.
Let him walk back through that door.
Let him bring his fists and his mindless fury.
As long as the distraction holds and the brothers reach those target locations, I’ll take every beating he dishes out.
I’ll look him dead in his vile, hateful eyes and swallow the pain without giving him a single truth.
He thinks he owns me, but he doesn't see the fire still burning inside of me.
He doesn't see that I'm already halfway out the door. He’s going to return to a room full of silence and defiance, and for the first time in five years, I won't be afraid.