Page 62 of Dagger

“Club business,” I say, trying to keep my tone neutral. “Nothing you need to worry about.”

Her eyes narrow, and she steps closer. “That’s not an answer, Dagger.”

I sigh, stepping forward and placing a hand on her shoulder. For a second, I just look at her, taking in the concern etched into her face. “We’re handling the Russians,” I say, my voice softening. “That’s all you need to know. Stay here, stay safe, and don’t open that door for anyone but us.”

She’s quiet for a moment, like she’s weighing whether to push me further. Her gaze flicks to my holster, to the tension in my shoulders, and I can see the worry settle in her eyes. “Be careful,” she says softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Always,” I promise, but it doesn’t feel like enough. Not for her, not for me. Before I can think too much, I pull her into me, one hand sliding to the back of her neck as I lower my mouth to hers. The kiss is deep, full of everything I can’t put into words. I pour all of it into her—the love, the fear, the promise that I’ll come back.

When I finally pull away, she’s staring at me, her cheeks flushed. She folds her arms across her chest, her eyes narrowing slightly. “That better not be the last damn kiss you give me,” she grumbles.

A small smile tugs at my lips. “It won’t be,” I tell her, my voice steady. “Lockdown rules, Chloe. Stick to them, alright?”

She nods reluctantly, her tough exterior slipping just enough to let me see the worry underneath. Without another word, I turn and head out, the weight of what’s ahead heavier than ever.

We roll out as a pack, the roar of our bikes cutting through the night. Mason leads the way, his headlights slicing through the darkness, and I’m right behind him. The docks loom ahead, their shadowed shapes growing larger as we approach.

We kill the engines a few blocks out, coasting into the lot silently. Mason signals for us to dismount, and we move quickly, spreading out and taking our positions. The air is heavy with the smell of saltwater and diesel, and every sound seems amplified in the quiet.

“You see anything?” I whisper to Mason as we crouch behind a stack of shipping containers.

“Not yet,” he murmurs, his eyes scanning the area. “But they’ll be here.”

Minutes tick by, the tension mounting with every second. Then, in the distance, headlights appear, cutting through the darkness. Two vans roll into the lot, their engines idling as figures climb out.

“That’s them,” Mason mutters. “Everyone in position.”

I nod and move to my spot, crouching low behind another stack of containers. I grip my gun tightly, my pulse steady but thrumming in my ears. The Russians move with purpose, opening the back of the vans and pulling out crates. I recognize the markings immediately—those are our guns.

Mason gives the signal, and we move as one, emerging from the shadows with weapons drawn.

“Drop it!” Mason barks, his voice echoing through the lot. “Now!”

The Russians freeze for a moment, their hands hovering near their weapons. One of them, a tall guy with a shaved head, steps forward, his lips curling into a sneer. “You think you can scare us?” he says in heavily accented English.

Mason doesn’t hesitate. “You’re on our turf, with our goods. This ends now. Drop the crates and walk away, or it’ll get bloody.”

Shaved Head laughs, a cold, harsh sound. “You don’t scare us, Reapers.” He gestures to his men. “Kill them.”

All hell breaks loose. The Russians draw their weapons, and the lot erupts in gunfire. I dive behind a container as bullets ricochet off the metal, returning fire and taking down one of the Russians. Around me, the brothers are holding their ground, their shots precise and calculated.

Sledge takes out two men with his shotgun, the blasts echoing like thunder. Hawk moves with lethal precision, his blade flashing as he takes down a man trying to flank us. Mason’s shouting orders, his voice cutting through the chaos.

I spot Shaved Head trying to slip away, dragging one of the crates with him. “Not a chance,” I mutter, breaking cover and sprinting toward him. He turns, raising his pistol, but I’m faster. My shot hits him square in the chest, and he drops to the ground, the crate falling beside him.

“Dagger!” Mason shouts, motioning toward the vans. More Russians are piling out, reinforcements we didn’t expect.

“We’ve got this,” I call back, signaling to Jax and Sledge. Together, we push forward, taking out the newcomers before they can gain ground. The vans become cover for a brutal firefight, but we hold the line, forcing them back with sheer determination.

After what feels like an eternity, the gunfire finally stops. The lot is littered with bodies, and the remaining Russians are retreating, dragging their wounded with them.

Mason steps forward, his gun still raised. “Get out of here,” he growls. “And tell your boss if he comes for us again, we’ll finish the job.”

The Russians don’t argue. They pile into the remaining van and peel out, disappearing into the night.

“Status check,” Mason calls, turning to the brothers.

“We’re good,” Hawk says, wiping blood from his blade. “Took some hits, but nothing serious.”

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