Page 51

His silhouette paused at the window, and I got my first good look at him through the scope. He looked fucked. Good.

"Definitely on the phone," Tyson's voice came through clear. "Picking up some Spanish. Sounds like he's trying to explain to someone why he doesn't have the girl anymore."

He was in deep shit with the Cartel, just like Vanessa had said.

"On my mark," I said, checking my weapon one last time. "Three, two, one—execute."

The motel room door never stood a chance against Thor's shoulder. Cheap wood splintered inward while Tyson flowed through the window like liquid shadow. Two entry points, no escape routes, overwhelming force applied with surgical precision.

Rattler spun toward the noise, phone tumbling from his hand, reaching for the nightstand where his gun waited. But three weapons already tracked his center mass, three sets of professional eyes calculating angles and probability.

"Don't," I said quietly, stepping through the ruined doorway. "Move toward that gun and you'll need a wheelchair for your trial."

He froze, hand hovering inches from the Glock. I watched him do the math—three armed men, positioned for crossfire, fingers already on triggers. Whatever desperate plan he'd been forming died in his throat.

Recognition dawned as he focused on me. Not just another Heavy King, but the man who'd stood between him and his daughter. The one who'd taken his leverage and left him exposed.

"You," he breathed, and there was something like respect mixed with the hatred. "Should have known Cleo would find herself a tactical thinker."

"Hands behind your back," I ordered, keeping my weapon steady. "Slow movements. You know how this works."

He did. Rattler had probably been on the other side of this equation plenty of times. The predator understanding he'd finally become prey, caught in a trap he'd walked into with eyes wide open.

"How the fuck did you find me? How did you find Jessie?”

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” I said, not wanting to get Vanessa in trouble. “You’ll drive yourself mad with worry.”

Tyson had already cleared the room, cataloging the detritus of a man on the run. Burner phones, cash in small bills, a go-bag with clothes and fake IDs. The remnants of a life lived in shadows, always ready to rabbit when heat got too close.

"Federal kidnapping charges," I listed as Thor patted him down for hidden weapons. "Interstate trafficking. Conspiracy. Threatening witnesses. Plus whatever else the forensic accountants find when they dig into your finances."

Each charge landed like a physical blow. Rattler knew the mathematics of federal time, how charges stacked and multiplied. How kidnapping across state lines alone meant decades, and everything else just added weight to the life sentence.

"Don't forget the gun charges," Thor added helpfully, pulling a second piece from an ankle holster. "Felon in possession. Use during commission of a felony. That's another ten years minimum."

"You don't understand," Rattler said, desperation creeping into his voice. "The cartel doesn't care about federal charges. They want their money. I can't pay without Cleo, without that key her mother stole."

"Not our problem," I said simply. "You made those deals. You took their money. Now you get to face the consequences without dragging your daughter down with you."

Thor started reading rights with mechanical precision, the words falling like funeral dirt on Rattler's criminal career. The man who'd terrorized Cleo's childhood, who'd haunted her nightmares for fifteen years, reduced to proper procedure and legal language.

"This isn't over," Rattler snarled, but the threat had no teeth. "You think some recording and a key solve everything? The cartel will come for her. For all of you. They don't forget debts."

"Neither do we," I said quietly. "But we handle ours legally.

You're done running, done threatening, done existing in Cleo's world.

You'll die in prison, but you'll die there legally.

No blood on our hands, no war started over a pathetic old man who couldn't protect his family without destroying them. "

The words hit harder than fists. I watched him crumble slightly, the reality settling in. No dramatic death, no blaze of glory, just decades of concrete and steel while the world moved on without him.

"She's got Margaret's spine," he said suddenly, looking at me with eyes that held too much history. "Stronger than she looks. Smart enough to run when I gave her reason. Tell her . . ."

"Tell her yourself at trial," I cut him off. "If she chooses to come."

We marched him out to the van, past the motel clerk who suddenly found something fascinating to study on his phone. No witnesses to the arrest of Rhett "Rattler" Brown, no one who'd admit to seeing anything if asked.

Federal marshals would take custody within the hour. Proper forms, proper procedure, everything clean and legal. By morning, he'd be in a federal holding facility, processed into a system that didn't care about his patches or reputation.

Justice served cold and proper, without the blood vengeance our world usually demanded. Duke would be proud. Cleo would be free.

And somewhere in Texas, cartel accountants would write off a bad debt, calculating that war with the Heavy Kings over one deadbeat's markers wasn't worth the resources.

Rattler was right about one thing though—this wasn't over. But the immediate threat, the shadow that had haunted Cleo since childhood, was finally caged where it belonged.

T he clubhouse felt different when we returned—lighter somehow, like completing the mission had lifted weight from everyone's shoulders.

Jessie sat in the corner of the common room, wrapped in blankets that made her look even smaller. Color had started returning to her cheeks as the sedatives worked their way out, but her eyes still held that thousand-yard stare of someone who'd brushed too close to real evil.

Elena sat beside her, patient as a saint, coaxing sips of water and small bites of sandwich past lips that had forgotten how to trust kindness. Cleo had contacted the shelter director, and she’d arrived within minutes of our return.

"She'll be okay," Elena told me quietly when I approached. "Scared, traumatized, but okay. The drugs they used were mild—meant to keep her manageable, not damaged. Small mercies."

"What happens now?" I asked, watching Jessie flinch at a too-loud laugh from across the room.

"Now she disappears." Elena's voice carried the steel of someone who'd shepherded too many broken souls to safety.

"I've got a facility in Montana—good people, real recovery programs, far enough away that the Serpents won't bother looking.

New name, new start, chance to get clean and stay that way. "

Jessie would get the second chance Cleo had fought to give her, even if she never knew the full cost of that gift.

"Transport leaves in an hour," Elena continued. "Private, secure, no trails to follow. By morning, Jessie Statton won't exist anymore. Someone else will get to heal instead."

Duke appeared at my shoulder, presidential satisfaction radiating from his relaxed posture. "Clean operation," he said simply. "No bodies, no heat, objective achieved. Couldn't have gone better."

"Vanessa's intel was solid," I admitted, still surprised by the accuracy of it. "Every detail, every timing, all of it checked out perfect."

"Woman scorned," Thor rumbled from his spot at the bar. "Pointed in the right direction. Sometimes that's all the weapon you need."

The debrief flowed with professional efficiency. Each team leader reported their piece—entries, exits, complications that hadn't materialized. Archer walked through Alpha team's takedown of the perimeter guard, demonstrating the sleeper hold for prospects who watched with eager attention.

"Key was the simultaneous entry," Wiz explained to the room at large. "Hit them from multiple vectors before they could coordinate response. Classic overwhelming force without excessive violence."

I found myself checking my watch, suddenly eager to be elsewhere. The mission was complete, justice served, but something pulled at me—the image of Cleo waiting, trusting, probably wearing a path in my apartment floor.

"Good work tonight," Duke addressed the room. "This is how we handle business going forward. Smart, clean, professional. Let the other clubs play cowboy. We're building something better."

Nods all around. These men had tasted the satisfaction of doing things right, of winning without leaving bodies for mothers to mourn. It was a new way forward, one that separated us from thugs like the Serpents.

"Where is she?" I asked Duke, though we both knew who I meant.

"My apartment." His smile carried paternal approval. "Been there since you left, probably wearing a path in the floor. Kid passed the test, by the way. Didn't try to run, didn't second-guess the plan. Just trusted you to handle business and come home."

“Good girl,” I said quietly.

"Go check on her," Duke ordered gently. "Your little girl's been waiting long enough."

I didn't need to be told twice.

I headed up to Duke’s place and was about to knock on the door, but before I could, it burst open, and Cleo launched herself into my arms with enough force to stagger me back. I caught her automatically, training overriding exhaustion, and suddenly my arms were full of warm, trembling woman.

"You're back," she breathed against my neck. "You're safe, you're here, you came back."

"Always," I murmured into her hair, holding her tight enough to feel her heartbeat against mine. "Told you I would."

She pulled back just enough to see my face, hands framing my jaw like she needed to confirm I was real. "Jessie?"

"Safe. On her way to rehab in Montana, new name, fresh start. Elena's got her."

The relief that crossed her face was beautiful to watch.

"And my father?"

"Federal custody. Looking at life without parole."

“I’m so glad. Daddy, tomorrow, I’d like to find where this fits.” She held up the brass key. “I’ve got the address. Will you come with me?”

“Of course. And tonight?”

"Tonight I just want to be your little girl who stayed brave while Daddy went to save the day." Her smile mixed pride with vulnerability. "Who trusted instead of ran. Who gets to celebrate that everyone came home safe."

I scooped her up properly, her legs wrapping around my waist automatically. "That's my brave girl. Staying put, trusting the process. You did so good, baby."

"Scariest thing I've ever done," she admitted against my shoulder. "Sitting still while you went into danger. Goes against every instinct I have."

"But you did it anyway." I carried her toward the bedroom, exhaustion finally hitting but overwhelmed by the need to be close to her. "That's what courage really is—doing the right thing especially when it's hard. Come on, let’s go home."

She kissed me. It was sweet and it was slow and it was full of love.