Chapter 9 - Tank
"Maybe we're rescuing each other."
What the fuck is happening to me? Twenty-four hours ago, I was Tank—the cold Vice-President of the Savage Riders, the man who made grown men piss themselves with just a look.
Now I'm standing on a porch at dawn, naked, holding a woman in my arms and spouting romantic clichés like I'm in some goddamn Hallmark movie.
And the most insane part? I mean every word.
I want to protect Amelia and Anna. I want them to stay in Blackwater Falls. I want to see where this thing between us might go. It's like a switch has been flipped inside me, rewiring circuits I didn't even know I had.
Is this what King felt when he met Luna? When he went from hardened MC president to a man willing to risk everything for a woman he'd known for all of a day? I'd given him endless shit about it, questioned his judgment, thought it was just infatuation clouding his thinking.
Now I understand. Sometimes it doesn't take months or years to know. Sometimes it happens in an instant and fighting it is as pointless as fighting gravity.
"We should get dressed," I tell her reluctantly, bending to collect our scattered clothing from the porch. "It's getting colder."
She nods, accepting her clothes from me with a shy smile that seems almost comical after what we just did. We dress in silence, stealing glances at each other like teenagers after their first time.
Just as I'm zipping up my jeans, my phone starts vibrating in the pocket. I fish it out, checking the caller ID before answering.
"King," I say by way of greeting. "Everything good?"
His voice is tense, all business. "Mitchell's in town. Just checked into the Blackwater Motel about ten minutes ago. Shadow's just called me and said he got eyes on him."
My blood runs cold at the news, though part of me has been expecting it. "What about Rage?"
"He's with Shadow, too. I told them to hold position, not to approach until you get there."
"I'm on my way," I say immediately.
"Are you sure that's wise?" King asks, his voice measured. "You might be too... involved in this one."
The question stops me short. Am I too involved? After what just happened with Amelia, my objectivity is shot to hell. Part of me wants to tear Mitchell limb from limb just for making her afraid, let alone the years of abuse he inflicted.
"Whatever you felt when you met Luna," I say after a pause, "I understand it now."
King's chuckle is soft but knowing. "Then this is your problem to solve. Just make sure there's no blowback on the club. We've got enough heat with the Iron Eagles situation."
"Understood."
"Be careful, brother. Men like Mitchell, men who abuse their power and their families, they're unpredictable when cornered."
"I can handle unpredictable," I assure him.
"I know you can. Call when it's done."
I end the call and turn to Amelia, who's watching me with apprehension written across her face.
"Your ex is in town," I tell her, no point in sugar-coating it. "Checked into a motel about fifteen minutes from here. I'm going to make sure this gets solved before dawn."
Her face pales, but she doesn't fall apart like she might have yesterday. Instead, she straightens her shoulders, a determination settling over her features that I'm coming to recognize and admire.
She crosses to me, placing her hands on my bearded cheeks, her touch gentle but grounding. "Should I go with you? Confront him together?"
The question surprises me, though perhaps it shouldn't. Amelia has more courage than she gives herself credit for.
"No," I tell her firmly. "You should go back to bed, cuddle your daughter, and sleep. When you wake up, this will all be over."
Fear flickers across her face. Not of me, but of the uncertainty, the possibility that her nightmare might not end as cleanly as I'm promising. I pull her into my arms, another thing I'd never have considered doing days ago, and hold her close.
"You'll never have to worry about him or any other man again," I whisper against her hair. "I swear it."
When she pulls back, she's smiling. How the fuck did Mitchell have this beautiful, strong woman and choose to break her instead of cherish her?
"Good luck," she says, rising on her tiptoes to press a kiss to my cheek.
"Thanks." I reluctantly release her. "Let Beast sleep, he needs it. And keep an eye on him and Jenny. Don't let them get too close."
Amelia raises an eyebrow. "Are you really that worried about Beast and your sister?"
"Jenny deserves the best," I say simply. "And Beast is a good man, one of my most trusted brothers, but he's got demons to work through before he's ready to make anyone happy, let alone my little sister."
She nods, understanding. "Be safe."
"Always am."
I leave her on the porch, heading to the SUV parked nearby. As I start the engine and pull away, I check the rearview mirror to see her silhouetted in the doorway, watching me go.
Focus, Tank. Deal with Mitchell first. Sort out your feelings later.
The drive into town takes just under twenty minutes, the roads empty in these pre-dawn hours. I follow King's directions to the Blackwater Motel, a run-down place on the outskirts where the rooms go by the hour as often as by the night.
I spot Shadow's bike parked discreetly behind a convenience store across the street. Pulling in beside it, I cut the engine and step out.
Shadow materializes from the darkness like his namesake, moving with the silent skill that makes him invaluable for surveillance.
"Room 14," he says without preamble. "Rage is watching the back exit."
"Any movement since he checked in?"
Shadow shakes his head. "He made a few calls. Tried the police station first, but at this hour he only got the night dispatcher. Then called someone named Bryce. Asked about Jenny's brother."
He's gathering intel. Smart. Methodical. The kind of cop who does his homework before making a move.
"Has he been drinking?" I ask, thinking of what Amelia told me about his escalating violence when drunk.
"Brought a bottle in with him. He's put away at least half of it in the last hour."
Drunk and angry makes for a dangerous combination, but it also means he'll be sloppy. More likely to make mistakes.
"Okay. I'm going in. You and Rage stay out here, keep watch. If things go sideways, you hear gunshots, you call King immediately. Then you get the hell out of here."
"We're not leaving you," Rage says, appearing on my other side with his usual perfect timing.
"This isn't up for debate," I tell them firmly. "Mitchell's a cop. If this goes bad, the club can't be connected to it. This is my personal business, not club business."
They exchange a look, clearly not happy with the order but understanding the logic behind it.
"Give me twenty minutes," I continue. "If I'm not out by then, call King, then leave. He'll know what to do."
With reluctant nods, they agree. I start toward the motel, then pause, turning back.
"One more thing. If you hear a gunshot and then see me walk out alone, drive away. Don't approach me, don't call, just go. Get back to the clubhouse and wait for King's instructions."
"Jesus, Tank," Rage mutters. "You planning on doing something stupid?"
"Just covering all contingencies," I say with a shrug that feels too casual for the weight of the moment.
Before they can argue further, I cross the street toward room 14. The motel is silent, most occupants either passed out or gone for the night. A single light burns behind the grimy window of Mitchell's room.
I consider my approach. I could knock, pretend to be motel staff, catch him off guard. But no—a man like Mitchell, he deserves to see me coming. Deserves the fear that comes with knowing exactly who I am and why I'm here.
Without hesitation, I kick the door in, the cheap lock giving way easily under my boot. The door slams against the wall as I step into the room, filling the doorway with my frame.
Derek Mitchell sits on the edge of the bed, a half-empty bottle of whiskey in one hand, his service weapon in the other. He's younger than I expected, maybe mid-thirties, with the kind of clean-cut good looks that make people instinctively trust him. The perfect disguise for a monster.
He's on his feet instantly, gun trained on my chest, eyes wild with a mixture of fear and rage.
"Who the fuck are you?" he demands, voice slightly slurred from the alcohol. "How did you find me?"
I close the door behind me, calm as if I've been invited in for coffee rather than having a gun pointed at my heart.
"Marcus Bradley," I answer, using my real name. I want him to know who I am. "Jenny's brother. The one you've been asking about."
Recognition flickers across his face, followed by a sneer. "So, the bitch went running to her big brother after all. Should have known. Where's my wife and daughter?"
"Not your wife anymore," I correct him. "And Anna's not your concern from now on."
He laughs, an ugly sound that raises the hair on the back of my neck. "That's not how this works. That's my family. Mine. And I'm taking them home."
"No," I say simply. "You're not."
His finger twitches on the trigger. "I'm a cop, asshole. You know what happens to people who threaten cops? They disappear. Bodies never found. And no one asks questions."
I've faced men with guns before. Men with much steadier hands and clearer eyes than Derek Mitchell. I take a step forward, calling his bluff.
"You going to shoot me, Mitchell? Right here in a motel room in Blackwater Falls? Then what? My brothers are outside. They hear a shot, they're coming in. And there are a lot more of them than there are of you."
Uncertainty creeps into his expression. "Brothers?"
"Savage Riders MC," I clarify, watching his face pale slightly. Good. Our reputation precedes us. "This is our town. Our territory. And Amelia and Anna are under our protection now."
"Bullshit," he spits, but I can see the first crack in his confidence. "Amelia wouldn't get involved with biker trash. She's too proper, too careful."