Chapter 9 Trigger
Trigger
By midnight, the tavern was empty and locked down.
Sheriff Tate had quietly posted one of his most trusted deputies outside—not in uniform, not obvious.
Ace watched the street from the roofline.
Beast monitored the cameras and feed we’d set up around the property.
Havoc did a perimeter sweep every twenty minutes, like a predator patrolling his territory.
Saint came back upstairs with his phone pressed to his ear, speaking in a low voice.
“Yeah,” he said. “It’s Thorn. That Thorn. No, we haven’t engaged. We’re containing. Sheriff’s involved. We need the right people, not the loud people.”
He ended the call and looked at me. “State contact confirms he’s dirty. But he’s slippery. They’ve never been able to make anything stick.”
Rylie sat curled on the couch in Nora’s blanket, her knees pulled up. She looked smaller than she should.
But her eyes were still sharp.
Still Rylie.
“Slippery doesn’t mean untouchable,” I said.
Saint rubbed his jaw. “It does when he’s got cartel muscle doing his wet work.”
Sheriff Tate stepped in from the hallway, face set. “My contact says a black SUV was seen circling the edge of town. Same one you described.”
Rylie’s shoulders tensed.
I moved without thinking, setting my hand on the back of the couch behind her. Not touching her. Just letting her feel I was there.
Her breathing eased by a fraction.
“Where?” I asked.
“Near the river access road,” Sheriff Tate said. “Not close enough to spook people. Close enough to watch.”
Havoc cursed quietly. “They’re testing.”
Ace’s voice crackled from the radio. “Movement. Headlights. Two blocks out. Slow roll.”
Everyone went still.
Sheriff Tate’s gaze snapped to me. “What do we do?”
I kept my eyes on the window.
“We don’t panic,” I said. “We let them think we’re just a tavern with a few guys in it.”
Saint snorted. “We’re very convincing.”
I glanced at Rylie.
She was watching me, as if trying to read my thoughts.
I leaned down. “You stay here. No windows.”
Her voice trembled. “Trigger—”
“I’ll be right back,” I promised. “I’m just looking.”
I moved to the window, peering through a sliver of curtain.
A black SUV rolled down the street as if it belonged there.
No plates.
Windows tinted so dark they swallowed light.
It slowed near the tavern.
Then it stopped.
My heart thudded once. Hard.
The passenger window didn’t roll down. No one got out.
But I could feel them looking at us.
Testing our response.
The SUV idled for ten seconds.
Then twenty.
Then the driver’s door opened.
A man stepped out.
Not the bodyguard.
This one was leaner, wearing a dark jacket, hands in his pockets like he was just out for a stroll.
He looked up at the tavern.
And smiled.
Saint’s voice was a whisper behind me. “That’s not Thorn.”
“No,” I murmured. “That’s muscle.”
The man walked to the tavern door and tried the handle.
Locked.
He leaned in close to the glass like he was peering into a shop window.
Then he did something that made my blood freeze.
He lifted his hand and tapped the glass twice.
Like a knock.
Like a warning.
Rylie gasped behind me.
I turned fast. “Rylie—back. Now.”
She scrambled back, shaking.
Sheriff Tate’s hand went to his weapon.
Havoc moved toward the stairs.
I held up one hand. “No one goes down there.”
Havoc’s gaze snapped to me. “He’s at our door.”
“Exactly,” I said. “He wants us to react.”
Saint swallowed. “What’s the play?”
I stared at the man through the curtain.
“We make him get bored,” I said. “We make him think there’s nothing here.”
Then I reached for the remote and flicked off the hallway light downstairs.
The tavern became a dark shell.
No movement. No sound.
Outside, the man waited.
Then he shrugged like it didn’t matter.
He walked back to the SUV.
But before he got in, he turned and looked straight at the upstairs window.
Not where I was.
Where Rylie was.
He couldn’t see her.
But he acted like he knew exactly where she was.
He raised two fingers to his eyes.
Then pointed at the tavern.
I see you.
Then he got in.
The SUV rolled away.
Rylie’s voice came out thin. “He’s not going to stop.”
I turned and crossed the room, crouching in front of her.
“No,” I said softly. “He’s not. But he can’t force you to marry him. We all know what is going on. I’m surprised he still thinks he can win this one.”
Her eyes filled.
I touched her shoulder—gently grounding.
“I’m not letting him dictate my every move.”