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CHAPTER FOUR

Regnor

It reeks with sweat and stale beer in kirkja .

Every brother around the table knows what today means—we're finally hitting the Patriot's farm compound, the one we've been watching for a couple of weeks now.

Forty miles north, isolated, perfect for what that psychopath's been doing to our community.

"Intel confirms he's there," Runes says, spreading surveillance photos across the scarred wood table. "Arrived last night with a convoy. At least fifteen men, probably more."

I study the grainy images, memorizing the layout.

Two-story farmhouse, several outbuildings, barn that's probably full of product.

The property's surrounded by empty fields—good sightlines for us, but also means no cover once we commit.

"What's the play?" Kraken asks, still radiating fury about what happened to his kids.

I can't blame him.

Bjorn's adjusting to his prosthetic, but the psychological damage runs deeper than simply missing flesh.

"We go in hard and fast," Fenrir says, pointing to the aerial view. "Two teams. One takes the main house, the other clears the outbuildings. No one gets out."

Runes goes over who will be on each team and there’s a brief moment of silence.

"What about the Patriot himself?" Magnus leans forward. "We want him alive?"

Runes' expression is carved from stone. "Ideally. But if it comes down to him or one of ours..." He doesn't need to finish. We all know the priority.

"Tor and I have been tracking his financial network," our president continues. "Even if he has an escape route, we've frozen most of his accounts. He's running out of places to hide."

I think about Everly back at her apartment, probably still sleeping.

It's been a week since I moved into her life, since we started this charade that feels less fake every day.

The way she curls into me at night, trusting me to keep the nightmares away.

The way her hand finds her belly when she thinks I'm not looking, protective of the life growing inside.

Dylan's called her seventeen times from different numbers.

Left messages that range from apologetic to threatening.

Each one makes me want to hunt him down and end this, but Everly needs me playing the long game.

She needs me to be smart.

"Earth to Regnor." Oskar's voice cuts through my thoughts. "You with us, brother?"

"Yeah, just thinking through the approach angles."

Oskar smirks. "Sure you are. Nothing to do with a certain someone you've been shacking up with?"

The room goes quiet.

Fuck.

I keep my expression neutral, but inside I'm calculating.

How does Oskar know?

Who else has figured it out?

"Don't know what you're talking about," I say evenly.

"Right." Oskar's grin widens. "That's why you've been MIA every night this week. And why you smell like vanilla perfume."

"Enough," Fenrir cuts in, but his eyes are on me, sharp and assessing. "We've got bigger shit to deal with than Regnor's social life."

But I can see the questions in his eyes.

The VP's protective of Everly, even if she's Kraken's adopted daughter.

The whole club is, really.

She's off-limits, has been since she came to live with Kraken after her parents died.

"Regnor, you're with me on my team," Fenrir continues, but there's weight to his words now. A promise that we'll be discussing this later. "Kraken, Magnus, Emil, Oskar. We take the house."

I nod, already running through my gear checklist.

Vest, primary gun, sidearm, extra mags, knife.

I should be focused on what we’re about to go do, but now I'm also thinking about after.

About the conversation Fenrir's going to want to have, about how to protect our secret until Everly's ready to go public.

"Team two," Runes continues, either oblivious to the tension or ignoring it, "Tor leads. Dag, Logi, Aesir, Vanir, Rati. You clear the barn and outbuildings. Watch for tunnels—this bastard's like a cockroach."

"What about the prospects?" Oskar asks, still eyeing me with that knowing look.

"Perimeter security with Ivar. No one in or out except us." Runes' eyes sweep the room. "Questions?"

"Rules?" Tor asks, though we all know the answer.

"Anyone who isn't us is hostile. Put them down." No hesitation in our president's voice. "We've lost too much to show mercy now."

The room fills with murmurs of agreement.

Flora's ghost hangs over us all, a reminder of what the Patriot costs us when we hesitate.

Rio's working today, couldn't get coverage at the Bubba’s, but I know he wanted to be here.

Wants his pound of flesh for what was taken from him.

"Gear up," Runes orders. "We roll in thirty."

The chapel empties, brothers moving and I catch Tor near the door.

"You good for this?" he asks, studying me with those eyes that see too much.

"Always."

"I mean with..." He glances around, lowers his voice. "Whatever Oskar was implying. You got your head in the game?"

So he suspects too. Great. "My head's right where it needs to be."

"Good. Because if you're distracted, if you're thinking about anything besides this run?—"

"I'm not," I cut him off. "When have I ever let personal shit affect a run?"

He nods slowly. "Just checking. We've all noticed you've been... different lately. Leaving right after kirkja , not hanging around. That's not like you."

"Maybe I'm getting old," I deflect. "Need more beauty sleep."

"Bullshit." But he lets it go. "Just keep your focus tonight. Can't afford to lose anyone else."

Twenty minutes later, I'm checking my gun for the third time when my phone buzzes.

Text from Everly:

Throwing up again. This baby hates me.

I type back:

Baby loves you. Just making their presence known. Ginger tea in the cabinet.

It’s not long before I get another reply:

Already tried. Didn't help. When will you be home?

Home. Like I belong there. Like that small apartment has become ours instead of hers.

I tell her the truth:

Late. Club business. Rest.

A moment barely passes before she’s texting me back:

Be careful.

Two words that hit harder than they should.

When's the last time someone gave a shit if I came back from a run?

The foster families sure didn't.

The club brothers care, but it's different.

This is personal. Intimate. Someone waiting specifically for me.

I shoot her a quick reply:

Always am. Doors locked?

The second her name pops back up on my phone, I smile:

Triple locked like you showed me. Stop worrying.

But I can't stop worrying.

Not with Dylan still out there, making threats.

Not with her carrying a baby that makes her even more vulnerable.

Yesterday she played me one of his voicemails—all apologies and promises to change.

Classic abuser shit.

Today it'll probably be threats again when she doesn't respond.

"Time to roll," Emil calls out.

I pocket my phone, pushing thoughts of Everly down deep.

I can't think about her now.

Can't let emotional shit cloud my judgment when bullets start flying.

But as I settle onto my bike, I make myself a promise.

Whatever happens tonight, I'm coming back to her.

To both of them.

The ride north is colder, November wind cutting through my leather like frozen knives.

All the bikes are in formation, engines announcing our arrival to anyone listening.

We're not trying for stealthy—we want the Patriot to know death's coming for him.

The formation's tight, practiced.

I ride on the left flank, keeping an eye on our six while we thunder down back roads.

The farther we get from town, the darker it gets.

There are no street lights out here, just the moon and our headlights cutting through the darkness.

My mind drifts to this morning, waking up with Everly pressed against me, her hand splayed over my chest.

She'd mumbled something about toast in her sleep, making me smile.

Even unconscious, the baby's got her craving carbs.

Focus , I tell myself.

I can't be thinking about domestic shit when violence is coming.

The farm appears through the darkness, lit up like they're expecting us.

Of course they are.

You don't survive as long as the Patriot has without good intel.

Someone tipped him off, or he's got surveillance we missed.

Doesn't matter. We're committed now.

We stop half a mile out and kill the engines.

The sudden silence feels heavy.

"Remember," Runes says through our comms, "we need their computer systems intact if possible. Tor thinks there's intel about his whole network."

"Got it," comes through multiple channels.

"And watch for civilians," he adds. "Intel says he might have women in there. Trafficking victims. Don't shoot unless you're sure of your target."

Fuck.

That complicates things.

Nothing worse than innocents caught in the crossfire.

I follow Fenrir's team through the darkness, moving low and fast across the frozen field.

The cold ground crunches under our boots, each step seeming too loud in the quiet night.

The house looms ahead, windows glowing.

I can see shadows moving inside—they know we're coming.

"Team one in position," Fenrir whispers.

"Two is in position," Tor confirms from the outbuildings.

Runes grits out through our comms, "Go!"

The night explodes.

Flash-bangs through windows, the sharp crack of breaching their safe space.

I'm through the front door behind Kraken, gun up, muscle memory taking over.

The pungent smell of explosives fills my nostrils, mixed with cordite and sweat.

There’s movement on my left—I pivot and fire.

My target drops so I push forward, slice the pie around the corner.

Another hostile, weapon raising—Magnus drops him before I can fire.

Emil shouts from the kitchen. "Clear!"

Oskar's voice, followed by the distinctive chatter of his automatic. "More at the back!"

I spin, see two more hostiles pushing through the back door.

They're trying to flank us, but we've done this dance before.

Kraken and I move as one, creating a crossfire that drops them in the doorway.

"Upstairs!" Fenrir orders.

I take point on the stairs, each step a potential kill zone.

The wallpaper's peeling, covered in what looks like old water damage.

Mold smell mixing with gunpowder.