Dex

O n the day before the fundraiser, the club room was chaos.

Brothers moved with the focused efficiency of soldiers before deployment, voices low and urgent.

Coffee cups sat forgotten on tables while hands traced routes on maps, checked weapon magazines, confirmed radio frequencies.

This wasn't our usual Saturday morning bullshit session.

This was preparation for contact, and everyone knew it.

Duke stood at the center table, presiding over blueprints of the community center and surrounding streets like a general planning invasion routes.

Thor flanked him, massive frame bent over equipment manifests, checking off items with mechanical precision.

Tyson leaned against the wall, watching everything with a general’s eye.

"About time," Duke said without looking up as I approached. His finger traced patterns on the blueprints, marking positions with the same care he'd use planning an ambush. "Need your eyes on this."

The maps showed a six-block radius around the community center, every alley and rooftop marked with tactical symbols. Red ink indicated our positions, blue for civilian areas, black for potential threat vectors. It looked like something out of a military operation, which I supposed it was.

"Snipers here and here," Duke said, tapping two rooftops with clear sightlines to the community center entrance.

"Prospects managing crowd flow at these choke points, keeping civilians clear of potential hot zones.

" His voice carried the calm authority of someone who'd planned operations like this before, who knew exactly how sideways things could go.

"Communication stays tight—closed circuit, no chatter.

Any sign of Serpent movement, we contain and redirect.

No cowboys, no heroes. Just clean execution. "

The plan was simple. Use the charity drive as cover, let Cleo work the event surrounded by witnesses while we controlled every access point.

When Rattler made his move—and Duke was certain he would—we'd have him boxed in with nowhere to run.

Public space meant he couldn't go loud without bringing heat he couldn't handle.

Our territory meant we knew every escape route, every blind spot, every advantage.

"What about inside security?" I asked, studying the community center layout. Three exits, large windows, multiple rooms that could become problems if we lost containment.

"Thor's handling interior," Duke replied. "Visible presence, friendly face for the civilians. Amazing how less threatening three hundred pounds of Viking looks when he's helping sell toys for orphans."

Thor grunted from his position at the equipment table. "Fuck off. I'm good with kids."

"Audio surveillance is live," Wiz called from his laptop setup in the corner.

Multiple screens showed feeds from cameras I knew we'd installed over the past forty-eight hours—not just around the shelter but extending out in a network that covered major approach routes.

"Directional mics on all primary vectors.

We'll hear them coming from six blocks out, know what they had for breakfast by the time they hit our perimeter. "

I leaned over his shoulder, watching traffic patterns from the previous week display in accelerated time. Wiz had done his homework, identifying regular vehicles, pedestrian flows, anything that would help us spot anomalies.

"Facial recognition?" I asked.

"Running continuous against our database of known Serpents." Wiz pulled up another screen showing photographs—some mugshots, some surveillance photos, all men we'd identified as current Serpent members. "Anyone from their crew shows face within our grid, we'll know immediately."

It should have made me feel better. All this preparation, all this technology and manpower focused on keeping Cleo safe. Instead, that familiar itch between my shoulder blades grew stronger. The feeling that had kept me alive through too many operations to ignore.

"Intel still says he's planning something big for today," Thor added, setting down his clipboard to join us at the tech station. "Our contact in Serpent territory confirmed increased activity last night. Vehicles moving, calls being made. But no specifics on timing or method."

That was the weak link, the variable we couldn't control. We knew Rattler was coming—his pattern of escalation made that clear. First the legal threats, then the approach at the bakery, now this. Obviously, we’d ignored all his demands, but that wouldn’t stop him.

"Something feels off," I admitted, voicing what had been nagging at me since I'd walked in.

The pieces were all there—good positions, solid intel, clear objectives.

But it felt too clean, too straightforward.

"This is too easy. We're betting everything on him being stupid enough to walk into our trap. "

Duke's eyes found mine across the table. "You think he knows?"

"I think a man doesn't survive in this world for twenty years by being predictable." I traced potential approach routes with my finger, looking for what we'd missed. "What if he's not coming for Cleo directly? What if this is misdirection?"

"Misdirection for what?" Thor asked, but I could see him considering it, running scenarios in his head.

"That's the problem. We don't know." I straightened up, that itch getting worse. "We're prepared for a frontal assault, for him trying to grab her in public. But what if he's planning something more subtle? What if he's counting on us focusing all our attention on the charity drive?"

The room went quiet except for the hum of Wiz's computers. I could see them processing it, considering angles we might have missed. Duke's jaw worked as he stared at the blueprints, looking for flaws in our own planning.

"Got a better idea?" Duke asked finally, and the question hung in the air like smoke.

I shook my head. We were committed now, too deep to change course. Resources deployed, positions assigned, Cleo already preparing for her role. Pulling back now would show weakness, give Rattler time to regroup and try again when we weren't ready.

"We run with what we have," I said, though the words tasted like compromise. "But we stay flexible. First sign that this isn't what we think it is, we adapt."

My phone buzzed in my pocket. It was probably Cleo, checking in. I grabbed it and flicked the screen on.

It wasn’t Cleo.

I stared at the message preview, and my blood ran cold.

"I can help. -V"

Vanessa .

After three years of silence, three years of wondering if she was dead or in witness protection or just smart enough to stay gone, she was reaching out. Today, of all days. The timing couldn't be coincidence. Nothing in our world ever was.

"Need some air," I muttered to Thor, who gave me a look that said he knew something was up but wouldn't push.

Outside, the morning had warmed enough that my breath didn't fog anymore.

I stood by my bike, staring at that message like it might explode.

Part of me wanted to delete it, pretend I'd never seen it, focus on the operation at hand.

But the bigger part—the part that had learned to trust gut instincts over comfortable assumptions—knew I had to call.

She picked up on the second ring. "Hello, Dex."

It was her, but she sounded so different. The desperate edge was gone, that fragile quality that used to make me want to fix everything for her. This voice belonged to someone who'd found their spine, who'd learned to stand without someone else holding them up.

"Why the fuck do you reach out today ?" The question came out harder than intended, but I was past politeness.

"Because I've been watching them for three years," she said quietly. No games, no manipulation in her tone. Just facts delivered with the kind of calm that came from acceptance. "Gathering evidence, building a case. They destroyed my life once, and I want to return the favor."

"Vanessa—"

"I know this is hard. I know we have history. But you have to believe me.”

I laughed, hollow and cruel.

“Give me one good reason why I should.”

“I know about Rattler," she continued, not missing a beat. "About the girl he's using as bait. About the real reason he wants Cleo."

Bait. The word hit like cold water, sharp and shocking. Hearing Cleo’s name in her mouth made me wince. My hand tightened on the phone until the plastic creaked. "What girl?"

"Jessie Statton. Young, vulnerable, innocent."

Christ. Jessie—the same girl from that first night at the shelter, the one Cleo had been so desperate to protect from the bikers. The one she'd specifically mentioned being worried about.

"They grabbed her last night," Vanessa continued, each word precise as a scalpel. "She's leverage, Dex. A way to force Cleo into the open without seeming like the aggressor. Hero complex is genetic, apparently. Rattler knows his daughter won't let an innocent suffer for her."

My mind raced through implications, through all the ways our careful planning had just become useless. We'd prepared for a direct assault on Cleo, not a chess move using civilians as pieces.

"Where is she?"

"That's part of what I need to tell you. But not over the phone." A pause, weighted with everything unsaid between us. "Dex, there's more. Rattler doesn't just want the money."

"There is no money.” Cleo had told me over and over that she didn’t have any money from her mom.

"Dex, we need to meet. No more over the phone. I can show you everything, including where they're holding Jessie and exactly how they plan to use her. One hour, neutral ground. Your choice of location."

My mind ran through options, through all the ways this could be a trap.

But what choice did I have? If she was telling the truth about Jessie, about the cartel connection, then everything we'd planned was already compromised.

We'd be defending against the wrong threat while Rattler executed something we hadn't seen coming.