Chapter 12
Trawler was out of bed and moving before the sound fully registered, muscle memory taking over. He grabbed his piece from the nightstand, checked the magazine—full—and was halfway to the door when Bethany's voice cut through the darkness.
"What is it?"
"Stay here." He pulled on his boots, not bothering with a shirt. "Lock the door behind me. Don't open it for anyone but me or Anchor."
"Trawler—"
"Promise me."
Her jaw set in that stubborn way he'd learned to love, but she nodded. "I promise. Be careful."
He kissed her hard—fast and fierce, a claiming that might have to last—then he was out the door and moving.
The compound had erupted into controlled chaos. Brothers poured from their rooms, weapons appearing like they'd been sleeping with them. Because they had. Trawler had drilled that protocol into them months ago: guns within arm's reach, always.
Hurricane met him at the main stairwell, cold smile already in place. "Perimeter breach. East fence, near the dock access."
"How many?"
"Scouts count fifteen. Maybe more in reserve."
Fifteen. More than Dunlap had brought to the bar. More than anyone had thrown at Salt Blood in years.
Jessup wasn't playing anymore.
"Positions," Trawler ordered, his voice cutting through the chaos. "Riptide, take the south approach. Breaker, you're on the garage. Compass—" He found the road captain already moving toward the armory. "Get everyone who can't fight into the safe room. Now."
"What about you?"
"I'm going to find whoever's running this."
He hit the main floor at a dead sprint, scanning the windows for movement. The motion sensors he'd installed last month had done their job—early warning gave them precious minutes to organize. Minutes that meant the difference between ambush and defense.
Through the eastern windows, he caught muzzle flashes. Return fire from the brothers on that flank. The assault had begun.
Trawler moved toward the back of the building, where the old processing plant's loading dock offered a view of the approach from the water.
If he were running this assault, that's where he'd position command—elevated ground, clear sight lines, close enough to direct traffic but far enough to stay out of the initial crossfire.
He slipped out a side door, keeping low, using the predawn shadows for cover. Gunfire crackled across the compound now, concentrated bursts suggesting disciplined shooters. Not street thugs this time. Jessup had brought professionals.
Good. Professionals followed patterns. And patterns could be exploited.
The loading dock came into view, and Trawler's instincts proved right. Three figures crouched behind a rusted shipping container, one of them speaking into a radio with the calm authority of a man used to giving orders.
Eddie Parrish. Jessup's operations manager.
Trawler had studied the man's file—former accountant turned criminal, the brain behind Jessup's territorial expansion. He ran the racket's logistics like a Fortune 500 company, scheduling collections and organizing enforcers with spreadsheet precision.
Tonight, he was running an assault on Salt Blood's home.
Not for long.
Trawler circled wide, using the compound's layout to his advantage. He knew every shadow, every blind spot, every piece of cover within a hundred yards. His territory. His ground.
Parrish's guards never saw him coming.
The first went down with a broken neck—quick, silent, no time to warn his boss. The second managed a strangled shout before Trawler's fist caved in his throat. Parrish spun, reaching for his weapon, but Trawler was already on him.
They hit the concrete hard, Parrish's head bouncing off the loading dock with a crack that had to hurt. The operations manager was strong—wiry, desperate—but Trawler had sixty pounds on him and fury burning in his chest.
"Call it off," Trawler growled, pinning Parrish's gun hand to the ground. "Tell your men to stand down."
Parrish laughed, blood in his teeth. "You think this ends with me? Jessup will burn this place to the ground. You killed Wayne. You think he's going to let that slide?"
"Where is he?"
"Safe. Far away. Watching." Parrish's smile was a bloody grimace. "He wanted me to deliver a message. The woman dies. Tonight. Everything you care about burns."
Something cold and vicious uncoiled in Trawler's chest.
"Wrong answer."
He grabbed Parrish's head in both hands and twisted.
The crack echoed across the loading dock, sharp and final. Parrish's body went limp, that smug smile frozen on his face. The operations manager who'd coordinated the assault on their home, who'd promised Bethany's death, was done giving orders.
Trawler grabbed the radio from Parrish's belt. "This is Salt Blood. Your commander is dead. Retreat now or join him."
Static. Then—gunfire in the distance, frantic shouting, the sound of engines revving.
They were running.
The compound had become a warzone.
Trawler moved through smoke and chaos, checking on brothers, assessing damage.
Hurricane had taken a bullet through the shoulder but was still fighting, cold smile now genuine as he dropped another attacker.
Riptide was bleeding from a gash on his forehead but functional.
Breaker had turned the garage into a fortress, and the bodies outside its doors proved why.
But the compound had held. Trawler's preparations—the reinforced positions, the early warning systems, the drilling he'd put the brothers through—had turned a surprise assault into a defensive victory.
Jessup's men were retreating, trucks peeling out of the eastern approach with Salt Blood rounds chasing them. They'd come expecting to overwhelm, to burn, to finish what Dunlap had started.
They'd learned better.
"Casualties?" Trawler demanded as Anchor appeared beside him.
"Two wounded—Hurricane and a prospect named Denny. Both stable." The president's steady gaze swept the compound, cataloging damage. "We lost some windows, some vehicles. Nothing we can't fix."
"And them?"
"Counting bodies now. At least eight down, probably more bleeding out somewhere." Anchor's jaw tightened. "They hit us hard. Would've been worse without your systems."
"Parrish is dead. I took him on the loading dock."
"The operations guy?"
"He was running it. Said Jessup wanted to send a message." Trawler's hands curled into fists. "Said the woman dies tonight."
Anchor's eyes sharpened. "Bethany?"
"She's in my room. Told her to stay locked in until—"
"TRAWLER!"
Bethany's voice, cutting through the chaos like a blade.
He was moving before he consciously decided to, shoving through debris and brothers, following her voice toward the northern corner of the compound. Fear clawed at his throat—he'd told her to stay locked in, told her to wait, but if someone had breached—
He rounded the corner and stopped dead.
Bethany stood in a defensive position behind an overturned table, borrowed rifle pressed to her shoulder, barrel trained on two bodies crumpled in the doorway. Her face was pale but focused, her hands white-knuckled but steady.
"They came through the kitchen entrance," she said, voice too calm. "I heard them breaking in. The safe room was too far."
"You were supposed to stay in my room."
"Your room doesn't have a clear shot at the kitchen door." She finally lowered the rifle, meeting his eyes. "I'm a bartender, Trawler. I know how to handle drunks who don't take no for an answer. These assholes were just drunks with guns."
He stared at her. At the woman who'd grabbed a shotgun against four men, who'd ridden out of her burning life on the back of his Harley, who'd just dropped two armed attackers because hiding wasn't in her nature.
"You killed them."
"They were going to kill me." Her chin came up, defiant. "Was I supposed to let them?"
"No." He crossed the distance between them in three strides and pulled her against his chest, rifle and all. "You were supposed to survive. That's exactly what you did."
She trembled against him—the adrenaline crash hitting, all that fierce control finally cracking. He held her tighter, pressing his face into her hair, breathing her in.
Alive. Safe. Mine.
"I've never killed anyone before tonight," she whispered against his chest.
"I know."
"I should feel... I don't know. Something. Horror. Guilt." She pulled back to look at him, something haunted in her eyes. "But all I feel is relief. They came to kill us, and I stopped them, and I'm glad."
"That's survival." He cupped her face in his hands, forcing her to meet his gaze. "You did what you had to do. There's no shame in that."
"Is this what it's always like? Being part of this?"
He thought about Dunlap's throat under his hands, about Parrish's neck snapping on the loading dock, about all the violence he'd committed in the name of protection.
"Sometimes," he admitted. "When people come for what's yours."
Her hands found his chest, pressing flat over his heartbeat. "You're not hurt? They didn't—"
"I'm fine. Parrish is dead. His crew is running."
"Parrish?"
"Jessup's operations manager. He was leading the assault." Trawler's jaw tightened at the memory. "Said they were here to kill you. Burn everything we care about."
"But Jessup himself—"
"Wasn't here. He sent his people to do his dirty work." Trawler spat the words like a curse. "Coward. Hides behind hired muscle while his men die."
"Which means he's still out there."
"For now." He pulled her close again, needing to feel her heartbeat against his. "But we hurt him tonight. Dunlap's dead. Parrish is dead. Half his crew is bleeding out in our parking lot. He's running out of soldiers."
Hurricane appeared in the doorway, shoulder wrapped in bloody bandages but grin firmly in place. He took in the scene—Bethany in Trawler's arms, the two bodies on the floor, the borrowed rifle still in her grip.
"Damn," the VP said appreciatively. "She really did shoot them."
"Kitchen breach. She handled it."
"By herself?"
"I'm standing right here," Bethany muttered. "And yes, by myself. It wasn't complicated—point the boom end at the bad guys, pull the trigger."
Hurricane's grin widened. "I like her more every day."
"Go check on Denny," Trawler ordered. "Make sure the prospect doesn't bleed out before he earns his patch."
"Sir, yes sir." Hurricane threw a lazy salute and disappeared.
Dawn was breaking over the Chesapeake, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. The compound was battered—broken glass, bullet holes, smoke still rising from somewhere near the garage—but standing. Salt Blood had weathered the assault, and Jessup's message had been answered in blood.
Bethany leaned into him, exhaustion finally winning over adrenaline. "What happens now?"
"Now we count our losses. Tend our wounded. Figure out our next move."
"And Jessup?"
Trawler looked at the bodies in the doorway, at the rifle still clutched in Bethany's hands, at the woman who'd proven herself a warrior when everything was on the line.
"Now he knows what he's dealing with," Trawler said. "And now we start hunting him back."