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The pilot house access was just ahead, up a narrow stairway that would be a fatal funnel if defended. But Lena was up there, and that made the tactical assessment simple.

We'd go through whoever stood in our way.

Movement in my peripheral vision made me freeze, hand stopping Tank with a gesture older than words. Through thegalley's service window, I could see the main bar area—or what was left of it. That's when I spotted Johnnie.

The kid still had that shine new prospects got, that eagerness to prove themselves worthy of the patch. He'd been serving drinks two hours ago, grinning like Christmas had come early when Thor complimented his pour. Now he was sprinting across open deck toward a group of women trapped behind the demolished bar.

"GET DOWN!" Johnnie's roar carried over the combat noise, his body already launching into a dive that would have made any linebacker proud. He hit the women like a protective avalanche, driving them below the bar's remains just as automatic fire erupted from two different angles.

The bottles above exploded in a cascade of glass and hundred-dollar liquor. Vodka mixed with blood on the deck, creating abstract patterns that would haunt someone's dreams. But Johnnie had made it—covered the women with his own body, prospect cut spread wide like armor.

"He’s a good kid," Tank murmured beside me. We should have kept moving, should have prioritized finding Lena. But something made us both pause, bearing witness to what came next.

I saw the exact moment Johnnie realized he'd been hit.

His face shifted from fierce concentration to surprise, like he'd been tapped on the shoulder at a party. His hand came away from his stomach red and wet. The kind of red that meant something vital had been punctured. The kind that meant time was now measured in heartbeats, not minutes.

But the kid didn't move.

"Stay behind me," Johnnie told the terrified women, his voice steady despite what had to be agony. Blood ran between his fingers where he pressed against the wound, but his other handstill gripped his weapon, still tracked for threats. "My job . . . protect . . ."

The women pressed against him, sobbing, covered in glass and other people's blood. One of them—someone's sister or daughter or wife—tried to press her hands over his, to help stop the bleeding. Johnnie gently pushed her back, maintaining the shield of his body.

"Stay down," he repeated, weaker now but still firm. "Almost over."

That's when the Serpent rounded the bar.

The attacker came in confident, weapon up, expecting easy targets. He processed the scene—wounded prospect, helpless women, easy kills to pad the body count. What he didn't expect was for that wounded prospect to still have fight in him.

Johnnie moved with the last reserves of his strength, lunging up despite the blood pouring from his gut. His shoulder caught the Serpent in the midsection, driving him back. They went down together in a tangle of limbs and fury. The Serpent's weapon discharged, the round catching Johnnie high in the chest, but the kid's hands had already found the man's throat.

They rolled once, locked together in that final embrace. Johnnie's face was pale, eyes already distant, but his hands never loosened. The Serpent thrashed, clawed, tried to break free. But twenty-two years old and dying, Johnnie held on with the kind of strength that came from knowing your duty.

The Serpent's movements slowed, stopped. Johnnie held on for another ten seconds, making sure, before his own strength finally failed. They lay together on the bloodstained deck, predator and protector locked in death's democracy.

"Goddamn hero," Tank muttered, putting two rounds in the Serpent to make absolutely sure before moving to check Johnnie. The kid's eyes were still open, staring at something none of us could see. Tank closed them gently.

The women Johnnie had died protecting huddled together, alive because a prospect had decided their lives mattered more than his own. That was the difference between us and them. We died for something. They just died.

"Movement, pilot house exterior," Tank reported, back to business because that's how we honored the fallen—by finishing the job.

That's when I finally saw her.

Lena stood backed against the pilot house wall, still in that silver dress that had tormented me earlier, now torn and splattered with blood I prayed wasn't hers. Three Serpents had her cornered, moving in with the casual confidence of predators who thought they'd already won.

My vision tunneled, the world narrowing to those three threats and the woman they'd dared to corner. But before I could move, before I could close the distance and introduce them to their ancestors, movement on the nearest speedboat caught my eye.

Cruz.

The bastard sat in the boat like some fucking prince, watching his men corner Lena with the detached interest of someone watching a nature documentary. He wore body armor over expensive clothes, surrounded by what had to be cartel soldiers rather than Serpent trash. Professional security for a coward who sent others to do his killing.

Our eyes met across the water and weapons fire. His lips curved in that same predator smile I'd wanted to remove since the first time I'd heard Lena's story. Then, with deliberate slowness, he raised his hand in a mock salute.

The message was clear: This is because of you. Because she chose you. Because you took what I considered mine.

Rage flooded through me, hot and pure and clarifying. Not the wild anger that got soldiers killed, but the cold fury that madethem legendary. Cruz thought this was about possession, about teaching Lena a lesson through violence and fear.

He was about to learn differently.