Chapter 12
The first explosion ripped Riot from sleep.
He was moving before his eyes were fully open—rolling out of bed, grabbing the gun from beneath his pillow, putting himself between Mandy and the door.
Five days of peace. Five days of her in his bed, her scent on his skin, her laugh echoing through the compound. He should have known it couldn't last.
"What—" Mandy sat up, sheets pooling at her waist, eyes wide with alarm.
"Attack." Riot was already pulling on pants, shoving his feet into boots. "Get dressed. Now."
She didn't argue. Didn't panic. Just threw on clothes with quick, efficient movements while the sounds of chaos erupted outside—shouting, gunfire, the roar of engines.
Riot cracked the door and checked the hallway. Clear for now, but he could hear boots on the stairs, brothers mobilizing.
"Stay close." He grabbed her hand and pulled her into the corridor. "Don't leave my side."
They made it to the armory in thirty seconds. Gallows was already there, distributing weapons with cold efficiency.
"How many?" Riot demanded.
"Twelve minimum. Professional hit—they took out the gate cameras before we knew they were coming." Gallows handed Riot an extra magazine, then turned to Mandy. "You remember what I taught you?"
She took the pistol he offered without hesitation. "Point and shoot. Don't think, just react."
"Good girl." Gallows' approval was brief but genuine. "Stay with your man. He goes down, you run for the basement. There's a tunnel."
"I'm not going down." Riot checked his weapon, chambered a round. "Where's the breach?"
"Front gate. They hit us with a truck—smashed right through. Now they're spreading through the courtyard." Gallows' face was stone. "Patriot's leading the counterattack from the east. Gunner's got the west. We need bodies on the roof to pin them down."
"On it." Riot turned to Mandy. "You good?"
Her hands were steady on the gun. Her eyes were terrified but fierce. "Let's go."
Dawn was breaking over the compound, painting everything in shades of blood and fire.
The courtyard had become a war zone. Trevor's men moved with methodical precision—covering each other, advancing in formation, exactly the kind of coordinated assault you'd expect from a crew that planned for weeks before making a move. They weren't street thugs. They were professionals.
But so were the Sons.
Riot led Mandy up the back stairwell to the roof access, taking the steps two at a time. Below them, the sounds of battle raged—shouted commands, the crack of gunfire, the distinctive boom of Powder's shotgun.
The roof door burst open and they emerged into chaos.
Three of Trevor's men had already made it up here, trying to establish a sniper position.
Riot took the first one down before the man could turn—two shots to center mass, dropping him where he stood.
The second spun with his weapon raised, and Riot closed the distance before he could fire, slamming him against the rooftop HVAC unit and putting a bullet through his throat.
The third went for Mandy.
She didn't freeze. Didn't scream. Just raised the pistol Gallows had given her and fired three times.
The man staggered. Fell. Didn't get up.
Riot's chest swelled with something savage—pride and terror and possessive fury all tangled together. His woman had just killed a man. His woman was standing in a war zone with blood on her hands and steel in her spine.
"Good shot," he said roughly.
"Lucky shot." Her voice shook, but her hands didn't. "More coming?"
"Count on it."
They took position at the roof's edge, looking down on the courtyard massacre. The Sons were pushing back now—Patriot's group surging from the east, Gunner leading a brutal flanking maneuver from the west. Trevor's professional operators were good, but they'd underestimated their targets.
This wasn't a house full of witnesses to be eliminated. This was a motorcycle club fighting for their home.
"There." Mandy pointed toward the back of the courtyard. "That guy—he's not fighting. He's directing."
Riot followed her gaze and felt his blood go cold.
A man in his late thirties stood behind an overturned vehicle, unremarkable in every way—average height, forgettable face, the kind of guy who could blend into any crowd. He was speaking into a radio, pointing, coordinating the assault with the calm precision of someone directing traffic.
Dean Holloway. Trevor's operations planner. The brain that had turned a crew of opportunistic thieves into a professional criminal organization.
"That's their commander," Riot said. "Trevor's not here—he sent his strategist to do the dirty work."
"So if we take him out..."
"The assault falls apart." Riot checked his magazine. Five rounds left. "Stay here. Cover me."
"Like hell." Mandy grabbed his arm. "We do this together or not at all."
He should have argued. Should have ordered her to stay safe while he handled the dangerous part.
But she was right. They were partners now. Whatever that meant.
"Fine. Stay behind me and shoot anything that moves."
They descended through the compound, moving fast and quiet.
The battle raged around them—brothers engaging Trevor's men in brutal close-quarters combat, bodies falling on both sides.
Riot counted casualties as they passed: two Sons down, at least six of the enemy. The math was turning in their favor.
Dean Holloway was still directing from his position behind the overturned vehicle, radio pressed to his ear, completely focused on coordinating his men. He didn't see the threat approaching from his flank.
His mistake.
Riot came around the corner with Mandy at his back and Dean's guards reacted too slow. The first one dropped with a bullet in his chest. The second managed to get his weapon up before Mandy put two rounds through his shoulder, spinning him away.
Dean's eyes went wide. He reached for a gun at his hip.
Riot got there first.
The impact drove Dean back against the vehicle, Riot's forearm crushing his windpipe. The radio clattered to the ground. The gun fell unfired.
"Trevor's not even here." Riot's voice was ice. "Sent you to do his dirty work. Sent you to die for him."
Dean's face was turning purple, his hands scrabbling uselessly at Riot's arm. "Please—I just plan—I don't hurt anyone—"
"You planned Mrs. Hartley's murder. Planned all of them. Every witness who disappeared, every victim who got robbed—that was you." Riot pressed harder. "You're not innocent. You're just careful."
"Riot." Mandy's voice was quiet behind him. "We need him alive. He might know where Trevor—"
A shot rang out.
Riot felt the bullet tear through Dean's shoulder—someone from the remaining assault force, trying to save their commander. Or silence him. Either way, the wound was catastrophic, blood spraying across Riot's chest.
Dean crumpled.
Riot let him fall and spun to engage the shooter, but Turnpike was already there, putting the man down with clinical precision.
"Report," Turnpike barked.
"Holloway's done." Riot looked down at Dean's body—eyes already glazing, blood pooling beneath him. "Trevor's operations planner. He was coordinating the whole assault."
As if to prove his point, the sounds of battle were already changing. Without Dean directing them, Trevor's men were losing cohesion—falling back, scrambling for cover, the methodical assault dissolving into chaos.
"Mop up," Turnpike ordered into his radio. "Their commander's down. Push them back to the gate."
The next fifteen minutes were brutal efficiency. The Sons swept through the compound, eliminating the remaining attackers with the kind of coordinated violence that made Trevor's crew look like amateurs. By the time the sun cleared the rooftops, it was over.
Twelve men had hit the compound at dawn. None of them would leave alive.
The aftermath was quiet in the way only fresh violence could be.
Riot stood in the courtyard, blood drying on his hands, watching brothers tend to wounded and drag bodies toward the garage.
Two Sons had taken serious hits—Powder had a bullet graze across his ribs, and one of the younger prospects was being stabilized for a hospital run. But they'd survived. They'd won.
Mandy appeared at his side, face pale, gun still clutched in her hands. She was shaking now—the adrenaline wearing off, the reality setting in.
"Hey." He pulled her against his chest, not caring about the blood on both of them. "You okay?"
"I killed someone." Her voice was hollow. "Two someones, I think. Maybe three."
"You defended yourself. Defended us." He held her tighter. "That's not murder. That's survival."
"Does it get easier?"
Riot thought about Kyle Renner's face under his fists. About Dean Holloway choking on blood. About all the men he'd put down since joining the Sons, and all the ones he'd hurt before.
"No," he said honestly. "But it gets... different. You learn to carry it."
She pressed her face against his chest and he felt her tears soak through his shirt. Let her cry. Let her process. She'd earned that much.
Patriot approached, his scarred face grim but satisfied. "Clean sweep. No survivors on their side."
"Holloway's dead," Riot reported. "He was running the assault. Trevor sent his brain and stayed home."
"Coward." Patriot spat. "He knows we're coming for him now. Lost his intimidation specialist last week, his operations planner today. He's running out of resources."
"What's left?"
"According to our intel? His cleaner—Vic Stanhope. Does the wet work when witnesses need to disappear. And Trevor himself." Patriot's smile was a blade. "Two targets. We'll have them both before the month's out."
Riot nodded, but his attention was on Mandy. On the woman trembling in his arms, who'd fought beside him, killed for him, proved herself a hundred times over.
"She did good," Patriot said quietly. "Your woman. She held her own."
"She's stronger than anyone gives her credit for."
"Clearly." Patriot clapped him on the shoulder. "Get her cleaned up. Get some rest. We'll plan our next move when everyone's recovered."
He walked away, already barking orders at the brothers still working the scene.
Riot tilted Mandy's chin up, forcing her to meet his eyes. Tears streaked through the grime on her face. Blood that wasn't hers stained her shirt. And underneath the shock, underneath the horror, he could see steel.
"You saved lives today," he told her. "You fought for the people who took you in. That means something."
"It doesn't feel like it means something." Her voice cracked. "It feels like I'm losing pieces of myself."
"Then I'll help you find them." He pressed his forehead to hers. "Every piece you lose, I'll help you find again. That's what this is. That's what we are."
She closed her eyes. Breathed him in.
"Trevor's still out there."
"Not for long." Riot's arms tightened around her. "He sent his planner to do his dirty work. Thought he could take our home without getting his hands bloody. Now his operation's crippled and he's got nowhere left to hide."
"What happens next?"
"We hunt him. We find him. We end this." He pulled back just enough to see her face. "And then we build a life on the ashes of everything he tried to take from us."
Mandy's jaw set. The tears dried. And underneath the fear, he watched her transform into something harder. Something forged.
"Good," she said. "I want to be there when he falls."
Riot smiled, fierce and proud.
That was his woman. Backbone of steel, heart of fire.
Trevor Boone had no idea what was coming for him.