Chapter 19
They found the camp at dusk.
Wake cut the boat's engine a quarter mile out and let the hull drift, reading the shoreline through the fading light.
The Razorbacks had chosen well—a clearing tucked into a cove, accessible by a single gravel road that wound through two miles of forest. Anyone coming by land would be spotted long before they arrived.
But Wake wasn't coming by land.
"Six bikes visible," Current murmured beside him, binoculars pressed to his eyes. "Campfire going. At least four men around it, probably more in the trees."
"Samples?"
"Can't tell from here. But this is his camp. Intel says he's been running operations out of this clearing for the last week."
Wake studied the shoreline. Rocky bank, maybe thirty feet of open ground between the water and the tree line. The fire was set back another fifty yards, giving the Razorbacks good sight lines but also creating shadows they could use.
He knew this cove. Had fixed a boat here once, years ago, for a lakeside property owner who'd run aground on the rocks. The bottom was shallow near the shore—too shallow for a fast approach—but there was a deeper channel on the eastern edge where the water cut close to the trees.
"I'll go in through the east channel," Wake said. "Current, you take the boat around to the north point. Cut off the water exit."
"And land?"
"Cottonmouth and Limestone are hitting the road in—" Wake checked his watch. "Seven minutes. Anyone who runs that direction meets them."
Current nodded, already moving to the helm. "What about Maddox?"
"Intel says he's not here. Staying mobile since the compound assault." Wake pulled his knife from its sheath and checked the edge. "Samples is running this show alone. That's his mistake."
"You sure you want to take him yourself?"
Wake thought about Marley. About the cold fury in her eyes when she'd walked through the wreckage of her bar. About the way she'd said I want him dead like it was the simplest truth in the world.
"Yeah," he said. "I'm sure."
Current didn't argue. He just fired up the engine and swung the boat north, leaving Wake alone on the rocky shore.
The water was cold. Wake waded in up to his chest, keeping his weapon and knife above the surface, moving slow and silent through the shallows.
The eastern channel was deeper than he remembered—waist-high instead of knee-high—but it brought him within twenty feet of the tree line without exposing him to the fire's light.
He could hear them now. Voices carrying across the water, rough laughter, the clink of bottles. They weren't expecting trouble. Why would they? They'd just destroyed a bar and gotten away clean. In their minds, the Ridgerunners were on the defensive.
They were wrong.
Wake pulled himself onto the bank and crouched in the shadows, water streaming from his clothes. The campfire was fifty yards ahead, five figures visible around it. He scanned their faces in the flickering light and found him.
Ty Samples.
The youngest Razorback sat on a fallen log, beer in hand, gesturing expansively while he talked. Bragging, probably. Telling the others about the bar—about the bottles he'd smashed, the pool table he'd slashed, the message he'd left on the mirror.
Wake's grip tightened on his knife.
That's for Marley. That's for her uncle's bar. That's for everything you thought you could take.
The tree line erupted.
Cottonmouth and Limestone hit from the road side, moving fast and brutal through the forest. Gunfire cracked through the night. One Razorback went down before he could stand. Another managed to draw but caught Cottonmouth's blade across his throat before he could aim.
The camp exploded into chaos.
Wake moved.
He came out of the shadows like a ghost, crossing the open ground in seconds.
Two Razorbacks turned toward him—one reaching for a gun, the other stumbling back in surprise—and Wake put them both down with efficiency that would have made his brothers proud.
One throat cut, one skull cracked against a tree. They dropped without making a sound.
Samples was running.
The young Razorback had bolted the moment the shooting started, sprinting toward the water like he could escape across the lake. Smart instinct. Wrong direction.
Wake cut him off at the shore.
Samples skidded to a halt, his boots sliding on the wet rocks. His eyes went wide when he saw Wake standing between him and the water, knife in hand, blocking his only exit.
"Going somewhere?"
"Who the fuck—" Samples reached for his waistband.
Wake closed the distance in two strides and broke his wrist.
The Razorback screamed, his weapon clattering to the rocks. Wake kicked it into the water and grabbed Samples by the throat, forcing him to his knees.
"You remember me?" Wake's voice was calm. Cold. "You should. We met at the Anchor. You tried to take a bottle of bourbon, and your boss called you off like a dog."
Recognition dawned in Samples's eyes. Then fear.
"That bar," Wake continued, "belongs to someone I care about. You destroyed it. You broke her uncle's memory into pieces and sprayed your tag across what was left like you were marking territory."
"Maddox ordered—"
"I don't care what Maddox ordered." Wake tightened his grip. "You did the work. You swung the axe and smashed the bottles and wrecked the jukebox. That makes it personal."
Behind them, the gunfire had stopped. Wake heard Cottonmouth's voice calling out the all-clear. Limestone responding. The battle was over, the Razorbacks down.
All except one.
"Please." Samples was crying now, tears and snot running down his face. "I was just following orders. I'll leave, I'll disappear, I'll never—"
"You'll never what?" Wake leaned in close. "Never hurt another woman who's just trying to hold onto something? Never destroy another bar because some nomad piece of shit told you to?"
Samples tried to speak, but Wake's hand on his throat made it impossible.
"Here's the message you're going to deliver," Wake said. "Not in words. In your body. Maddox is going to find what's left of you, and he's going to know—know—that the Ridgerunners don't forgive. We don't forget. And we don't let anyone touch what's ours."
He drove the knife into Samples's chest.
The Razorback's eyes went wide, his mouth opening in a silent scream. Wake twisted the blade and felt the life drain out of him—felt the moment his heart stopped, felt the weight of his body go slack.
He let Samples drop to the rocks and stepped back.
Done. It was done.
"Wake." Cottonmouth appeared at his side, surveying the body with those cold, patient eyes. "Clean?"
"Clean." Wake wiped his knife on Samples's jacket and sheathed it. "How many?"
"Six total. We lost none." Cottonmouth looked toward the campfire, where Limestone was checking bodies. "Current's got the boat. Time to move."
Wake nodded. He should feel something—satisfaction, maybe, or the adrenaline crash that came after violence—but there was only emptiness. Cold and certain, like the lake at his back.
He'd killed the man who destroyed Marley's bar. He'd kept his promise.
But Maddox was still out there. And when the Razorback leader found out what happened here—
"We need to hit him soon," Wake said. "Before he has time to regroup."
"Still's thinking the same thing." Cottonmouth fell into step beside him as they walked toward the water. "Church tomorrow. Full strategy session. The president wants this finished."
"Good."
They waded out to where Current was waiting with the boat. Limestone joined them a moment later, blood on his hands and grim satisfaction on his face. Four Ridgerunners, six dead Razorbacks, and a message that would reach Maddox before sunrise.
The ride back to the compound was quiet.
Wake sat in the bow and watched the lake slip past, his mind already turning to what came next. Samples was dead. Haskell was dead. Yates was dead. Maddox had lost his muscle, his planner, and his attack dog in the space of two weeks.
The Razorback leader was alone now. Desperate. Dangerous.
Good, Wake thought. Desperate men make mistakes.
The compound dock appeared through the trees. Wake saw figures waiting on shore—brothers who'd stayed behind to guard the perimeter, old ladies who'd been watching the water since they left.
And Marley.
She stood at the end of the dock, arms crossed, her face unreadable in the darkness. She didn't move as the boat pulled up, didn't speak as Wake climbed out and walked toward her.
He stopped a foot away. Close enough to touch, but not reaching for her. Not yet.
"It's done," he said.
Her eyes searched his face. Looking for something—regret, maybe, or the violence that still clung to him like lake water.
"Samples?"
"Dead. I made sure of it."
Something shifted in her expression. Not satisfaction, exactly. More like... closure. The click of a lock sliding home.
"Thank you," she said quietly.
"Don't thank me." Wake stepped closer, framing her face with his hands. "I didn't do it for thanks. I did it because no one hurts what's mine."
She leaned into his touch. "What's yours?"
"You." He kissed her forehead, tasting salt and lake air. "Everything about you. The bar, the memories, the stubborn refusal to give up. That's mine now. And I'll kill anyone who tries to take it."
Marley's hands came up to grip his wrists, holding him in place. "Maddox is still out there."
"Not for long."
"Promise?"
"I promise." He pulled back enough to meet her eyes. "Church tomorrow. We plan the final move. This ends, Marley. This week, this ends."
She nodded slowly. Then she rose on her toes and kissed him—hard, fierce, tasting of bourbon and the cold fury she'd been carrying since the bar.
"Make it hurt," she said against his mouth. "Whatever you do to Maddox—make it hurt."
"I will."
They walked up the dock together, hand in hand, while the brothers secured the boat and the compound settled back into watchful waiting.
Three lieutenants dead. One leader left.
Tomorrow, the Ridgerunners would plan. And soon—very soon—Colt Maddox would learn what happened to men who touched Ridgerunner territory.
What happened to men who touched Wake's woman.
Some lessons could only be taught in blood.