Chapter 18
The call to church came at noon.
Trish watched the brothers file into the chapel—Fang, Lakeshore, Stockyard, Scout, Razor, and finally Alpha—their faces set with the grim determination of men who knew what was coming. The war was ending tonight. One way or another.
She wasn't allowed inside. Church was for patched members only, and she understood that. But when Stockton paused at the chapel door, he looked back at her.
"Stay close," he said. "We might need you."
"Need me how?"
"You know Warren's patterns better than anyone. Six weeks of watching his crew—you might have something we don't."
She nodded. "I'll be here."
The chapel door closed, and she settled into a chair in the hallway to wait.
Twenty minutes later, the door opened.
Alpha stepped out first, his expression unreadable. Behind him, Stockton gestured for her to come in.
The chapel was smaller than she'd expected—a long table surrounded by chairs, the original charter hanging on the wall behind the president's seat. The air smelled like leather and something else, something older. History. Blood. Twenty years of decisions made in this room.
"Sit," Alpha said, pointing to an empty chair at the end of the table.
She sat.
"Scout found Warren," Stockton said. "He's holed up in a warehouse off Halsted. Rented space, cash deal, no paper trail. He's been there since we killed Jamie."
"How many men does he have left?"
"Three. Maybe four." Scout spread a rough map on the table—hand-drawn, marked with positions and entry points. "He's running out of muscle. Most of his Stateville crew scattered when Morris died. The ones left are loyal, but they're scared."
"Scared men are dangerous," Fang said. "They make stupid moves."
"Exactly." Alpha leaned forward. "We hit tonight. Small team—Stockton, Fang, Scout, Razor. I stay with the compound in case Warren tries anything desperate."
Trish looked at the map, something nagging at her memory. The location. The street.
"That warehouse," she said slowly. "Is it the one near the old loading docks? Red brick, chain-link fence?"
Scout's eyes sharpened. "You know it?"
"One of my regulars—Mrs. Delgado—her brother drives a delivery truck.
He passes that warehouse every Saturday night.
Says there's always activity after ten." She closed her eyes, pulling up the conversation.
"He told me about it weeks ago, before Warren even approached me.
Said it looked like some kind of drop-off point. "
"What kind of activity?"
"Vehicles coming and going. Men loading things. Cash-heavy operations, he figured—nobody runs legitimate business at midnight on a weekend." She opened her eyes. "He mentioned it because he thought it was strange. I didn't think anything of it at the time."
Stockton and Alpha exchanged a look.
"Saturday night," Alpha said. "That's when Warren processes his laundered cash. Has to be."
"Which means tonight's Saturday." Scout traced a line on the map. "If we hit during the processing window, we catch him with money on the table. Evidence. Proof he's still operating."
"Not that we need proof," Fang said. "Dead men don't go to trial."
"No." Alpha's voice was hard. "But if something goes wrong—if Warren has backup we don't know about—having evidence means leverage. Insurance."
Trish looked around the table at these men who'd become her family. Hard faces, scarred hands, the weight of two decades of violence in every line of their bodies. They were planning a murder. An execution. And she was helping them.
She didn't feel guilty.
She felt ready.
"What time does the delivery truck pass?" Stockton asked.
"Ten-fifteen. He's been running the same route for three years."
"So we hit at ten-thirty. Warren will be settling in, thinking he's safe for the night. His guard will be down."
Alpha nodded slowly. "Good intel." His eyes moved to Trish. "You've earned your place."
"I didn't do much."
"You paid attention. You remembered. That's more than most civilians manage." Alpha stood, signaling the end of the meeting. "Everyone gear up. We roll at nine-thirty."
The brothers filed out, leaving Trish alone with Stockton.
"You okay?" he asked.
"I'm the one who should be asking you that." She stood and crossed to him. "You're about to ride into a warehouse full of men who want to kill you."
"Three or four men. And they don't want to kill me—they're just too desperate to do anything else." He cupped her face in his hands. "This is what I do. What I've always done. The only difference is now I have something to come home to."
"Promise me you'll come home."
"I promise." He kissed her—slow, thorough, the kiss of a man making sure she remembered exactly how he tasted. "I'm ending this tonight. For you. For Mae. For everyone Warren tried to destroy."
"And for yourself."
"Yeah." He rested his forehead against hers. "For myself too."
The garage was chaos.
Brothers checking weapons. Loading magazines. Testing gear. The organized preparation of men who'd done this a hundred times and planned to do it a hundred more.
Trish stood by the wall, watching.
She watched Razor strap a knife to his boot with the casual efficiency of someone putting on shoes. Watched Scout check a tablet showing real-time surveillance of the warehouse. Watched Fang load a shotgun and rack the slide with a sound that echoed off the concrete walls.
And she watched Stockton.
He moved through the garage with the steady authority she'd come to recognize—speaking to each brother, checking their readiness, making sure everything was in place. The founding member. The man who'd built this pack from nothing and was about to finish what he'd started.
When he was done, he came to her.
"It's time," he said.
"I know."
They walked out of the garage together, into the lot where the bikes waited. The sun was setting, painting the sky orange and red above the industrial skyline. Beautiful, in that savage Chicago way.
"When I come back," he said, "we start rebuilding. The laundromat. Our life. All of it."
"I'll be ready."
"I know you will." He pulled her close, his arms wrapping around her like he wanted to memorize the shape of her.
"You're the strongest woman I've ever known.
You stood up to Warren when no one else would.
You watched his men die and didn't flinch.
You made yourself part of this world instead of running from it. "
"I didn't have a choice."
"Everyone has a choice." He pulled back to look at her. "You chose to fight. To stay. To be here. That's not weakness—that's courage."
She kissed him. Not long, not lingering—there wasn't time. Just enough to say everything words couldn't.
"Come home to me," she said.
"Always."
He swung onto his bike. Around him, the other brothers were mounting up—Fang, Scout, Razor—their engines rumbling to life one by one. The sound filled the lot, vibrating through her chest, the pulse of the pack preparing to hunt.
Alpha stood on the clubhouse steps, arms crossed, watching his men go to war.
"Stockton," he called.
Stockton looked up.
"Finish it."
"I will."
The bikes rolled toward the gate. Trish watched them go—Stockton at the front, leading from the position he'd earned twenty years ago. The founding member. The old guard. The man who'd started all of this and was riding out to end it.
The gate opened. The bikes poured through. And then they were gone, disappearing into the gathering dark.
She stood in the lot for a long moment, listening to the engine sounds fade.
Claire appeared beside her. "It never gets easier."
"What doesn't?"
"Watching them ride out." Claire's eyes were fixed on the gate, on the empty street beyond. "You learn to live with it. The waiting. The not knowing. But it never gets easier."
"How do you do it?"
"I trust him." Claire turned to face her. "Alpha, Stockton, all of them—they've been doing this for twenty years. They know how to survive. They know how to come home."
"And if they don't?"
"Then we carry on. Because that's what the old ladies do." Claire's hand found hers and squeezed. "But tonight isn't going to be that night. I can feel it."
Trish hoped she was right.
She stayed in the lot until the last of the engine sounds disappeared. Until the street was quiet and the sky had faded to purple. Until all that was left was the compound behind her and the empty road ahead.
The man who founded this club was riding toward the reason he founded it.
And all she could do was wait for him to come home.