Chapter 7 - Quinn
The engines cut off simultaneously, which is somehow worse than the noise. The sudden silence means they've arrived, that whatever's about to happen is happening now.
I move to the window without thinking, years of training overriding every other instinct. Stay low, quick glance, assess the threat, calculate response time. I pull the curtain back just an inch, just enough to see.
Five men.
All wearing Vipers cuts, the snake patch visible even from here.
They've dismounted their bikes and they're walking toward the house with the kind of confidence that comes from thinking you've already won.
One of them spits on Dean's lawn. Another's swinging a baseball bat, letting it tap against his leg with each step like a metronome counting down to violence.
My brain registers everything in the span of three seconds: two are armed with bats, one has what looks like a crowbar, the other two have their cuts sitting wrong, weighted on one side, which means guns tucked into waistbands or shoulder holsters.
They're not trying to be subtle. This is a message delivery, and the message is written in intimidation and threat.
"Quinn?" Dean's voice is tight behind me. "What is it?"
"Vipers," I say quietly, letting the curtain fall back into place. "Five of them. Armed. Coming to the front door."
I turn to look at him and watch his entire body go rigid, watch every muscle lock down as his brain shifts from morning coffee to combat mode.
His hand moves automatically toward his hip where his gun would be if he were wearing it, finds nothing, and his jaw clenches hard enough I can see the muscle jump.
"Go to Mariah," I say, keeping my voice level, calm, the same voice I used overseas when things were about to go sideways, and panic would get people killed. "Go to her room and stay there. Lock the door."
He looks at me like I've just spoken a foreign language. "What?"
"You heard me. Go to your daughter. Lock the door. Let me handle this."
"You're out of your fucking mind if you think I'm letting you face five Vipers alone." He's already moving toward the window, taking his own look, and I watch his expression darken as he sees the same things I did: bats, crowbar, weighted cuts, hostile intent written in every step they take.
"Dean—"
"No." He cuts me off, sharp and absolute. "That's five grown men with weapons, Quinn. I don't care how good you are—"
"They're here for Mariah," I interrupt, and that stops him cold.
"Think about it. Why else would they show up at your house this early, this aggressive?
They're not here to negotiate. They're here to take her, use her as leverage, a bargaining chip to get whatever they want from Phoenix or the club. "
His face goes completely white, then floods with color as rage replaces shock. "They're not getting anywhere near her."
"Exactly. Which is why you need to go upstairs, get her somewhere safe, and let me do what I was hired to do."
"That's my daughter you're talking about." His voice has gone low and dangerous, the kind of quiet that precedes violence. "You think I'm going to hide upstairs while someone tries to take her? You think I'm capable of doing that?"
"I think you're capable of being smart about this." I step closer to him, force him to look at me instead of the window. "You go up there, you make sure she's locked in and safe. You call Phoenix, call your brothers, get backup coming. I hold them off until help arrives."
"They'll kill you."
"They'll try." I say it with complete certainty, no bravado, just fact. "And they'll fail, because I'm very good at what I do and they're expecting someone they can intimidate. They're not expecting me."
He's shaking his head before I finish talking. "I'm not letting you do this alone. That's not happening."
"Dean—"
"No." He grabs my shoulders, not rough but firm enough that I feel the desperation in his grip.
"I hear what you're saying. I understand the tactical logic.
But that's my daughter upstairs, and I'm not letting a single one of these assholes past me even if I have to put my life on the line to stop them. Do you understand? Not one."
I look into his eyes and see something absolute there, something that won't bend no matter what argument I make. This is his line in the sand. His child, his protection, his responsibility. I can respect that even if tactically it's a nightmare.
"Fine," I say. "But you need to tell Mariah something. Make it a game, tell her to lock herself in your room or her room, somewhere with a solid door and a lock. And you need to call for backup right now, because this is about to get very messy very fast."
He holds my gaze for another second, then nods. "I'll tell her it's hide and seek. That she needs to stay hidden until I come get her, no matter what she hears."
"Good. Go. Now."
He releases my shoulders but doesn't move immediately. "Don't do anything stupid, Quinn. I'll be right back."
Then he takes the stairs two at a time. I turn back to the window and risk another glance.
The Vipers are almost at the porch now, still taking their time, still confident.
They think this is going to be easy. A single dad and maybe a babysitter if they're unlucky, some civilian they can push around until they get what they came for.
They have no idea what's waiting for them.
I move away from the window and do a rapid assessment of the space.
Living room connects to kitchen, kitchen has a back door, that's my exit route if I need one, though I'd prefer to keep them outside entirely.
Front door is solid wood with a deadbolt but not reinforced.
They'll get through it eventually if they want to, especially with a crowbar and enough motivation.
I could lock it, make them work for entry. Or I could open it and control the engagement on my terms.
I choose the latter.
I hear Dean's voice upstairs, muffled but calm, talking to Mariah. Hear her sleepy response, confused but not scared yet. Good. He's keeping it together, keeping her calm. That's what she needs right now.
Heavy footsteps on the porch. The kind of noise meant to intimidate, to announce their presence. Then pounding on the door. Not a knock, a demand. Three hard hits that rattle the frame.
"Open up!" A male voice, rough and amused. "We know you're in there. Let's have a conversation."
I move to the door, position myself to the side of it rather than directly in front. Never stand where bullets can find you through a door, and call out: "He's not available right now. You want to leave a message?"
Silence for a beat. Then laughter, multiple voices overlapping. They think this is funny.
"Who the fuck is this?" Different voice, younger, more aggressive. "Wraith got himself a girlfriend?"
"Babysitter," I correct calmly. "And like I said, he's not available. So why don't you gentlemen get back on your bikes and ride somewhere else?"
More laughter, and then the first voice again: "Sweetheart, you got about five seconds to open this door before we open it for you. And trust me, you don't want us to do that."
"Actually," I say, "I think I do."
I unlock the deadbolt and pull the door open, and I have the satisfaction of watching all five of them register surprise for just a second. They were expecting locked doors and resistance, not a woman in gray sweatpants opening up like she's greeting guests.
The surprise doesn't last long.
The one in front, older, maybe forty, with a scar running from his eyebrow to his jawline, looks me up and down with naked contempt.
"You're the babysitter?"
"That's right."
"Where's Wraith?"
"Like I said. Not available."
Scarface steps forward, trying to use his height to intimidate.
He's got four inches on me easy, probably seventy pounds.
"Listen, sweetheart. We're not here for you.
We're here for the kid. You hand her over nice and quiet, and nobody has to get hurt.
You make this difficult..." He lets the threat hang.
"I'm going to make this very difficult," I say pleasantly. "You might want to rethink your approach."
One of the others, the one with the baseball bat, laughs. "You hearing this? Little girl thinks she's gonna stop all five of us."
"I don't think anything," I correct. "I know exactly what I'm capable of. Question is whether you're smart enough to walk away before you find out."
Scarface's expression darkens. "Last chance. Get out of the way or we move you."
"Come try."
He reaches for me. Big mistake, telegraph move, no subtlety, and I respond exactly the way I've been trained to respond when someone bigger tries to use size as a weapon.
I catch his wrist, rotate under his arm, use his own momentum and bodyweight against him.
Three seconds and he's face-down on the porch with his arm locked behind his back at an angle that makes him scream.
The other four freeze, genuinely shocked now.
"Anyone else?" I ask, keeping pressure on Scarface's shoulder while scanning the others for their next move.
Then everything happens at once.
Baseball Bat swings at my head and I have to release Scarface to avoid it. I drop low, let the bat whistle over me, but Crowbar is already moving in from my left. His weapon catches me across the shoulder. Not a direct hit but enough to send pain shooting down my arm and knock me off balance.
One of the armed ones grabs me from behind, arms around my torso, lifting me off my feet. I drive my elbow back into his ribs, once, twice, hear him grunt but he doesn't let go. His grip is strong, and I'm trapped.
Scarface is getting up, face twisted with rage, and Baseball Bat is raising his weapon again, and I'm calculating angles and odds and realizing that five on one with weapons is bad math no matter how good I am, that I might have made a tactical error….
Footsteps thunder down the stairs.