Chapter 21
Church smelled like leather and gun oil.
Marley sat at the long wooden table in the chapel, surrounded by men who'd killed for this club and would kill again tonight.
Still at the head, patient and watchful.
Limestone to his right, carved from the same rock as the bluffs outside.
Cottonmouth, Proof, Spillway, Current, Tailwater—every officer in the Ridgerunners, gathered for war.
And Wake. Sitting across from her, his eyes steady on her face like she was the only thing in the room that mattered.
"Talk us through it," Still said. "What do you know?"
Marley took a breath. She'd been dreading this—being the center of attention in a room full of dangerous men—but the moment the words started coming, her nerves steadied. This was just reading a crowd. She'd been doing that her whole life.
"Maddox likes routines," she said. "When he was using the Anchor as a base, he held court at the same back table every night. Same seat, same position—back to the wall, facing the door. He drinks whiskey neat, orders food at nine, and doesn't let anyone sit to his left."
"Superstitious?" Limestone asked.
"Paranoid. Left side's his weak hand. He doesn't like people in his blind spot.
" She'd noticed it the second night, when one of the younger Razorbacks had tried to sit there and gotten backhanded for his trouble.
"He also runs lean. Keeps most of his crew scattered, doing runs or watching territory.
When he's working a bar, he has maybe four or five men with him. Never more than that."
"Why not?" Cottonmouth's voice was flat, assessing.
"Because he doesn't share profits." Marley smiled grimly. "The fewer men around when money changes hands, the less he has to split."
Still nodded slowly, those bootlegger eyes cataloging every piece of information. "You said he works a bar. Which one?"
"Different one every week. Razorbacks don't hold territory—they move through it, take what they want, move on.
" She'd listened to them talk for three days while she poured their drinks and pretended not to hear.
"But they have a pattern. Thursdays are product nights.
Maddox sets up in a highway bar somewhere between Branson and Osage Beach, runs sales until midnight, then moves on. "
"And this Thursday?"
"There's a roadhouse on Highway 54, past the 76 junction. The Broken Spoke." Marley had heard them mention it twice, planning the next run like she wasn't even in the room. "Isolated, rough clientele, bartender who knows to look the other way. That's where he'll be."
Silence around the table. The officers exchanged glances, doing the math, weighing the information against what they knew.
"How sure are you?" Still asked.
"Sure enough." Marley met his eyes without flinching. "I poured their drinks for three days. They talked like I was furniture. I heard everything."
Something flickered across Still's face. Respect, maybe. Or recognition of a woman who'd survived by paying attention.
"Wake." Still turned to the prospect at the end of the table. "You've been running point on this. What's the play?"
Wake stood. His presence filled the room in a way it hadn't before—confidence earned through blood, through proof, through weeks of proving himself worthy of the patch he didn't yet wear.
"We hit the Broken Spoke Thursday night," he said. "Small team—six men, no more. We go in quiet, control the exits, and take Maddox before he knows we're there."
"Quiet?" Spillway raised an eyebrow. "That's not usually our style."
"Maddox is expecting loud. He's been waiting for us to come at him with everything we've got." Wake's jaw tightened. "He's not expecting four men through the back door while he's counting cash."
"Four?"
"Cottonmouth and Spillway handle the floor. Clear anyone who's not Maddox." Wake's voice was flat, certain. "Limestone and Proof cover the exits. No one in, no one out. And I go through the service entrance and take Maddox myself."
Marley's chest tightened. Himself. He wasn't just planning the assault—he was claiming the kill.
"You sure about that?" Limestone asked. "Maddox isn't Samples. He's been running crews longer than you've been alive."
"He's also down three lieutenants and half his men." Wake met Limestone's eyes without wavering. "He's desperate, he's alone, and he doesn't know I'm coming. That's enough."
The table was quiet. Marley watched the officers weigh Wake's words, watched them measure the prospect who'd spent two years earning their trust and was now asking them to let him end this.
"The back entrance," Cottonmouth said finally. "You know the layout?"
"I know every bar on this lake." Wake's mouth curved slightly. "Fixed enough motors in their parking lots. The Broken Spoke has a service door off the kitchen. Leads to a hallway that opens behind the bar."
"And if Maddox sees you coming?"
"Then I shoot him before he shoots me." Wake shrugged. "Either way, he's dead by midnight."
Still leaned back in his chair, studying Wake with those patient, calculating eyes. The room held its breath.
"Alright," the president said. "We do it your way. Thursday night, the Broken Spoke. But if something goes sideways—"
"It won't."
"If it does," Still continued, "you call for backup. No hero shit. Maddox dead is the priority. Doesn't matter who pulls the trigger."
Wake nodded. "Understood."
"Good." Still stood, and the rest of the table rose with him. "Gear up. We ride at sundown."
The chapel emptied, brothers filing out to prepare for the night ahead. Marley stayed seated, her hands flat on the table, watching Wake across the room.
He came to her when the others had gone.
"You gave us everything we needed," he said. "The patterns, the timing, the location. That's going to save lives tonight."
"I poured their drinks and listened." Marley stood, facing him. "Seemed like the least I could do."
"It's more than that." He stepped closer, his hand finding her hip. "You're the reason we know where Maddox will be. You're the reason this ends tonight instead of dragging on for months."
"And you're the one who has to end it."
Something flickered in his eyes. The weight of what he was about to do, maybe. The knowledge that by midnight, either Maddox would be dead or he would.
"I'll come back," he said.
"You better." Marley grabbed the front of his cut and pulled him down to her level. "I didn't pour three days of free drinks to watch you get yourself killed now."
He kissed her—hard, fierce, a promise pressed against her lips. She kissed him back with everything she had, trying to memorize the taste of him, the feel of him, the solid warmth of his body against hers.
When they broke apart, his eyes were dark with things he wasn't saying.
"I need to gear up," he said.
"I know."
"Will you—"
"I'll be at the bar." She released his cut and stepped back, giving him space to do what he needed to do. "Come find me before you go."
He nodded once and left.
Marley stood alone in the empty chapel for a long moment, surrounded by the ghosts of decisions made and violence planned. Then she walked out into the compound and headed for the bar.
The afternoon passed in a blur. She poured drinks for brothers who weren't going on the run, exchanged nods with those who were. The compound had a different energy today—tense, focused, the coiled readiness of men preparing for battle.
She watched them gear up. Watched Cottonmouth check his weapons with those cold, patient hands. Watched Spillway roll his shoulders like he was settling into a familiar weight. Watched Limestone crack his knuckles, one by one, a ritual she didn't understand but respected.
And she watched Wake.
He moved through the compound with a purpose she hadn't seen before. Checking gear, exchanging words with his brothers, that quiet intensity dialed up to something sharper. He was ready. Ready to end this, ready to prove himself, ready to kill the man who'd started all of this.
The sun dropped toward the tree line.
Brothers started gathering in the lot, engines rumbling to life, chrome gleaming in the golden light. Marley wiped down the bar and watched them through the window, her heart climbing steadily toward her throat.
Then Wake walked through the door.
He was fully geared—cut over body armor, weapons at his hip, that look in his eyes that said he'd already made peace with whatever was coming. He stopped at the bar and said nothing, just stood there looking at her like he was trying to memorize her face.
Marley reached for the bourbon—the good stuff, the bottle she kept for moments that mattered—and poured two fingers into a glass.
"On the house," she said, sliding it across the bar.
Wake picked it up but didn't drink. "One for the road?"
"One to bring you back." She held his gaze. "You drink that, you owe me another conversation. Can't have one if you're dead."
Something softened in his expression. That rare warmth breaking through the battle-readiness, just for a moment. Just for her.
"I'll take that deal."
He drained the bourbon in one swallow and set the glass down. Then he reached across the bar and cupped her face, pulling her close for a kiss that tasted like whiskey and goodbye.
"I love you," he said against her mouth. "I should have said it before."
Marley's heart stopped. Started again. Pounded so hard she could hear it in her ears.
"Say it again when you get back."
"I will." He kissed her forehead, her cheek, the corner of her mouth. "I will."
Then he walked out the door, and she listened to his bike roar to life, and she watched through the window as the Ridgerunners rode out to end a war.
Marley stood behind the bar with an empty glass in her hand and a man's love echoing in her chest.
Come back, she thought. Come back and say it again.
She poured herself a drink and waited.