Nitro held the floor in the pool room. He wasn’t yelling—he didn’t have to—but the way he stabbed his finger at the dog-eared map, you’d think he was directing artillery in a live war zone. Ten men, minimum, listened and followed. A few took notes; more just memorized. “When we find a Martini, we follow. We don’t intercept until they cross the county line. If the target tries to duck into the casino lot, we circle the exits and block every one. No witnesses, no civvies. The last thing we need is another Rico case.” Nitro’s burn-scarred jaw looked like it had been peeled and reset. He had a sharpness tonight, an edge I hadn’t seen since our old deployments. At least half the guys inthis room owed their lives to his battle instincts. The other half just hoped to learn by osmosis before it was their turn.
I watched from the bar, pretending not to, feeling the same animal anxiety that comes before a raid. I hated this feeling, but it was also the only time I felt completely alive.
Damron was at a scarred plywood table near the bay, hunched over his burner phone. His fingers moved like a pianist’s. “Two on the highway, one in the city. Let me know when you see the plates.” He was burning contacts at a rate I’d never witnessed—cops, ex-cops, old club guys who’d gone straight but not so straight they couldn’t still be bought. On the table were two more burners, both hot and vibrating in turns. For each call, he scribbled a note and stuck it to the back of his hand, like he couldn’t risk forgetting even a fragment of information.
A man with a trimmed beard and eyes that glittered like safety glass set a crate of magazines on the bar. “You loaded yet?” he asked me.
I shook my head. “Waiting on a top-off.”
He snorted, but there was respect in it. “Don’t wait too long. Once Nitro launches, it’s go time for the rest.”
I pocketed the mag, checked my sidearm, and let the old ritual settle my nerves. I was never more at home than right before things went to hell. I glanced at Catherine, who was on the phone to her Bellini family, imploring them not to send people. A third party would make things messier than they should be.
In the corner, two women—club girls but not the broken kind, more like operators in tight skirts—cleaned bolt carriers and checked the battery on a drone quadcopter. The girl with the nose stud snapped a side plate into her vest, teeth bared in a predatory smile. She’d been with Nitro for years, back when he still pretended to do relationships. Tonight, I figured she’d rather die than miss the action.
A kid with nervous eyes, a new prospect barely out of high school, walked the line of patched men and handed out radios. He looked at me, swallowed, then handed me a battered Motorola. “Channel four,” he said. “Secure.”
“Thanks, kid.” I pressed the call button and checked for static. Clean.
That was when I looked at Catherine again. Or at least, the shape that used to be Catherine.
She looked nothing like the judge I’d first met. Her hair was hidden under a red bandana, knotted pirate-tight behind her head. She wore a cut, not club-issue but borrowed from the lost-and-found, over a black tank and ripped denim. Her hands were gloved in tactical leather, and her eyes—wow, her eyes—were as bright and empty as mine. No emotion. No fear. Just the cold focus of someone who understood that every moment now was survival. I think that’s what most of us wanted in life. To find someone with our own sort of crazy and zest for certain things in life.
If there were looks, I missed them. Maybe because I was too busy admiring the way she’d transformed. Maybe because for the first time since the shooting, she looked right in her skin. She was undoubtedly a Bellini and a woman I wanted by my side.
I met her at the edge of the bar. “How’s the fit?” I asked because anything else would have sounded like a lie.
She gave me a tight smile. “Better than a robe.” She glanced down, then checked the position of the Sig I’d loaned her. She’d holstered it right, butt forward, easy draw. I wondered how long she’d practiced. Or if she’d just always known.
Damron finished a call and raised a hand, gathering the main officers for a briefing. Nitro joined, maps under his arm and hands already stained with ink and gunmetal.
Damron started, “Martini’s men are at the bakery on Fourth. We got eyes on them as of twenty minutes ago. They’ll expect usto try a frontal, so we’re splitting.” He nodded at Nitro. “No hero shit. Just search and destroy.”
Nitro nodded, and you could see the calculation on his face. “We’ll run quiet. Five minutes later, we light up the east approach. If it’s a setup, we pull back and torch the place.”
Damron turned to me. “You and Judge Bellini are going to pay a visit to the bakery. Make them sweat. They don’t know how many we’re bringing, so we play numbers.”
“Should we gear up?” I asked.
Damron shook his head. “Go in light, civilian. If you show up in colors, it’s a war. If you show up like you’re there to buy a fucking cannoli, you might get five minutes before the bullets start.”
Catherine’s mouth quirked, not quite a smile. “I’ll take the cannoli.”
Damron eyed Catherine, then looked at me. “You sure she’s ready?”
I didn’t answer. I didn’t have to. She squared her shoulders and said, “Let’s get this over with.” The voice was different—harder, grittier. The voice of someone who’d decided what side of the line she was on.
The officers broke. Nitro’s crew filed out, weapons in gym bags, faces covered in bandanas or the kind of generic beards you could grow in a week. The drone girl walked next to Nitro, a battered AR in her hands, ready for whatever.
Catherine and I left by the side exit, following the dirt trail behind the lot. My bike was waiting, freshly fueled. I handed her a helmet, and she strapped it on, tucking every wisp of hair underneath.
“Ready?” I asked, last chance to call it off.
She met my gaze, eyes bright even in the sodium glare. “I was born ready,” she said, and mounted the bike like she’d been riding all her life.
We rolled out, the hum of the engine drowned out by the howl of club bikes behind us. I didn’t look back. I didn’t need to.
If you asked me what I felt in that moment, I’d tell you: nothing and everything. The club was moving, the plan was set, and for the first time, I had someone at my side who understood why it mattered.
