Page 91 of Peak’s Code

Maeve wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "You don't have to ever go back to that life."

"I know." Wren looked around the marsh. "They're really gone."

"They're gone,” Maeve said.

Wren leaned against her. "I kept thinking—” She swallowed. “If I could just hold out one more day—” A small sob escaped her chest, nearly breaking Maeve’s heart.

Maeve kissed the top of her head. "You don't have to hold out anymore." For the first time, Wren cried. Not the quiet tears she'd hidden in the server room, and not the controlled emotion she'd buried beneath jokes and code. This time, she sobbed—deep, broken sobs. Eighteen months of fear finally escaping, and all Maeve could do was hold her because sometimes, there were no words big enough.

Three Days Later

The Grave Prowlers' clubhouse smelled like fresh lumber and coffee. Brothers moved through the common room, replacing drywall damaged during the attack. Someone had already patched the roof, and another brother was installing new security cameras under Peak's direction. Life was returning to normal—slowly.

Church had been called, and every patched member sat around the long wooden table. Captain stood at the head with his arm still in a sling. Nobody complained about the delay. Nobody joked around because something felt heavy.

Peak sat beside Maeve. She noticed Warden watching the door instead of Captain, and Ruin stood instead of sitting. It was as though they were all waiting for something. Captain placed a thick manila folder on the table, and nobody spoke.

"I've spent twenty-three years wearing this patch." His voice carried through the silent room. "I've buried brothers. I've watched kids grow into men. "I've trusted every son of a bitch sitting at this table with my life."

Maeve felt Peak's fingers tighten around hers beneath the table. Captain looked down and then opened the folder. "Wren found these." He slid several printed shipping manifests across the table, along with bank transfers, port schedules, and cargo logs. Every one of them was highlighted.

Captain looked toward the far end of the table. “Stan."

A gray-haired, patched member frowned. "Yeah?"

"You recognize these?" Stan barely glanced down.

"No,” he breathed.

Captain nodded once. "I figured." He pulled out another photograph. It looked to be from security footage. A grainy image showed Stan meeting Mercer behind a shipping warehouse nearly a year earlier. In another photo, money was changing hands. And in another, Stan was opening a secure gate.

The room became deathly quiet. Warden moved first—almost too fast to follow. One second, he stood beside the wall, and the next, Stan's face slammed against the tabletop. The older man reached for his gun, but he never touched it. Ruin stripped it from his holster.

Captain walked slowly around the table, stopping directly in front of Stan. "You've been selling women through my territory."

Stan struggled beneath Warden's grip. "I can explain."

Captain laughed, but the sound held no humor. "No, you can't." He reached down, gripping the front of Stan's leather kutte. Every brother in the room stood, not because Captain needed help, but because they understood what came next. Captain ripped the kutte from Stan's shoulders. The sound of leather tearing echoed through the clubhouse.

"You don't wear my colors anymore,” Captain growled.

Stan's eyes widened. "Captain⁠—"

"You were dead to this club the day you took your first paycheck,” Captain said. He tossed the kutte onto the floor, and nobody moved to pick it up.

Two FBI agents entered through the clubhouse doors, and Captain nodded at them. "He's yours." The agents cuffed Stan without resistance. As they led him away, he looked back one last time. Not a single Grave Prowler met his eyes. The clubhouse door closed behind him, and Captain stared at the abandoned kutte lying on the floor.

"Burn it,” he shouted. Ruin picked it up without a word and carried it outside. Seconds later, smoke drifted past the clubhouse windows. Church ended quietly. There was no celebration because Justice wasn't something to celebrate. It was simply something that had to be done.

Maeve stepped onto the clubhouse porch. The evening sun painted the marsh in shades of gold and orange. Wren sat on the top step, wrapped in a blanket, watching dragonflies skim across the water. Maeve joined her, and neither spoke for several minutes.

Wren smiled. "I thought I'd never see this again." Maeve followed her gaze across the marsh. The breeze smelled of saltwater and pine. Motorcycles rumbled somewhere in the distance. The clubhouse behind them buzzed with the familiar sounds of family rebuilding together.

"No," Maeve said softly. "You weren't supposed to."

Wren looked over. "What?"

"But you survived anyway."