Page 11

Halfway up, automatic fire erupts from above, splinters raining down.

I hug the wall, return fire to keep their heads down while Kraken moves up the other side.

A door slams somewhere above.

They're barricading.

"Rati, get up here with the breacher," Kraken calls.

That's when I hear it through the gunfire—engines starting outside.

Not bikes. Vehicles.

"They're tryin’ to leave!" someone shouts through comms.

Sounds like Dag.

I peer out a window, see two SUVs tearing away from the back of the property.

Dark vehicles, no plates visible. Has to be the Patriot making his escape while we're busy with his security.

"I've got vehicles escaping," I holler over the comms. "North side, heading for the tree line."

"Let them go," Runes orders, but I can hear the frustration in his voice. "Finish clearing the buildings. We can't chase and clear at the same time."

But every instinct screams to pursue them, to hunt them down like the wild dogs they are.

We're letting him slip away again, letting him regroup, plan more attacks on our families.

This was supposed to end tonight.

Rati appears with his shotgun, takes the door off its hinges.

The room beyond erupts in gunfire.

I hear him grunt, see him stagger back, blood spreading across his torso.

"Rati's hit!"

Magnus and I push forward, laying down fire while Emil drags Rati to cover.

Blood spreads across his cut—looks like it caught him just below his bullet proof vest.

Bad spot. Real bad.

"I'm good," Rati grits out, but his face is pale, going gray at the edges. "Just finish this."

"Like hell you're good," Emil snarls, already ripping open a first aid kit. "Aesir! Get up here!"

The remaining hostiles don't last long.

Cornered men fight hard, but we fight harder.

When the smoke clears, the house is ours.

Bodies scattered across the upper floor, blood soaking into cheap carpet.

"House clear," Fenrir reports.

"Barn clear," Tor adds. "Found enough fentanyl to kill half the state. And... fuck. We got trafficking victims here. Six women, locked in the back. They're in bad shape."

"Secure them," Runes orders. "Aesir, soon as you're done with Rati, check them out. Vanir, call that contact at the shelter, the one who helped with—" He doesn't finish, but we know. The one who helped when we found trafficking victims before.

I help stabilize Rati while Aesir works on him.

The bullet went through, but we don’t know if it hit anything vital, but he's losing blood fast.

Entry wound's small, but the exit... fuck.

Tore him up good coming out.

"Need to get him to Doc," Aesir says, hands slick with blood. "This is beyond my field medicine shit."

"Go," Fenrir orders. "Vanir, ride with them."

As they load Rati up, Gwen's voice comes through the radio. "We've got wounded coming in. How bad?"

"GSW to the lower torso," Aesir reports. "Lost a lot of blood but vitals are holding. He needs to get to the hospital, stat."

We can all hear the nervousness in Gwen’s voice. "Okay. Who was hit?"

No one wants to tell her it was her old man.

I step outside for air while they work.

The adrenaline's fading, leaving that hollow feeling that comes after every run.

But, that's when I see him .

Across the field, just at the tree line.

Figure with a camera, lens glinting in the light from the burning barn.

The way he holds himself, the height, the build—I know that silhouette.

Dylan fucking Mitchell.

My blood goes cold.

What the hell is he doing here?

How did he even know about this?

I start moving toward him, but he's already backing into the trees.

By the time I reach the spot, he's gone.

Just tire tracks in the mud, heading back toward the main road.

Fresh tracks, deep in the soft ground.

He was here the whole time, watching, documenting.

Tor appears beside me, weapon ready. "There a problem?"

"Thought I saw something," I say, mind racing.

Do I tell him?

But what would I say—that Everly's ex was here taking pictures?

That opens questions about why I give a shit about Everly's ex.

"Probably locals," Tor says, but he's scanning the tree line carefully. "Gunfire draws looky-loos. Though they'd have to be stupid to get this close."

"Yeah, probably."

But I know better.

Dylan was here for a reason.

Taking photos of us, of what we did.

Question is, why?

What's his angle?

Blackmail? Evidence for cops? Or something else?

"Found something interesting in the house," Magnus calls out. "Computers are intact, but there's more. Filing cabinets full of shit."

We head back inside where Magnus has several drawers open, papers scattered across a desk. "Look at this," he says, holding up a folder. "Financial records. The Patriot's been keeping detailed books."

"Idiot," Tor mutters, but he's already photographing pages with his phone. "This could lead us to his entire network."

"There's more," Magnus continues. "Looks like he's been working with someone local. Multiple references to 'DM' receiving payments."

DM.

Dylan Mitchell?

No, that's crazy.

I'm being paranoid. Lots of people have those initials.

But I can't shake the image of him with that camera, the calculated way he documented everything.

"Bag it all," Fenrir orders. "We'll go through it back at the clubhouse."

The ride back feels off, even though we were somewhat successful.

We destroyed tons of product, killed at least a dozen of Patriot's men, seized computers and records that might have intel.

But the man himself escaped, and Rati's riding in a cage to get patched up, maybe fighting for his life.

The trafficking victims follow in a van, Aesir staying with them.

They'll need medical attention, trauma counseling, probably rehab for whatever drugs the Patriot had them on.

Another mess to clean up, more innocent lives he's destroyed.

At the clubhouse, I catch Tor alone while others are celebrating.

Half the brothers are already drunk, toasting our victory, but it doesn't feel like a victory to me.

We still have to get this fucking bastard.

"Need to tell you something," I say quietly. "That looky-loo I saw? Wasn't random."

His eyes sharpen. "Who?"

"Dylan Mitchell. Everly's ex."

"The fuck was he doing there?"

"Taking pictures. Had a professional camera, was focused on us, not the burning buildings."

Tor's expression darkens. "That's not good. How'd he even know about the run?"

"That's what I'm wondering. Too much coincidence for him to just show up."

"Agreed. Either he's got intel, or..." Tor pauses, thinking. "Or he's connected somehow. You said Everly mentioned he had ties to the Patriot's organization?"

"She suspected, but nothing concrete. Just comments he made, things that didn't add up."

"I'll start digging," Tor promises. "Quiet-like. See what Mitchell's been up to besides beating on women. If he's got connections we need to know about..."

"Appreciate it."

"How's Everly?" he asks, changing gears. "She doing okay? I never liked that guy."

"She left him," I say, giving him a couple of details, but not too many. "But there’s some stuff she needs to get off her chest, to her Dad, the club."

Tor grimaces. "That sounds serious as shit."

"I'll help her handle it when the time comes."

"Better you than me, brother." He claps my shoulder. "Get out of here. You look like you got run the fuck over."

He's right.

I need to get back to Everly, need to make sure she's safe, need to figure out what Dylan's game is before he makes his next move.

"Regnor," Runes calls out as I'm heading for my bike. "Good work tonight."

I nod, accepting the praise even though my mind's focused on Dylan.

On why he was there. On what he wanted with those photos.

"Is Rati gonna make it?" I ask.

"Doc says yeah. It was touch and go for a bit when they opened him up, but he's stable now. Few weeks of recovery, but he'll be back in no time." Runes studies me. "Gwen’s upset, naturally, but at least her husband’s going to be okay. I mean it, Regnor, good job tonight."

"I’m just doing my job, Prez."

"No, you did more than that." He pauses, seems to wrestle with something. "Oskar mentioned you might have something going on. Something personal."

Here it comes. "Oskar talks too much."

"Maybe. But if it's what I think it is..." He shakes his head. "Be careful, Regnor. Some lines, once crossed, can't be uncrossed."

"Understood."

"Do you? Because Everly's been through enough. If you're just?—"

"I'm not," I say firmly. "Whatever you're thinking, it's not that. I'd never hurt her."

He stares at me for a long moment, then nods. "See that you don't."

If I could put my finger on it, I’d say Vail started the rumor mill when she saw me at Everly’s place last week.

That’s good, though. We want her to do that.

We want this lie to look like it’s the truth.

The drive to Everly's feels longer than usual.

Every shadow could be Dylan.

Every car that follows too long could be him.

By the time I park, I'm wound tight as a spring.

I knock our pattern—three short, two long so she knows it's me.

"You're back," she breathes when she opens the door, relief clear in her eyes. Then she notices the blood on my cut. "Oh Gods, are you hurt?"

"Not mine," I assure her, stepping inside. "Rati caught one, but he'll be okay."

She locks the door behind me—all three locks, good girl—then turns to study me. "What happened?"

"Got him. The compound, his drugs, his men. But the Patriot himself..." I shake my head.

"He got away again?"

"Yeah. But we hurt him bad. Destroyed millions in product, killed his security. He's hurting right now, for sure."

"But still out there." She wraps her arms around herself. "Still a danger to the club."

"Hey." I move closer, gentle. "He's not thinking about you. He's thinking about survival."

But I don't tell her about Dylan.

I don't tell her that her ex was there, watching, documenting.

She's got enough to worry about with the baby, and the last thing she needs is more stress.

"You need to eat," I say, changing the subject. "When's the last time you kept something down?"

"This morning. Had some crackers."

"That's not enough. You're growing a person in there."

She laughs, but it's weak. "The person doesn't want food. The person wants to make me miserable."

"Come on." I guide her to the kitchen. "Let me make you something bland. Cinnamon toast maybe?"

"You don't have to?—"

"Yeah, I do." I'm already pulling out bread. "This is what we do now, remember? I take care of you. Both of you."

She watches me work, something soft in her expression. "This is weird."

"Which part?"

"All of it. You being here, taking care of me. Pretending..." She trails off.

"Who says we're pretending?" I ask, keeping my voice light. "I'm here. Taking care of you. That's real."

"You know what I mean."

I turn to face her. "Do I? Because from where I'm standing, nothing about this feels fake. You're carrying a baby. I'm claiming it. We're together. Where's the fakeness in it?"

She bites her lip, that thing she does when she's thinking too hard. "It's just happening so fast."

"Life happens fast, sweetheart," I point out. "One day you think you know how things will go, next day everything's different."

"Is that what this is for you? Everything being different?"

I consider the question while the bread toasts.

A week ago, I was just another brother, watching her from afar, respecting boundaries I never wanted.

Now I'm in her kitchen at midnight, making her toast, planning a future that includes raising another man's baby as my own.

"Yeah," I say finally. "Everything's different. But different doesn't mean bad."

"Even when the baby's not?—"

"The baby's mine ," I cut her off. "We've been over this. Biology doesn't matter. Choice does."

She's quiet while I butter the toast, cut it into small triangles the way she likes.

I've learned her preferences this week.

How she takes her coffee: one sugar, splash of milk.

She prefers her eggs over easy.

How she can't sleep without checking the locks twice.

"What if people figure it out?" she asks as I set the plate in front of her. "What if Dylan?—"

"Dylan's going to have bigger problems soon," I say, thinking of those photos. Whatever he's planning, it's not good. But I'll handle it. "Just eat."

She manages to eat half the toast before pushing the plate away. "I'm sorry. I know I need to eat more."

"You're doing fine," I assure her. "First trimester's rough. It'll get better."

"How do you know so much about pregnancy?"

"Been reading." At her surprised look, I shrug. "What? I'm gonna be a father. Need to know this shit."

That makes her tear up, which seems to be what happens a lot lately. "You don't have to do all this."

"Yeah, I do." I pull her against me, let her cry into my chest. "We're in this together, remember? All three of us."

"I don't deserve this," she whispers. "Don't deserve you being so good to me."

"Bullshit." I tilt her chin up. "You deserve everything good. Just been dealing with bad for so long you forgot what good looks like."

"Maybe."

"Definitely. Now come on, it’s bedtime. You're exhausted, and you’re working tomorrow, right?"

Everly nods and leads us to the bedroom.

I curl around her in the bed that's become ours and within minutes she's asleep, but I lie awake thinking about too much shit.

About Dylan at Patriot’s compound. About those photos. About what he could want with evidence of tonight's violence.

About those initials in the Patriot's files—DM.

There are too many coincidences piling up.

Tomorrow, Tor will start digging.

Tomorrow, we'll start unraveling whatever game Dylan's playing.

But tonight, I just hold Everly close, feel the warmth of her against me, and promise the little life inside her that I'll keep them both safe.

Whatever Dylan's planning, whatever the Patriot's next move, they'll have to go through me first.

And I've got more to fight for now than I ever have before.

That makes me more dangerous than they can possibly imagine.

Sleep finally takes me, but my last thought is of Dylan's camera.

Of the calculated way he documented everything.

Of the smile I glimpsed on his face before he melted into the trees.

He's planning something.

Something that involves those photos, involves the club, involves Everly.

But I'm planning too.

And my plans involve making sure Dylan Mitchell never hurts her again.

No matter what it takes.

No matter who I have to become.

She's mine now. The baby's mine, and I always protect what's mine.