Page 93 of Tyson
"Go!" Duke's response came with covering fire. "We'll hold here!"
I moved through the chaos with singular purpose. Nothing existed except the next threat, the next obstacle between me and Lena. The yacht had become a maze of overturned furniture and bodies, the pretty party transformed into a war zone.
"LENA!" Her name tore from my throat before I could stop it, shattering every rule about noise discipline I'd ever learned. So much for keeping our relationship secret. So much for professional distance. She was gone, and nothing else mattered.
The main deck had transformed into a vision of hell. Overturned tables created improvised barricades where guests huddled in formal wear now splattered with blood andchampagne. Broken bottles caught the emergency lighting, glittering like landmines waiting to shred anyone who moved wrong. The pretty wedding atmosphere had become a killing floor.
I moved through it like Death's own messenger. Every motion calculated, every decision binary—threat or not-threat, obstacle or opportunity. A Serpent came around the bar, weapon tracking toward fleeing civilians. My body moved before conscious thought, twenty years of muscle memory taking over. Disable the weapon hand, control the head, apply pressure. The crack of his neck was lost in the larger symphony of violence.
Keep moving. Find her.
Another Serpent tried to flank from behind an overturned table. I let him come, used his momentum against him, introduced his skull to the brass railing with enough force to leave a dent. His weapon clattered across the deck, immediately scooped up by a prospect who'd lost his own.
"Where is she?" The words came out as a growl, directed at no one and everyone.
That's when Tank materialized at my shoulder, moving with that eerie grace big men sometimes possessed. Blood ran from a gash on his temple, painting half his face in crimson war paint. His eyes held the same focused intensity I'd seen in too many firefights—switched on, lethal, ready.
"Silver dress, was by the stairs—" I started, but he was already nodding.
"Saw her heading port side with Mia! Come on!" He didn't question why I cared, didn't waste time on explanations. He understood what mattered when bullets were flying.
We moved as a unit, tank high, me low. Overlapping fields of fire, covering each other's movement. A Serpent appeared in a doorway—Tank's round caught himbefore I'd even registeredthe threat. Another tried to circle behind—my knife found his kidney before he could line up a shot.
"Just like old times!" Tank called out, almost cheerful despite the blood running down his face.
The yacht listed suddenly, throwing everyone off balance. Hull damage from the heavy rounds—we were taking on water. Not fast enough to sink us immediately, but enough to add another timer to this disaster. Find Lena, end the threat, get everyone off before we went swimming.
"Contact right!" Tank's warning came simultaneously with his weapon firing. Two Serpents had tried to rush us from the kitchen access. They'd barely cleared the doorway before Tank's precise shots dropped them both. "These aren't typical Serpent trash."
He was right. The tactical gear, the coordination, the suppressed weapons—this was a tier above normal MC violence. This was cartel-trained, cartel-funded.
We fought our way across the deck, every foot gained paid for in blood and brass. I caught glimpses of the wider battle—Duke and Thor had gone full Viking, standing back-to-back in a circle of bodies, their dress clothes torn and bloody but their defense unbreakable. Wiz had somehow acquired a shotgun, using it to create a safe corridor for civilians to reach the lower decks. Prospects continued to throw themselves into harm's way, earning their patches in the hardest currency.
But no purple hair. No silver dress. No Lena.
"Where the fuck is she?" The fear was eating me alive, worse than any combat stress I'd experienced.
"Brother." Tank's hand on my shoulder grounded me slightly. "We'll find her. But you need to keep your head on straight or we're both dead."
He was right. I forced myself to breathe, to think tactically instead of emotionally. Port side was where the heaviestconcentration of fire originated. If Mia had led Lena that way, they'd be trapped between the yacht's edge and the assault force. Limited options, maximum danger.
"Pilot house," I said suddenly. "If Mia's smart—and she is—she'd try for the pilot house. Elevation, solid walls, radio access."
Tank nodded immediately. "Through the galley or around the deck?"
Gunfire answered the question for us, a sustained burst that shredded the windows above our heads. Around the deck would be suicide. "Galley. Move."
The galley was a disaster—industrial refrigerators punctured by bullets, leaking coolant that made the floor treacherous. Expensive pots and pans scattered like fallen soldiers. We picked our way through, every sense straining for threats.
That's when I heard it. Faint, almost lost in the combat noise, but unmistakable.
Lena's voice, raised in anger rather than fear: "Try it again and I'll feed you your own balls!"
She was alive. Alive and fighting and threatening someone with bodily harm. My chest loosened for the first time since I'd found that empty space behind the stairs.
"That's your girl?" Tank asked, a hint of amusement breaking through his combat focus.
"That's my girl," I confirmed, already moving toward the sound. Whatever Serpent had cornered her was about to learn exactly why you didn't touch what belonged to Tyson Monroe.
