Chapter Three
The chapel smelled like gun oil and old leather.
Ripcord stood at the far end of the table, facing the officers of the Black Ops Brotherhood with the particular tension of a man asking for something he wasn't sure he'd earned.
Legion sat at the head—six-two of Special Forces weathered authority, silver hair and eyes that had seen every kind of war.
Ghost flanked him on the right, Delta-quiet and unreadable.
Trooper, Forge, and the others filled out the seats, all of them watching Ripcord with the patient assessment of men who'd learned to wait before committing.
Kristin was in the guest quarters across the compound.
Safe, for now.
"Run it again," Legion said. "From the beginning."
Ripcord kept it brief. The airfield. The interrogation he'd interrupted. The murdered partner, the ransacked office, the threatening messages. The name that had made Ghost's expression go flat: Boyd Stanton.
"Former DEA," Ghost said when Ripcord finished.
His voice carried the particular weight of classified knowledge.
"Fifteen years interdicting drugs until he figured out the other side paid better.
Eight years building an operation through corrupted airstrips across North Carolina.
Patient, methodical, and very good at making problems disappear. "
"The pilot—Danny—was running product for him?" Trooper asked.
"Looks like. Night flights to strips that don't appear on any official schedule." Ripcord's jaw tightened. "Something went wrong. Either Danny got greedy or he got scared and tried to leverage what he knew. Either way, Stanton had him killed and made it look like mechanical failure."
"And the woman?" Legion's eyes were sharp. "What's her involvement?"
"None." The word came out harder than Ripcord intended. "She didn't know what her partner was into. She just built an airfield and had the bad luck to trust the wrong person."
A beat of silence.
Forge leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. "You sure about that? Could be she's playing innocent while the heat dies down."
"She's not playing anything." Ripcord felt heat rise in his chest—protective, possessive, stronger than it should have been for a woman he'd known less than a day.
"I watched her face when she realized what Danny was doing.
That wasn't an act. That was a woman finding out her whole life was built on lies. "
Another silence. Ripcord felt the weight of assessment from every man at the table.
Then Static spoke up from his seat near the door.
"Stanton's operation uses rural airstrips.
We've got brothers who depend on those strips for legitimate business—cargo runs, training flights, civilian jump operations.
" He nodded toward Ripcord. "Half the reason he was at Blair-Hadley in the first place is because it's one of the only places in the region where you can do high-altitude work without military red tape. "
"So this isn't just about one woman," Trooper said slowly. "This is about drug money corrupting infrastructure we use."
"It's about drug money corrupting our territory.
" Legion's voice cut through the room like a blade.
"Stanton's been operating in our backyard for years, and we didn't know because he's smart enough to stay invisible.
Now he's killing pilots and threatening civilians, and that stops being invisible real fast."
"What do we know about his operation?" Recon asked. The warlord's flat expression gave nothing away, but Ripcord could see the gears turning. "Numbers, locations, chain of command?"
Ghost pulled out his phone, scrolled through data.
"Stanton runs lean. Fourteen men total—pilots, ground crews, enforcers.
His chief pilot is Mitch Garvey, handles the actual smuggling flights.
Dale Odom coordinates ground operations and bribes.
Nolan Peck is his cleaner—makes problems look like accidents. "
"Like Danny's crash," Ripcord said.
"Like Danny's crash." Ghost met his eyes. "Peck's got a reputation. Former military contractor, dishonorable discharge, takes professional pride in creative deaths. If Stanton sent him after the woman, she'd already be in the ground."
"But he didn't." Legion's voice was thoughtful. "He sent Garvey to interrogate her. That means Stanton thinks she knows something—or has something—worth keeping her alive long enough to find out."
"She doesn't know anything." Ripcord heard the edge in his own voice. "They tore her partner's office apart looking for whatever Danny hid. If she knew where it was, she would have given it up the second they threatened her family."
"Then Stanton's working blind." A ghost of a smile crossed Legion's weathered face. "That's a vulnerability we can exploit."
Forge uncrossed his arms. "What are you thinking, Pres?"
"I'm thinking Boyd Stanton has been a snake in our territory for too long. I'm thinking he just killed a pilot and threatened a civilian, which means he's getting sloppy or desperate." Legion's eyes swept the table. "And I'm thinking it's time we reminded him that Fayetteville belongs to us."
The words hung in the air. Ripcord felt the shift in the room—the particular energy of operators who'd just been given a target.
"We're voting on this?" Trooper asked.
"We're voting." Legion nodded. "Question on the table: Do we dismantle Boyd Stanton's operation and protect the woman who stumbled into it?"
The vote was unanimous.
Eight ayes, no dissent.
Legion turned to Ripcord. "She's your find, brother. That makes her your responsibility until this is over."
"Understood."
"I mean it." The president's voice carried warning. "Whatever's happening between you and this woman—and don't tell me nothing, because I've got eyes—it doesn't interfere with the operation. You keep her safe, you keep her out of our way, and you make sure she doesn't become a liability."
Ripcord felt heat creep up his neck. He hadn't realized his interest in Kristin was that obvious.
But of course it was. These men had survived decades of combat by reading people. A brother getting possessive about a woman he'd just met? They'd spotted that the second he walked in the door.
"She won't be a liability." He kept his voice level. "She's tougher than she looks."
"Most women are." A hint of warmth crept into Legion's expression. "Go. Get back to her before Stanton decides interrogation isn't working and moves to elimination."
Ripcord nodded and headed for the door.
"Ripcord." Ghost's voice stopped him at the threshold.
He turned.
The VP's face was unreadable, but something in his eyes looked almost like understanding. "Stanton's not going to stop because we scared off his guys once. This ends with bodies—his or ours. Make sure you're ready for what that means."
"I'm ready."
"For her?" Ghost tilted his head. "Or for the woman you're about to drag into a war?"
The question landed like a punch.
Ripcord didn't have an answer.
He walked out of the chapel into the Carolina night, the compound quiet around him. Moths circled the security lights. Somewhere in the distance, a C-130 droned toward Fort Liberty's drop zone.
Kristin was in the guest quarters.
Safe, for now.
But "for now" had an expiration date, and Ripcord could feel the countdown in his bones.
He'd spent years jumping out of airplanes to escape the guilt of surviving when others didn't. Kyle's face in every quiet moment.
The memory of watching his teammate spiral past with a chute that wouldn't open.
The randomness of fate—his silk opened, Kyle's didn't—had haunted him for so long he'd forgotten what it felt like to care about someone still breathing.
Now there was Kristin.
A woman he barely knew. A woman who'd looked at him with pilot's eyes and trusted him with her life. A woman who was tough enough to check her partner's wreckage for evidence and smart enough to send her mother to safety before worrying about herself.
A woman who was about to become a target in a war she didn't ask for.
Ghost's question echoed in his head.
Make sure you're ready for what that means.
Ripcord walked toward the guest quarters, his boots crunching on gravel.
He wasn't sure he was ready.
But he was damn sure he wasn't going to let her face this alone.
The light was on in her window. He could see her silhouette moving behind the curtains—pacing, probably, too wired to sleep. She'd held it together through everything today, but the crash was coming. It always did.
He knocked twice.
The door opened, and there she was. Baseball cap gone, hair loose around her shoulders, exhaustion written in every line of her face. But her eyes—those direct pilot's eyes—were still sharp.
"What did they say?"
"They said yes." He stepped inside, pulling the door closed behind him. "The club's going to handle Stanton. You're under our protection until this is over."
Something flickered across her face. Relief, maybe. Or fear of what "handling Stanton" actually meant.
"And what does protection look like?"
"It looks like me." He moved closer, couldn't seem to stop himself. "I stay with you. Where you go, I go. Until Stanton and everyone who works for him is no longer a threat."
"That sounds..." She swallowed. "Intense."
"It is."
They stood there, inches apart, the small guest room suddenly feeling very crowded. Ripcord could smell her—soap and aviation fuel and something floral underneath. Could see the pulse jumping in her throat.
"I'm not going to let anything happen to you." The words came out rough. "You understand? Whatever it takes, however long it takes—you're mine to protect now."
Her breath caught.
"Yours?"
The word hung between them, loaded with meaning neither of them was ready to unpack.
"The club's," he corrected, though they both knew that wasn't what he'd meant. "You're under club protection."
She held his gaze for a long moment.
Then she nodded, and the tension broke—or at least retreated to a manageable simmer.
"Okay." She stepped back, creating space. "So what happens tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow we figure out what Danny hid and why Stanton wants it badly enough to kill for it." Ripcord leaned against the door, keeping himself between her and the exit without thinking about it. "Tonight, you get some sleep. You're going to need it."
"Are you staying?"
The question shouldn't have hit him as hard as it did.
"I'll be right outside." He forced himself to open the door. "Anyone comes for you, they go through me first."
Something softened in her expression.
"Thank you." Her voice was quiet. "For everything. I don't know why you're doing this, but—"
"Get some sleep, Kristin."
He stepped outside before she could finish the sentence.
Before he could do something stupid like tell her exactly why he was doing this.
The door closed behind him, and Ripcord settled into position on the porch, his back against the wall, his eyes on the compound's perimeter.
Another person's survival on his shoulders.
Another chance to not be the one who lived while someone else died.
He'd spent years running from that weight.
Tonight, he was choosing to carry it.