Chapter Ten
Three days of quiet ended with Ghost's voice in his ear.
"Movement on the eastern approach. Multiple vehicles. This isn't reconnaissance—this is assault."
Ripcord was already moving, grabbing his rifle from the rack and checking the magazine in a single fluid motion. Across the compound, brothers were doing the same—the particular energy of men who'd trained for this, lived for this, survived worse than this.
"How many?" Legion's voice on the comm.
"Twelve vehicles. Forty, maybe fifty hostiles." Ghost paused. "Coordinated approach on three vectors. Someone with military training planned this."
Dale Odom.
Ripcord knew it without being told. Stanton's logistics brain, the man who'd spent decades learning how to move product and people without being caught. He'd finally decided to use that expertise for war.
"They're not hitting the compound," Ghost continued. "They're targeting our businesses. Bragg Boulevard Cycles, the Drop Zone bar, the security office. Simultaneous strikes."
Smart. Odom wasn't trying to breach the compound's defenses—he was trying to bleed them. Destroy their legitimate fronts, burn their income streams, make the brotherhood too busy defending scattered targets to mount an offense.
Except he'd miscalculated.
"Intercept team," Legion ordered. "Trooper, take Ripcord, Forge, and Static. Hit them before they reach the first target. Ghost, coordinate from here. Everyone else, defensive positions."
Ripcord was at the armory door when a hand caught his arm.
Kristin.
She was dressed for combat—borrowed tactical gear, pistol holstered at her hip, the expression of a woman who'd stopped pretending this wasn't her war too.
"I'm coming."
"Like hell you are."
"Those are my choices." Her chin lifted. "Stay here and go crazy waiting, or watch your back out there. I choose the second one."
"You're not trained for this."
"I'm trained to stay calm when everything goes wrong. I'm trained to make decisions under pressure." Her eyes blazed. "And I'm trained to shoot. My father made sure of that before I could drive."
They didn't have time to argue.
Ripcord looked at Trooper, who'd been watching the exchange with unreadable eyes.
"She stays in the vehicle unless absolutely necessary," Trooper said. "And if she gets killed, it's on you."
"Understood."
They rolled out sixty seconds later—two trucks full of armed men and one pilot who had no business being there but refused to stay behind. Ripcord kept Kristin beside him in the back seat, his hand on her knee, grounding himself with the contact.
"When we engage," he said quietly, "you stay low. Don't fire unless you have to. And if I tell you to run—"
"I run." She covered his hand with hers. "I'm not here to be a hero. I'm here because being with you is safer than being without you."
Something cracked in his chest.
"When this is over—"
"When this is over, we'll have that conversation." She squeezed his hand. "Focus now. Feel later."
Ghost's voice crackled through the comm. "First target is Bragg Boulevard Cycles. Odom's leading the assault personally—he's in the command vehicle, hanging back while his teams move in."
"He thinks he's safe," Trooper said from the driver's seat. "Thinks coordinating from the rear means he won't get his hands dirty."
"Let's educate him," Forge growled.
They hit the convoy from the side.
Trooper had positioned them on a parallel road, timing the intercept perfectly. When Odom's assault team turned onto Bragg Boulevard, they found two trucks full of operators blocking their path—and two more coming up behind to cut off retreat.
The first shots came from Odom's people.
The last shots came from the brotherhood.
Ripcord was out of the vehicle before the first body hit the ground, rifle up, moving with the particular focus that combat brought. Kristin stayed low behind the truck's engine block, pistol in hand, covering angles like she'd been doing it her whole life.
The firefight was chaos and precision in equal measure.
Odom's assault team was large—forty men spread across twelve vehicles—but they weren't soldiers. They were smugglers with guns, ground crews who'd never faced real opposition. The brotherhood cut through them like a blade through silk.
"Left flank!" Static's shotgun boomed twice, and two men went down screaming.
"Vehicle trying to retreat—" Forge's rifle cracked, and the driver's window exploded in red.
Ripcord moved through the carnage, hunting for the command vehicle. Odom was here somewhere—the coordinator, the logistics brain, the man who'd made Stanton's operation run smoothly for eight years.
He found him trying to flee.
A black SUV was reversing away from the kill zone, engine roaring as the driver tried to find an escape route. Ripcord raised his rifle, sighted on the tires—
Trooper got there first.
The Road Captain appeared from between two burning vehicles, stepping directly into the SUV's path with his rifle raised. The driver tried to swerve, but there was nowhere to go.
Trooper put three rounds through the windshield.
The SUV lurched to a stop, engine still running, driver slumped over the wheel. Trooper walked to the rear door and yanked it open.
Dale Odom tumbled out onto the asphalt.
He was older than Ripcord expected—mid-forties, soft around the middle, the kind of man who'd spent decades behind desks and spreadsheets. Blood streaked his face from where the driver's death had sprayed him. His hands were shaking.
"Please—" Odom's voice cracked. "I'm just operations. I don't—I'm not—"
"You're the man who planned this assault." Trooper's voice was ice. "You're the man who coordinated attacks on our businesses. Our families work in those buildings."
"Stanton ordered it! I just—I do what I'm told—"
"So did I." Trooper raised his rifle. "The difference is, I was told to protect innocent people. You were told to destroy them."
"Wait—"
The shot echoed across Bragg Boulevard.
Dale Odom crumpled, a neat hole in his forehead, his logistics expertise ending on blood-soaked pavement.
Ripcord approached as Trooper lowered his weapon.
"Clean shot."
"Cleaner than he deserved." Trooper's jaw was tight. "This one planned the operation. Picked the targets. Would have burned down half our legitimate businesses to send a message."
"The message didn't send."
"No." A cold smile crossed Trooper's face. "But ours will."
The aftermath took two hours.
Bodies were cleared. Vehicles were moved. The few survivors were questioned—roughly—and then left to report back to Stanton with a simple message: Your operations manager is dead. Your assault failed. You're running out of people who know what they're doing.
Ripcord found Kristin by the trucks, pistol still in hand, staring at the carnage with an expression he couldn't read.
"You okay?"
"No." She didn't look at him. "But I'm alive. That's what matters, right?"
"Right."
"I shot someone." Her voice was flat. "He came around the truck while you were pursuing Odom. I just... reacted. Two shots, center mass, like my father taught me."
Ripcord felt something cold settle in his chest.
"Where?"
"Behind the engine block. Forge saw it happen." She finally met his eyes. "He said I did good. Said the guy would have killed me if I'd hesitated."
"Forge doesn't give compliments lightly."
"I know." She swallowed hard. "I killed someone, Kenny. Watched the life leave his eyes. And the worst part is, I don't feel bad about it. I feel relieved that it was him and not me."
He pulled her against his chest, feeling her body shake with delayed reaction.
"That's not the worst part," he said quietly. "That's the survival part. The part that keeps you alive when people are trying to kill you. Don't apologize for it."
"I'm not apologizing." She pressed her face into his shoulder. "I'm just... processing. This is who I am now. Someone who shoots people who try to hurt her."
"This is who you've always been." He held her tighter. "You just didn't know it until you had to be."
They stood there in the aftermath, surrounded by shell casings and blood and the particular silence that followed violence. Brotherhood members moved around them, cleaning up, securing the scene, doing the grim work that came after combat.
Legion's voice came over the comm.
"Report."
"Odom's dead." Trooper's response was clinical. "Forty-three hostiles eliminated. We've got eight survivors for interrogation. No brotherhood casualties—some wounded, nothing critical."
"And Stanton?"
"Nowhere near this." Ripcord keyed his own comm. "He sent Odom to do his dirty work. Stayed safe while his people died."
"Coward's move."
"Smart move." Ghost's voice joined the channel. "He's preserving himself while we eliminate his lieutenants. But he's running out of capable people. Garvey's dead. Odom's dead. That leaves Peck as his only remaining senior operator."
"And when Peck's gone?"
"Then Stanton has to handle things himself." Legion's voice carried grim satisfaction. "And that's when we end this."
Ripcord looked down at Kristin, still pressed against his chest.
"You hear that?"
"I heard." She lifted her head. "We're winning."
"We're surviving. That's different." He cupped her face. "But yeah. We're getting closer to the end."
"And then?"
"Then you get your airfield back. And I figure out what life looks like when I'm not fighting a war."
She kissed him—quick, fierce, claiming him in front of whatever brothers might be watching.
"I have some ideas about that."
Despite everything—the bodies, the blood, the weight of the violence they'd just committed—Ripcord smiled.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." Her eyes were steady. "But first we finish this. First we make Stanton pay for everything he's done."
"That's the plan."
They walked back to the trucks together, her hand in his, stepping over shell casings and around bloodstains. The brotherhood loaded up, wounded brothers helped into vehicles, weapons secured, evidence of the ambush disappearing with practiced efficiency.
Forty-three of Stanton's people dead.
His operations manager executed.
His coordinated assault turned into a slaughter.
And the message was clear: Boyd Stanton's operation was bleeding out. His pilots were dead. His logistics expert was dead. He had one lieutenant left—Nolan Peck, the enforcer—and after that, nothing but hired muscle and fear.
The drug lord who'd spent eight years building an empire was watching it crumble.
And the brotherhood was just getting started.