Chapter 16
The motel squatted at the edge of Northeast Philly like something that had given up on life. Two stories of crumbling stucco, a parking lot full of cars that had seen better decades, and a flickering vacancy sign that buzzed like a dying insect.
Riot checked his weapon for the third time and felt the familiar electricity surge through his veins. This was the man who'd destroyed Mandy's storage unit. Who'd left that note promising she was next. Who'd spent years making witnesses disappear for Trevor Boone.
The man who would have come for her eventually. Who would have made her vanish like Mrs. Hartley and all the others.
Not anymore.
"You good?" Bayonet's voice was quiet beside him. The blade specialist had volunteered for this run—said he wanted to watch Riot work.
"Better than good." Riot's smile felt sharp on his face. "This one's personal."
"I noticed." Bayonet checked his own weapons—two knives, a suppressed pistol. "Powder's got the back exit covered. Turnpike's running interference with the night manager. You've got maybe ten minutes before someone calls the cops."
"Won't need ten."
They moved through the parking lot like shadows, staying low, avoiding the pools of light from the stuttering lamps. Room 214 was dark—curtains drawn, no movement visible through the gaps.
Vic was smart. Careful. The kind of man who checked his corners and never sat with his back to a door.
But he was also alone. Trevor's operation had been gutted—Kyle dead, Dean dead, most of his crew eliminated in the compound assault. All that was left was the cleaner and the boss, and Trevor was too much of a coward to get his hands dirty.
So Vic was here. Hiding in a shithole motel while his world burned down around him.
Riot reached the door and pressed his ear against the cheap wood. Faint sounds from inside—movement, maybe a television. Someone was definitely home.
He stepped back. Raised his boot. Kicked.
The door exploded inward.
Vic was faster than expected. He'd been sitting on the bed—fully clothed, shoes on, ready to run—and he was moving before Riot cleared the threshold. A gun came up, spitting fire, and Riot felt a bullet tear through the air inches from his head.
He didn't slow down.
Close quarters. His territory.
Riot crashed into Vic before the man could get off another shot, driving them both across the room and into the far wall. The impact knocked the gun loose, sent it skittering under the bed, and then they were grappling—two men fighting for their lives in a space barely big enough for one.
Vic fought dirty. Of course he did—this was a man who'd spent years making people disappear, who knew exactly how to hurt someone without leaving marks. His fingers found pressure points, nerve clusters, all the spots that sent pain screaming through Riot's nervous system.
Riot barely felt it.
The chaos was singing in his blood, drowning out everything except the target in front of him. He absorbed a thumb digging into his brachial plexus, ignored the elbow aimed at his throat, and drove his forehead into Vic's nose with a satisfying crunch.
Blood sprayed. Vic staggered. And Riot pressed the advantage.
A hook to the liver bent Vic double. An uppercut snapped his head back. Riot grabbed him by the hair and slammed his face into the dresser—once, twice, three times until the cheap particleboard cracked under the impact.
"You destroyed her things." Riot's voice was ice. "Everything she built. Everything she had left."
Vic tried to swing, but his coordination was shot—too much trauma, too much blood in his eyes. Riot caught his fist and twisted, felt the wrist snap, heard the scream that followed.
"You left a note. 'You're next.' Like she was just another loose end. Just another witness to clean up."
A knee to the gut put Vic on the floor. Riot followed him down, straddling his chest, pinning his arms with his knees. The man's face was a ruin—broken nose, split eyebrow, teeth outlined in red.
"Please." The word came out garbled through swelling lips. "I was just following orders. Trevor made me—"
"Trevor's next." Riot wrapped his hands around Vic's throat. "But you first. You're the one who would have killed her. Made her disappear like all the others."
Vic's eyes went wide with understanding. With terror. With the realization that he'd picked the wrong woman to threaten.
"How many?" Riot squeezed harder. "How many people have you made vanish for Trevor? How many Mrs. Hartleys?"
No answer. Vic's face was turning purple, his hands scrabbling weakly at Riot's wrists.
"Three? Five? Ten?" Riot leaned down until they were almost nose to nose. "Doesn't matter. You're done. And when you're burning in whatever hell exists for men like you, I want you to remember—you died because you threatened something that was mine."
He squeezed until the struggling stopped. Until the light faded from Vic's eyes. Until the man who made witnesses disappear had disappeared himself.
Riot let go and sat back, breathing hard. His hands were shaking—not from effort, but from the adrenaline still surging through his system. The violence wanted more. Wanted him to keep hitting, keep hurting, even though the target was already gone.
But underneath that, for the first time in his life, there was something else.
Peace.
Vic Stanhope would never touch Mandy. Would never leave her threatening notes or destroy the things she loved. Would never make her one of his statistics, another body that no one would find.
She was safe from this man. Forever.
"Riot." Bayonet's voice from the doorway. "We need to move."
Right. Mission wasn't over. Riot climbed off the body and did a quick sweep of the room—found Vic's phone, his wallet, a laptop that might have useful intel. He gathered everything and headed for the door.
The parking lot was still quiet. Powder gave them a thumbs-up from his position near the back exit—no runners, no complications. They moved to the bikes in formation, engines roaring to life as they disappeared into the night.
Behind them, the motel room stayed dark. No one would find Vic for days, maybe weeks. By then, Trevor Boone would be dead too, and none of it would matter anymore.
The compound was lit up when they arrived. Brothers in the courtyard, music drifting from the clubhouse, the energy of a war party that knew it was winning.
Riot killed his engine and swung off the bike, suddenly aware of how he must look. Blood on his clothes. Bruises forming on his face. Hands that still wanted to shake.
Mandy appeared in the clubhouse doorway, and everything else faded to static.
She took one look at him and started walking. Didn't run, didn't hesitate—just closed the distance with steady steps and didn't stop until she was pressed against his chest, her arms wrapped around him, her face buried in his shoulder.
"It's done," he said into her hair. "Vic's done."
"I know." Her voice was muffled against his shirt. "I could feel it. The moment you came through that gate, I knew."
He held her tighter, not caring about the brothers watching or the blood still drying on his skin. This was what mattered. This was what all the violence was for.
"Trevor's all that's left," he said. "One more target and this is over."
Mandy pulled back just enough to look up at him. Her eyes were wet, but her jaw was set. That steel he loved, shining through the fear.
"How long?"
"Soon. Patriot's got people tracking his movements. Without his crew, without his planner, without his cleaner—he's running out of options. Running out of places to hide."
"Good." She reached up and touched his face—gentle, tracing the bruise forming along his cheekbone. "You're hurt."
"I'm fine."
"You're lying." But she smiled, that fierce expression that made his chest ache. "Come inside. Let me clean you up."
He let her lead him into the compound, past brothers who clapped his back and called congratulations. Powder wanted details. Bayonet gave a silent nod of approval. Gallows caught his eye and raised a glass in salute.
The club knew what Vic had represented. What his death meant for the war, for Mandy, for all of them.
One target left. One more kill, and this would be over.
Mandy took him to their room—their room now, not just hers—and sat him on the bed while she gathered supplies. Antiseptic, bandages, the tender care of a woman who'd spent her life taking care of others.
"Hold still," she murmured, dabbing at the cut above his eyebrow. "This is going to sting."
"Can't be worse than what Vic did."
"He hurt you?"
"Tried to." Riot smiled grimly. "He knew pressure points, nerve clusters. All the places that cause pain without leaving marks. Guess that's how he made witnesses cooperate before he made them disappear."
Mandy's hand stilled. "That's why you killed him yourself. Not just for me—for all of them."
"For all of them," he agreed. "But mostly for you."
She finished cleaning the cut and pressed a bandage over it. Then she climbed onto the bed beside him, curling against his side like she belonged there.
"What happens now?"
"Now we rest. Let Patriot's people do their work." His arm came around her automatically, pulling her closer. "Trevor knows we're coming. He lost his muscle, his brain, his cleaner. His operation is ashes. He's desperate."
"Desperate men do dangerous things."
"Desperate men make mistakes." Riot pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "And when he makes his, we'll be ready."
They sat in comfortable silence, listening to the sounds of the compound celebrating below. Brothers drinking and laughing, old ladies chatting and planning, the family they'd both found coming together after victory.
One more battle. One more target. And then a future neither of them had dared to imagine.
"I want a normal life," Mandy said quietly. "After. I want to go back to work. Rebuild my client list. Be the house cleaner who shows up with a smile and makes people's lives a little easier."
"You'll have it."
"And I want you with me." She lifted her head to meet his eyes. "Whatever that looks like. Weekend rides, compound dinners, you showing up to pick me up from work with that look on your face that makes my clients blush."
Riot laughed—surprised, genuine, the kind of sound he'd almost forgotten he could make. "That's the plan? Me waiting outside Mrs. Patterson's house like a lovestruck teenager?"
"Something like that." She grinned. "Think you can handle domestic life?"
"For you?" He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her softly. "I can handle anything."
They stayed wrapped around each other as the night deepened and the celebration wound down. Tomorrow there would be planning, preparation, the final moves in a game that had started weeks ago in a Fishtown apartment.
But tonight, they had this. Each other. The quiet certainty of two people who'd survived the worst together.
Trevor Boone was the last piece on the board. The final obstacle between them and the life they wanted.
He wouldn't be an obstacle much longer.