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“You ran all this alone, outside the compound,” I mutter, scanning her overlays. No accusation, just fact.

The other officers file in. Lennox’s stare burns a hole in her head as she formulates a reply.

“Had to,” she snaps back. “While you were coordinating repairs and staring at reports. They’re complacent. I can kill their comms if it goes loud from close range. Feed them false chatter to keep them blind if I need to.”

Lennox cuts in, venom thick in his tone. “What fucking bike did you take, Tatum? And how the fuck did nobody see you?”

“I went and got old faithful…And I just walked out the back. Everyone is so busy that if you’re not watching the cameras you don’t know who’s in and out.” She shrugs like she didn’t endanger herself.

Oh, Spitfire, that ass is mine later.

“We’ll talk about that after we make this plan. It’s solid intel and we need to act fast.” I trace routes on the big map, grease pencil marking kill zones.

“Three teams. Fuse and I on main breach—loading dock. Suppressed. Knives first. Pres and Ledger, overwatch from here; we can’t leave us exposed. Judge and Diesel, east flank, vehicles denied access. Tatum can ride out with me and Fuse and post up at a distance for comms. We end it clean. No runners. We know why they were here, and we don’t need to keep anyone.”

Lennox's eyes narrow at me as he goes to speak, but I cut him off, “She has made it clear she’s going to do what she wants, so we might as well use it to our advantage.” The war in his eyes tells me this is far from over, but he nods for us to continue.

The bloodlust rises as I speak. I imagine the first sentry’s throat opening under my blade. The wet gurgle. The others realizing too late what club justice means. Blood for blood. They hit us. They pay in kind. Tatum adds depth to my plan—drone blind spots, numbers, names, signal jammers. We work in sync, voices clipped, bodies orbiting without contact. Professional.

Fuck, if it doesn’t turn me on to see her match me here in this room.

“Prospects minimal to none,” I continue. “This is patched. We don’t need anymore kids to bleed for others' arrogance.”

She nods, eyes sharp on the plan. “Solid. They’ll scatter if we wait too long. Hit tonight.”

We refine contingencies for another stretch. The war room fills with the low scratch of pencil on paper, her keyboard clicks, my steady breathing. Every detail feeds the hunger for revenge. Yesterday’s shit show ends with their screams. I want them broken, bodies cooling where they thought they were safe. For the club. For the patch. For the woman whose fight yesterday lit a darker fire in me than any op overseas.

By late afternoon, the plan locks. I radio the core with Lennox’s approval. No full church. We don’t want extra attention on this or someone trying to play the hero. This is targeted. Tatum gathers her things, movements efficient. Our eyes meet across the table for a beat—in understanding. She heads for the door.

“Stay sharp,” I say, tone flat. Inside: Come back whole. Or I’ll burn the world for you.

She pauses, glancing back. “You too, Switch.”

Walking outside, I find brothers gearing up in the yard—low murmurs, magazines locking, engines rumbling to check intact bikes for any issues. I check my kit: suppressed pistol, knife, bulletproof vest. Military calm overlays the rage. Assess. Adapt. Neutralize with extreme prejudice. Across the yard, I see Tatum next to a sleek Iron 883.

Is that old faithful? How the fuck was she just hiding an Iron 883?

I file it away to ask later but don’t cross the yard when I see Lennox on his war path toward her. The confrontation doesn’t look pretty, but she holds her own. It doesn’t last long—he pulls her into a quick embrace before she mounts up with the rest of us.

I swing onto my Harley, ready to roll. Route 99E waits. The Iron Vipers are about to learn what happens when you strike what’s ours. We roll out under gathering shadows. Revenge tastes like iron on my tongue.

I welcome it.

Route 99E unspools like a black ribbon ahead, the kind of road that hides sins and delivers payback. My Harley vibrates steady beneath me, matching the controlled thrum in my veins. The plan sits ironclad in my brain. Blood for the blood they spilled on our yard. They hit us while we were unprepared—and thought we’d fold. Tonight, they learn the club doesn’t break.

Tatum stayed behind about four miles back, tucked into a cutoff. She’s set up shop, tablet screens glowing, fingers dancing across keyboards, feeding us real-time hacks and looped comms. The decision pisses us all off, but it’s for the best—even if leaving her gnaws at my insides. I want her lethal grace at my side, but safer hands on the wires matter more. She’s fire I won’t let burn out. Not for these scum.

Fuse’s crew splits for the ridge. Judge and Diesel peel east. Comms crackle once—her voice, crisp and steady in my ear. “Perimeter clear. False chatter planted. They’re distracted. Move when ready, Switch.”

“Copy,” I reply, voice flat. No softness. Professional. Inside, her tone anchors me.

Good. Stay sharp back there.

We ghost the last quarter mile on foot after stashing our bikes in tree cover. Using bolt cutters on the fence, I slip through first, team fanning behind. The industrial park seems abandoned—sagging chain link, weeds choking asphalt, warehouses that look like the wind could blow them over. Dim lights flicker inside the main building. Laughter carries on the wind, slurred boasts about “that MC compound lighting up easy.”

“Two sentries, north,” Tatum’s voice murmurs in my earpiece. “Thermal confirms. Take them quietly.”

I signal the team, pulling my knife free. Three steps on the first guard. Hand over his mouth, blade drawing a red smile across his throat. Warm blood coats my glove as he slumps without a sound. I ease him down.