Chapter 18
Church was not what Bethany expected.
She'd imagined something formal—rituals and traditions, maybe some kind of oath-swearing or secret handshakes. Instead, it was a dozen dangerous men crowded around a scarred wooden table, arguing about the best way to destroy Carl Jessup.
"And security?" Anchor's voice carried the weight of command even when asking questions.
"Unknown. Parrish handled that side of things, and he's not talking anymore." Hurricane's cold smile flickered. "We took out his brain trust. Whatever's left is muscle and money."
Bethany stood near the doorway, uncertain if she was supposed to be here. Trawler had brought her without explanation, just a hand on her lower back guiding her into the room where Salt Blood made its decisions.
"You've got something to add."
She startled. Anchor was looking at her, those steady captain's eyes seeing straight through her hesitation.
"I—what?"
"You've been in Jessup's territory for six years. Watched him squeeze businesses, learned his patterns." Anchor gestured to the empty chair beside Trawler. "Sit. Talk."
She sat, acutely aware of every eye in the room turning toward her. These were men who solved problems with violence, who'd killed and would kill again. And they were waiting for her to contribute.
Well. Here goes nothing.
"The warehouse is his base, but it's not his only operation," she started, her voice steadier than she felt.
"He's got collection routes that run like clockwork—every Tuesday and Friday, his guys hit the businesses on their list. The money comes back to the warehouse, gets counted, gets distributed. "
"When's the next collection day?"
"Tomorrow's Friday. They'll be out making rounds all afternoon."
Hurricane leaned forward. "So we hit the warehouse while his crew is scattered."
"That's part of it." Bethany pulled the map closer, orienting herself. "But there's something else. Jessup's paranoid—always has been. He doesn't stay at the warehouse overnight. Has a place somewhere outside town, rotates between three or four locations."
"You know where?"
"No. But I know when he's at the warehouse." She tapped the map. "Friday nights, after collections come in. He counts the money himself, doesn't trust anyone else to do it. Eight PM, like clockwork. He'll have guards, but most of his crew will be at the bars celebrating another successful squeeze."
Silence around the table. Then Compass spoke, his sharp green eyes calculating.
"If we hit at eight, we catch him with skeleton crew. Most of his muscle is out spending their cut." He traced a finger along the map. "Route 17's isolated—one road in, one road out. We block the exit, he's trapped."
"What about reinforcements?" Breaker asked. "His boys hear shooting, they'll come running."
"Let them." Hurricane's smile turned vicious. "By the time they get there, Jessup's dead and we're gone. They can fight over the scraps."
The discussion continued—entry points, positioning, contingencies. Bethany listened, contributing when she could, filling in details about Jessup's habits and the businesses under his thumb. The brothers absorbed everything, fitting her knowledge into their plans like pieces of a puzzle.
She was part of this. Not just a woman under protection, not just someone to be kept safe while men handled danger. She was contributing. Her years of watching and listening and surviving in Jessup's territory had value.
It felt like finally being seen.
"Trawler." Anchor's voice cut through a debate about approach angles. "You're taking point."
"Yes."
"Your assessment?"
Trawler had been quiet throughout the meeting, that stone-mountain presence absorbing information without comment. Now he straightened, and Bethany watched the room shift its attention to him with a respect that bordered on reverence.
"Warehouse has three entry points—main door, loading dock, emergency exit on the east side.
We hit all three simultaneously, cut off escape routes before Jessup knows we're there.
" His voice was calm, certain. "Hurricane and Riptide take the loading dock.
Breaker and Compass on the emergency exit. I'll go through the front."
"Alone?" Bethany heard herself ask.
"I work better alone." His dark eyes found hers, something complicated moving behind them. "Jessup's mine. I want to look him in the face when he understands what's happening."
"This is personal," Anchor observed. It wasn't a question.
"He burned her bar. Sent men to kill her. Tried to destroy everything we've built here." Trawler's jaw tightened. "Yeah. It's personal."
No one argued. The room seemed to accept that Trawler had earned the right to end this personally, that his claim on Jessup's death was as valid as any tactical consideration.
"Tomorrow night, then." Anchor's voice carried finality. "Eight PM. We end this."
The meeting dissolved into smaller conversations—brothers comparing notes, checking weapons, handling the thousand details that went into coordinated violence. Bethany stayed in her chair, processing the reality of what was about to happen.
Tomorrow night, Carl Jessup would die.
The man who'd burned her bar, threatened her life, sent killers to her door—he'd be gone. And she'd be free.
Trawler's hand found her shoulder. "Come with me."
She followed him out of the main room, through the compound's winding hallways, until they reached the quiet corner near the back stairs. He turned to face her, and she knew before he spoke what was coming.
"You're not going tomorrow."
"Trawler—"
"This isn't negotiable." His voice was firm, but his eyes were soft. "I need you here. Safe. Where I know nothing can touch you."
"I've proven I can handle myself. The compound assault, Faulk's crew—I'm not some helpless—"
"I know you're not helpless." He stepped closer, crowding her space the way she'd learned to love. "You're the furthest thing from helpless I've ever met. But tomorrow night, I'm leading the assault on Jessup's warehouse. I can't do that and protect you at the same time."
"I don't need—"
"Yes, you do." His hands found her hips, pulling her against him. "And I need to know you're safe. If you're there, if something goes wrong, I won't be able to think straight. I'll be watching you instead of watching Jessup, and that's how people get killed."
She wanted to argue. Wanted to remind him that she'd killed men, that she'd held a rifle during a firefight, that she wasn't the scared bartender he'd met in Port Mason anymore.
But she looked at his face—at the fear hiding behind his certainty, the desperate need to keep her safe that overrode everything else—and the arguments died in her throat.
"You're asking me to stay behind while you risk your life."
"I'm asking you to trust me." His forehead pressed against hers. "I'm asking you to let me end this the right way—clean, professional, without distractions. And then I'm asking you to be here when I come home."
When I come home. Not if. When.
"You promise you're coming back?"
"I promise I'll do everything in my power." His voice dropped to a rough whisper. "I've got something to live for now. That's not nothing."
She closed her eyes, letting the weight of his words settle into her bones. He was right—she knew he was right. Her presence would be a liability, a pressure point Jessup could exploit. The best thing she could do was wait.
But God, waiting was going to be agony.
"I hate this," she said.
"I know."
"I hate being the one who stays behind. I hate not being able to fight beside you."
"I know." He kissed her forehead. "But you're fighting anyway. Everything you told them in that room—the patterns, the schedules, the way Jessup operates. That's your contribution. That's you helping end this."
"It doesn't feel like enough."
"It's everything." He pulled back to look at her, his dark eyes fierce. "We wouldn't have a plan without you. We'd be going in blind, guessing, hoping. Instead, we're going in smart. Because of you."
She wanted to cry. Wanted to rage against the unfairness of loving a man who walked into danger as naturally as breathing. Wanted to demand that he stay, that he let someone else lead the assault, that he choose her over his duty.
But that wasn't who he was. And loving him meant accepting all of it—the violence, the duty, the quiet certainty that he'd always put himself between danger and the people he cared about.
"Come back to me," she whispered. "That's an order."
His mouth curved. "Thought you didn't give orders."
"I'm making an exception." She grabbed his cut, pulling him down for a kiss that was equal parts desperation and promise. "You kill Jessup. You end this. And then you come home and spend the rest of your life making it up to me."
"The rest of my life?"
"At minimum." She tried to smile through the tightness in her chest. "I'm very high maintenance. Ask anyone."
"I've noticed." But he was smiling too, that rare expression that transformed his whole face. "Rest of my life sounds about right."
They stood there for a long moment, wrapped in each other, the weight of tomorrow pressing down on them both.
Tomorrow, it ended. One way or another.
"I love you," she said, because she couldn't not say it. Because tomorrow he was walking into a firefight and she needed him to know.
"I know." He kissed her again, deep and thorough. "I'll show you how much when I get back."
"More actions instead of words?"
"You said mine were deafening."
Despite everything—the fear, the uncertainty, the looming violence—she laughed. "They are. But maybe throw in a few words too. For variety."
"I'll work on it."
They walked back toward the main room together, his hand in hers. The compound was buzzing with preparation now—brothers checking gear, mapping routes, handling the business of ending a threat. Tomorrow night, everything changed.
But tonight, she had him. Tonight, she could hold him close and pretend that love was enough to keep anyone safe.
At the door to the stairs, she stopped.
"Trawler."
He turned.
"Make it hurt." Her voice came out harder than she intended. "When you find him. Make him understand what he tried to take from us."
Something dark flickered in his eyes—that cold violence she'd seen the night he came back from Faulk, the part of him that was capable of terrible things.
"I will."
She nodded once, then headed upstairs to prepare for the longest wait of her life.
This was the endgame. And all she could do was trust the man she loved to finish it.