Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Geirolf
The neon sign of Murphy's Bar flickers weakly in the rain-soaked night.
Marcus drinks here every Friday like clockwork—a habit that's about to bite him in the ass.
I sit in the van with Tor, Emil, and Oskar, watching the entrance through the downpour.
Kraken's in the driver's seat, his knuckles white on the steering wheel.
"There," Tor murmurs, nodding toward the door.
Marcus stumbles out, fishing in his pocket for keys.
He’s tall, thin, with that distinctive scar on his neck Everly described.
The man who planted a bomb that stole a sixteen-year-old kid's leg.
Kraken’s voice is deadly calm. "Let’s move."
We flood from the van like shadows.
Marcus doesn't even see us coming until Tor's arm wraps around his throat from behind.
A quick struggle, a muffled shout, then he goes limp from the chokehold.
We load him into the van in under thirty seconds.
There aren’t any witnesses, nor do we have any complications, just another drunk disappearing into the night.
Kraken drives while we secure Marcus in the back, Emil sitting beside him.
His eyes flutter open as we pull away from the bar, and panic sets in when he realizes he's surrounded by the Raiders of Valhalla.
"Fuck," he breathes, trying to sit up even though we’ve bound his hands. "Look, whatever this is about?—"
"Shut your fuckin’ mouth," Kraken says from the front seat, not even turning around. "Save your breath. You'll need it for all the screamin’ you’ll do tonight."
The drive to the clubhouse is silent except for Marcus's ragged breathing.
He knows who we are, knows what's coming, and I’m certain he knows the consequences of his actions.
Marcus starts struggling again as we pull into the clubhouse garage.
His eyes go wide when he sees the basement door—everyone in our world knows what happens in the basements of clubs.
"Please," he starts, but Kraken backhands him hard enough to split his lip.
"Save it," Kraken growls. "You'll be beggin' plenty soon enough."
The basement is ready for us.
Heavy chains hang from the reinforced beam in the ceiling.
Fenrir and Runes wait in the shadows, their faces carved from stone.
We string Marcus up quickly, his hands secured above his head, toes barely touching the concrete floor.
This position puts strain on his body immediately, which is what we want. Not to mention having him strung up like a piece of meat at a butcher shop.
"Marcus," Runes says conversationally, like we're having drinks instead of planning his painful death. "I’ve done some diggin’ into your background. Former military. Army Rangers, explosives expert. Dishonorably discharged for selling weapons and explosives to private buyers. Currently employed by the piece of shit known as the Patriot."
"I don't know what you're talking about," Marcus gasps, already struggling against the chains. The position makes it hard to breathe, harder to lie convincingly.
Kraken steps into the light, and for the first time, Marcus goes pale.
He knows exactly who this is—the father of the kids he tried to murder. The recognition in his eyes is satisfying.
"My son lost his leg," Kraken says, each word precise and cold. "My daughter has burns across her arms. She'll carry those scars forever."
"Wasn't personal," Marcus wheezes. "Just business. They were just collateral damage."
The words hang in the air for a heartbeat before Kraken moves.
The first punch doubles Marcus over as much as the chains allow.
Kraken's fist connects with his ribs with a crack that has to be his bone.
The second hit takes him in the kidney, drawing a scream that echoes off the concrete walls.
"Collateral?" Kraken's voice is ice. "My sixteen-year-old boy has to learn how to walk with a prosthetic. Let me show you collateral."
Kraken takes his time with every move he makes.
It’s almost like he’s calculating every single move, and he might be.
Every brother in the room recognizes this is different.
This isn't just punishment.
This is Kraken coming apart at the seams, years of control finally breaking open.
Then again, if this happened to my kids, I’d be doing the fucking same, or worse.
I catch Tor's eye, see the same concern there.
We've all seen violence, dealt it out when necessary, but watching one of our most level-headed brothers lose control is something else.
"The bomb," Fenrir says when Marcus is gasping between blows. "Tell us about the bomb that was at his house." Fenrir motions toward Kraken.
Marcus spits blood. "Fuck... you..."
Kraken picks up a pair of pliers from the tool table. "Wrong answer."
The screaming starts within seconds as he grabs his knuckles and bends them back as far as they’ll go.
I've heard grown men cry before, seen them break under pressure, but this is something different.
"Jesus, Kraken," Emil mutters.
"My son," Kraken says again, like it's a mantra. "My little girl. You tried to kill my children." His voice cracks on the last word, showing the pain beneath his rage.
Marcus' resistance crumbles piece by piece.
First the denials stop, then his tough guy act crumbles, finally leaving just a broken man hanging from chains, willing to say anything to make the pain stop.
After an hour, Marcus breaks completely.
They always do, but this one shatters spectacularly.
Words pour out between sobs. He gives us confirmation about the bomb, details about the Patriot's operation, locations, plans, names of associates—all things we weren’t yet privy to.
"There's another one," he gasps suddenly, blood dripping from his mouth. "Another bomb."
Everything stops.
Kraken's hand freezes mid-swing.
The temperature in the room seems to drop ten degrees.
Runes steps forward. "Where?"
"The spa. Your women's spa. Set to go off when it reopens tomorrow."
Ice floods my veins.
Astrid works there.
Charm, Fern, half the ol’ ladies.
If we hadn't grabbed this piece of shit tonight...
"Exact location," Fenrir snarls, his own control slipping now. "Now."
Marcus gives it up—under the sink in the main treatment room, remote detonated. "Professional job," he claims, almost bragging through his pain. "Enough C4 to level half the building. Timer set for 10 AM tomorrow. First busy hour."
I want to tear his throat out myself now.
The image in my mind of Astrid in that building when it explodes... I take a step forward, but Tor grabs my arm.
"Get Hakon," Runes orders Tor, his voice tight. "Tell him we need his Army experience. EOD. Now."
Tor disappears upstairs.
Thank fuck Hakon served in the Army bomb squad before prospecting.
We might actually handle this without calling in outside help or evacuating the area.
"The Patriot." Kraken returns to his work. "Where is he?"
"Safe house," Marcus coughs. "North side. 4782 Willowbrook Drive."
"That was fast," I say suspiciously. "No more resistance?"
Marcus laughs, a broken sound. "Won't matter. He moves every few days. Probably gone already. That's yesterday's spot."
"Addresses," Kraken repeats, yanking Marcus's head back by his hair. "Any others you know."
Marcus rattles off two more addresses, a warehouse on the docks, some associates' names.
Information flows like blood now, pooling at our feet.
The Patriot's operation is bigger than we thought. It’s not just the drugs anymore.
Now he’s getting into weapons, and we already knew about his network of corrupt cops and politicians.
"He said kids make the best victims," Marcus wheezes. "Said it would break you faster than killing brothers. Make you sloppy, emotional. Easier to defeat."
The sound Kraken makes isn't human.
He reaches for a knife, and I know if we don't intervene, Marcus won't leave this basement breathing.
Not that he will anyway, but we need everything he knows first.
"Wait," Runes commands, and Kraken freezes. "We need it all. Every detail. Every location. Every name."
Marcus talks for another twenty minutes, spilling everything.
Bank accounts, supply routes, which cops are dirty, which judges can be bought.
The Patriot's built an empire on poison and death.
That's when Fern appears on the stairs, her face tight.
She looks past the hanging man to find Runes, carefully avoiding eye contact with Marcus.
"There's a Detective Ortega here," she says, loud enough for everyone to hear. "Says he needs to speak with you urgently. He's at the gate."
Runes and Fenrir exchange glances.
Cops at the clubhouse is never a good thing, especially when we have a man being tortured in the basement.
The timing is suspicious as hell.
"Keep him quiet," Runes tells Kraken, who nods grimly. "And keep him alive. For now."
"Want me to gag him?" Oskar suggests.
"Do it," Runes confirms. "Can't have him screaming while we've got law enforcement upstairs. Babe, text whoever’s manning the gate and tell them to let Detective Ortega through."
Runes motions for Fenrir and me to follow.
We climb the stairs, Fern leading the way.
My mind races—what does this cop want?
Did someone see us grab Marcus? Are we blown?
Detective Ortega stands in the entrance, a Hispanic man in his forties with tired eyes.
His cheap suit is rumpled, like he's been up all night.
He holds up an evidence bag as Runes approaches.
Runes is polite but guarded. "What can I do for you, Detective?"
Ortega shows the bag—white powder with what's supposed to be our logo stamped on it.
"This isn't ours," Runes says immediately. "We don’t deal shit."
"I know," Ortega surprises us. "Seems like someone is trying to throw me off their trail. Found it on five kids who overdosed last night. Three didn't make it."
Dead kids change things, making this more than just club business.
So, the Patriot isn’t just going after minorities now, he’s going after anyone.
"You know this isn’t us," Fenrir grumbles. "Never have dealt and we won’t."
"I know that too," Ortega says. "I also know who does. Same person who's been flooding my streets with fentanyl-laced everything. Same person who has an issue with your club."
Ortega knows about the Patriot, interesting.
"Let's talk in private," Runes suggests, and we head to the office.
Once the door closes, Ortega drops the official act.
He slumps in the chair, suddenly looking even older and more tired.
"I've been hunting that psychopath for three years," he admits. "Lost my nephew to his poisoned dope last summer. Sixteen years old. Good kid, straight-A student. Tried what he thought was Xanax at a party. Dead in fifteen minutes."
"Sorry for your loss," Runes says, and means it.
We understand what losing family does to a person.
"I'm tired of playing by rules that protect him," Ortega continues. "Tired of kids dying because this sick fuck cuts everything with fentanyl. I know you have your own issues with him. The explosion at the Stromberg house wasn't exactly subtle."
So, he knows about that too.
This cop's done his homework.
"What are you proposing?" Fenrir asks carefully.
Ortega sets down the evidence bag, leans forward. "Unofficially? You help me get his lieutenants—the ones I can prosecute. I’ll build cases that will stick. But the Patriot himself?" He meets Runes' eyes. "I wouldn't be upset if he had an accident before I could arrest him."
"That's a dangerous statement for a cop," I spit out.
"Three kids died last night," Ortega snaps. "Youngest was fourteen. Found her in her bedroom, foam coming out of her mouth. Her parents thought she was trying marijuana for the first time. It wasn’t, it was something harder, and I get kids want to experiment…but." His voice cracks slightly. "I had to tell them their daughter died because some asshole wanted to maximize profits by cutting his drugs with poison."
The room goes quiet.
We all have kids in our lives—children, siblings, grandchildren.
"I can't put anything on paper," Ortega continues, pulling himself together. "But I can make sure certain response times are slow. Certain evidence gets misplaced. Certain witnesses don't get interviewed too thoroughly."
"We might have intel on some locations, some I’d be willing to share with you," Runes says carefully.
I speak up. "We just learned about a safe house. North side, Willowbrook Drive."
Ortega nods grimly. "He left there two hours ago. I had surveillance on it, but my hands were tied. No warrant, no probable cause the judges would accept. The ones he hasn't bought, anyway."
"Convenient," Fenrir mutters.
"His organization is bigger than you think," Ortega warns. "Shell companies, offshore accounts, cops on his payroll—including two in my own department. But he's also getting sloppy. The overdoses are bringing federal heat. DEA's sniffing around. FBI's interested too."
Runes leans back in his chair, "So you want to clean up your department's reputation before the feds do it for you."
"I want that bastard stopped," Ortega speaks plainly. "I don't care who does it or how. You get him, I get his network. Everyone wins except the Patriot."
"And you can live with that?" Fenrir asks. "Knowing what we'll do to him?"
Ortega stands, straightening his cheap tie. "My nephew's parents ask me every week if we've caught his killer. You know what I tell them? That we're working on it. That justice takes time." His face hardens. "I'm tired of lying to them. So yeah, I can live with whatever you do to that piece of shit."
They shake on it—an unholy alliance between us and law enforcement, something I never thought would happen.
After Ortega leaves, we head back to the basement.
Marcus hangs limp in his chains, blood pooling beneath him.
The gag muffles his whimpering. Kraken stands before him like a statue, waiting.
"We have the house," Runes announces. "And unexpected help from the cops."
"Too late." Marcus laughs weakly when Oskar removes the gag. "He's gone. Always one step ahead."
"We'll see about that," Kraken says quietly.
The calmness is more terrifying than the rage.
Runes nods to Kraken, who steps forward with the knife. "No more use for him."
What happens next is quick but brutal.
Marcus's screams cut off abruptly, and another body joins the pile.
We've all got blood on our hands now, but nobody sheds a tear for a man who bombs children.
Within thirty minutes, we're gearing up and ready to head the fuck out of here.
Runes sent Hakon to the spa with his EOD kit, Magnus and Rati along with him.
Hakon knows how to disable them, so I’m certain he’ll be fine.
Runes watches Kraken carefully, concerned about his state of mind.
Tor murmurs to Kraken as we put on bulletproof vests, then slide our cuts back on. "Keep it together, brother,"
"I'm fine," Kraken says, but his knuckles are white on his gun.
The group of us heads out, and we’re in the neighborhood before we know it.
It’s upscale—tree-lined streets, expensive cars, the last place you'd expect to find a drug lord.
The house is dark, no vehicles in the driveway.
These rich fuckers never see trouble coming to their doorstep.
Emil comments, "Looks empty."
Kraken’s already moving. "Only one way to find out."
We breach hard and fast, spreading through the house like we've done it a hundred times before.
But it's empty—recently vacated but empty.
The coffee maker's still warm, a cigarette burns in an ashtray, and the Patriot's gone.
Kraken loses control. "Fuck!"
He puts his fist through the wall, then starts destroying everything in sight.
Furniture flies, mirrors shatter, his rage spreading through the entire place.
We've all seen brothers lose it, but this is different.
"He was right here!" Kraken roars, throwing a chair through a window. "My boy's leg! My little girl, and he was right fucking here!"
We try to contain the damage, but Kraken's beyond reasoning.
He tears through the house like a hurricane, destroying everything the Patriot touched.
I see tears streaming down his face as he continues, finally feeling everything since his house was bombed, since his kids were hurt.
Runes' voice cuts through the destruction. "Enough!"
Our president stands in the doorway, taking in the devastation.
He approaches Kraken carefully. "Brother," Runes says quietly. "I know. Trust me, I know."
Kraken spins on him, wild-eyed. "He tried to kill my kids!"
"He tried to take my granddaughter," Runes counters. "Killed Flora, left Rio's babies without a mother. You think I don't want to tear him apart with my bare hands?"
Kraken’s chest heaves. "Then why aren't we?"
"Because this," Runes gestures at the destroyed room, "this is what he wants. Us out of control, makin’ mistakes. This isn't how we win, brother. This is how we lose."
Slowly, painfully, Kraken calms himself down.
He slumps against the wall, suddenly looking older than his years. "My boy asked why," he whispers. "Asked why someone wanted to hurt him. What do I tell him?"
"The truth," Runes says simply. "That there's evil in the world, but his family will always protect him. That we'll get justice."
"Justice," Kraken spits. "He's missing a leg. That's not justice."
"No," Runes agrees. "But what we do to the Patriot will be."
While Runes talks Kraken down, the rest of us search the house.
I find some partially burned documents in the fireplace—financial records, property deeds, text logs.
The Patriot was in a hurry when he left, so he knew we were coming.
"Got something," I call out.
The papers reveal more than what Marcus told us—multiple properties across the state, offshore accounts in the Caymans, connections to the smaller cartels in Mexico.
The smaller cartels are nothing when Liam’s step-mother is part of the big dogs—the Ramirezes.
The Patriot isn't just some local dealer.
He's trying to run a multinational operation.
"Jesus." Tor whistles. "Fucker’s been busy."
"Good," Kraken says, rejoining us. His eyes are red but focused again. "More ways to hurt him. More threads to pull until everything unravels."
We gather everything useful and head out.
The ride back is quiet, dawn breaking as we reach the clubhouse.
Hakon meets us at the door. "Disabled the device at the spa. Professional job—military grade explosives, sophisticated trigger mechanism. But nothing I couldn't handle. Would've taken out half the building, maybe killed everyone inside."
Another reminder of how close we came to another catastrophe.
If Marcus hadn't talked, if we'd waited until morning...
Fenrir speaks up next, "Everything cleaned up downstairs?"
"Already done," Oskar confirms. "Foundation's got a new permanent resident."
Runes nods.
Nobody mourns a child bomber.
Runes clears his throat. “Good work tonight, brothers. Go get some rest, we’ll need it for what’s coming.”
I head upstairs and go straight to our room.
Astrid’s curled in bed, but awake.
She sits up when I enter, taking in how I look I guess.
I still have blood on my clothes from being downstairs, shit I need to wash off. I’m too tired to, though.
"You okay?" she asks softly, already knowing the answer.
"Yeah." I sit heavily on the bed, suddenly feeling every one of my thirty-six years. "We were close. So fuckin’ close, Astrid."
She doesn't ask about Marcus, doesn't question the blood.
This is who we are now—she accepts it completely.
No judgment, no fear, just understanding what it takes to be part of this life.
She grabs my hand and gives it a squeeze, "Why’d a couple brothers rush over to the spa earlier?"
"There was a bomb. Hakon handled it. You're safe. All of you are safe."
She nods, processing this calmly, proving how far she’s come. "And the Patriot?"
"Still out there, but we're closing in. He won’t be able to keep this up for much longer, princess."
She crawls into my lap, arms around my neck, not giving a shit about my blood-stained clothes. "You'll get him. I know you will."
"Yeah," I agree, holding her close. "We will."
I tell her about Ortega, about how we created an alliance with him until this bullshit is over with.
She listens quietly, understanding everything. "The Patriot's got enemies on both sides now. Legal and illegal. You’re right, you know, it is only a matter of time."
"Exactly. Between us and the law, he's running out of places to hide."
She falls asleep against my chest as the sun rises fully.
I sit there thinking about the night—Marcus's confession, Ortega's offer, Kraken's breakdown, the empty house, how the women could’ve been killed if that bomb went off.
We might not have the Patriot yet, but we're going to get that bastard and he'll pay for everything he's done.
The war isn't over, but the tide's turning.
All we can do for now is live in the present.