Chapter 12
The call came at ten p.m.
Stockton was in his room with Trish—three days of stolen hours, tangled sheets, and the slow unraveling of walls they'd both built too high—when his phone lit up with Scout's name.
"We've got a problem."
He was on his feet before Scout finished the sentence. "What kind?"
"Coordinated hits. Three Wolf-connected businesses. Bakery on Ashland, the bodega on Halsted, and the dry cleaner near Pilsen." Scout's voice was tight. "Warren's making a statement."
"Casualties?"
"Unknown. Brothers are rolling now."
Stockton hung up and reached for his cut. Trish was already sitting up, the sheet pooling around her waist, her eyes sharp with understanding.
"Warren?" she asked.
"His people. Three businesses, hit at the same time." He pulled on his boots, his movements fast and precise. "Stay here. Lock the door. Don't open it for anyone but me."
"I can help—"
"Not this time." He crossed to the bed and cupped her face in his hands, kissing her hard. "I need to know you're safe so I can focus on ending this. Okay?"
She held his gaze for a long moment. Then she nodded.
"Be careful," she said.
"Always."
He was out the door and down the stairs in thirty seconds. The compound was already alive—brothers gearing up, bikes starting, the controlled chaos of men preparing for war.
Alpha met him in the lot. "Scout's got eyes on the coordination point. Coffee shop on Western—someone's running this like an operation."
"Morris Dent." Stockton recognized the pattern immediately.
Warren's accountant, the embezzler who'd turned his prison education into a money laundering empire.
"He's the brains. Takes out our cash businesses, mirrors the profile of the laundromat.
Shows the neighborhood that fighting back doesn't work. "
"Then we take out the brains." Alpha's jaw was set. "Fang's with you. Scout and Razor are securing the businesses. I've got the compound."
Stockton swung onto his bike. Fang pulled up beside him, silent and ready, his face carved from the same stone as the stockyards his family had worked for generations.
They rode into the night.
The coffee shop was a twenty-four-hour place on Western, the kind of anonymous establishment where nobody remembered faces and cash changed hands without questions.
Morris Dent sat in a back booth, laptop open, phone pressed to his ear, directing his crews like a general commanding troops from a bunker.
Stockton watched through the window for thirty seconds. Counted bodies. Two men at the counter—backup, probably armed. Morris in the booth, focused on his screen, occasionally speaking into the phone with the calm cadence of a man running numbers.
"Two plus the target," Fang said quietly.
"I'll take Morris. You handle the muscle."
"Copy."
They didn't go through the front.
Stockton circled to the service entrance—a metal door that led to the kitchen, locked but not reinforced. Twenty years of this work had taught him that most security was theater. People locked the front door and forgot about the back.
He put his shoulder through the flimsy frame and was inside before the cook could scream.
The kitchen connected to the main room through a swinging door. Stockton went through it low and fast, clearing the counter with three strides, his gun already drawn by the time Morris looked up from his laptop.
The two backup men reached for their weapons.
Fang came through the front door like a freight train.
The first man went down with a bullet in the shoulder, his gun clattering across the floor. The second tried to run—a mistake, because running meant turning his back, and Fang didn't waste opportunities. Two shots, center mass. The man crumpled.
Morris was on his feet now, phone still in hand, his accountant's face twisted with something that might have been fear or might have been calculation.
"You're making a mistake," he said. His voice was steady—prison steady, the kind of calm that came from twelve years of never showing weakness. "Warren will burn this city down—"
"Warren's not here." Stockton closed the distance between them. "Warren sent you to do his dirty work while he hides. That's the problem with bosses who never get their hands bloody—they don't understand what it costs."
"I'm a businessman. I don't—"
"You coordinated three attacks on Wolf territory tonight. You targeted our people. Our businesses." Stockton's voice was flat. Cold. "That makes you a combatant."
Morris's eyes flicked to the door. To Fang, standing over the bodies. Back to Stockton.
"We can make a deal," he said. "I know Warren's operation. Every account, every connection, every dollar that moves through his network. I can give you everything—"
"I don't need everything." Stockton grabbed him by the collar and dragged him toward the back door. "I just need you to stop breathing."
They took him out through the kitchen, past the cook who'd wisely stayed on the floor, into the alley behind the building. Morris struggled—prison-hard, stronger than he looked—but Stockton had been doing this since Morris was learning to balance books legitimately.
The accountant ended up against the wall, his expensive jacket scraping brick, his face finally showing real fear.
"Please—"
"You sent men to hurt people under my protection." Stockton drew his knife. "You thought you could run this like a ledger. Debits and credits. Cost-benefit analysis. But there's no calculation for this."
He put the blade in Morris Dent's chest, angled up, the same way he'd ended Big T. Quick. Efficient. Final.
Morris slid down the wall, his eyes going glassy, his last breath escaping in a wet gurgle.
Stockton stepped back. Wiped the blade. Looked at Fang.
"Businesses?"
Fang checked his phone. "Scout's got the bakery locked down. Razor's securing the bodega. Dry cleaner's clear—owner's shaken but alive."
"And Warren?"
"No sign. He's in the wind."
Stockton stared at Morris's body. The accountant had been the operation's brain—the man who identified targets, managed the books, kept the laundering volume under federal radar. Without him, Warren was just muscle and ambition.
But muscle and ambition were still dangerous.
"Clean this up," Stockton said. "I need to check on Trish."
He found her at the dry cleaner.
Scout had called ahead—one of their people was panicking, the owner who'd been there when Warren's crew kicked in the door. Someone needed to keep her calm while the brothers secured the scene.
Trish had volunteered.
She was behind the counter when Stockton walked in, her arm around a middle-aged woman who was shaking like a leaf in a storm. The back room was locked, the register secured, the front window boarded over where someone had put a brick through it.
"You're supposed to be at the compound," Stockton said.
"She needed help." Trish's voice was steady. "Scout said they didn't have anyone to spare, and I know how to handle a cash register and a scared woman."
The owner—Gloria, according to the name on her apron—looked up at him with wet eyes. "She talked me through it. Kept me from falling apart."
"She's good at that."
Trish met his gaze over Gloria's head. She was pale, her hands not quite steady, but her spine was straight and her jaw was set. She'd walked into a crime scene and done the work that needed doing.
His woman. Proving herself without being asked.
"The crews are handled," he said. "Morris Dent won't be coordinating anything anymore."
"Warren?"
"Still out there. But weaker now." He moved toward the counter, his eyes never leaving hers. "You should have stayed at the compound."
"Probably." She didn't look away. "But I couldn't just sit there while people needed help."
"I know." He reached across the counter and took her hand. "That's what makes you dangerous."
"Dangerous?"
"To me." He squeezed her fingers. "Every time you prove you can handle this world, I want you in it more. And that's terrifying."
Gloria had stopped crying, watching them with the confused expression of a woman who'd just survived an attack and was now witnessing something she didn't quite understand.
"We should go," Trish said quietly. "Get her somewhere safe."
"Razor's bringing a car. He'll take her to her sister's place in Bridgeport." Stockton released her hand. "You're riding with me."
They waited until Razor arrived—a quick exchange of information, Gloria handed off to capable hands, the dry cleaner locked down tight. Then Stockton led Trish out to his bike, still parked at the curb, still warm from the ride over.
She swung on behind him without hesitation. Her arms wrapped around his waist, her body pressing against his back, warm and solid and alive.
"Morris Dent," she said against his shoulder. "He's the one who—"
"He was Warren's accountant. Ran the whole operation from behind a laptop." Stockton kicked the engine to life. "He's not running anything anymore."
"Good."
One word. No hesitation. No horror at what he'd done, no questions about whether it was necessary.
Just acceptance.
Just understanding.
They rode back to the compound through streets that were quieter now, the violence contained, the message delivered.
Warren had tried to prove that fighting the Wolves had consequences.
Instead, he'd lost his accountant, his muscle, and any illusion that he could operate in this territory without paying in blood.
The war wasn't over. But tonight, the Wolves had won.
The compound was quiet when they pulled through the gate.
Brothers were still out—securing scenes, running cleanup, making sure Warren's remaining crew knew the cost of tonight's failure. Alpha stood on the clubhouse steps, arms crossed, watching them dismount.
"Casualties?" Stockton asked.
"None. Some property damage, couple of scared business owners, but no bodies on our side." Alpha's eyes moved to Trish. "Heard you helped at the dry cleaner."
"Someone had to."
"Someone did." Something like respect flickered in Alpha's expression. "Get some rest. Both of you. Tomorrow we start hunting Warren."
Stockton guided Trish inside, past the empty common room, up the stairs to his room. She was quiet—processing, probably, the reality of what she'd walked into. What she'd chosen to be part of.
At his door, she stopped.
"You killed him," she said. Not a question.
"Yes."
"And you'll kill Warren too."
"When I find him."
She looked at him—the blood he hadn't quite washed from his knuckles, the weight in his eyes, the man who'd built a club on violence and would defend it the same way.
Then she opened the door and walked inside.
"Coming?" she asked over her shoulder.
Stockton followed her in and closed the door behind them.