I nodded once, no words wasted. Got myself a cup, black, one sugar and sat to the right of Bronc one seat removed. Bronc watched me, measuring, but I outlasted him easily. Silence didn’t bother me.
Gunner arrived next, boots still muddy from chores, a plaid shirt clean but already untucked. He grinned at me, big dumb farm-boy energy, and clapped a hand on my shoulder. Most people hated being touched, but with Gunner you either accepted it or you ended up with a broken wrist. He slid in next to me, last chair in the row, then tried to flatten his wavyauburn hair with spit. It had never worked before; today was no different.
“Wrecker’s running late?” Gunner asked, voice pitched low.
“Five says he’s wrapped up with Parker,” I replied. I didn’t actually bet, but I liked the way Gunner’s eyes lit up at the thought.
Bronc snorted. “Church will wait until VP’s in the seat. He brings the intelligence; you bring the muscle, Gunner. Arsenal brings the fucking rules.”
I shrugged. “Somebody has to.” I sipped my coffee, savoring the burn.
Big Papa sauntered in, usual smile on his scarred face.
“Gentlemen. I think we’re gonna be graced with a fantastic day.” He placed two boxes of scones on the table, that everyone went for immediately.
Doc hauled his ass in on Papa’s heels looking like Clark Kent, all dark hair, good looks, wearing black horn-rimmed glasses, stoic as ever. “Fellas.”
At 5:47, exactly thirteen minutes before Bronc’s scheduled start, Wrecker slid into the room. He wore a shit-eating grin, three days of stubble, and a fresh scar at the corner of his mouth. He shot me a sideways glance, then dropped into his seat like gravity was optional.
“All here, then,” Bronc said, stacking his notes and folding his hands. Even after all these years, his knuckles looked like stone. “Arsenal, report.”
I opened my folder and started in my voice flat, all data. “Recon on Morgantown Pack as requested. Alpha: Waylon Steiner. Born ‘86, took over at age twenty-five. Secondary: Cornelius Madsen, listed as Beta but no direct pack relation. Estimated pack size: eighty to ninety, but only fifteen in Morgantown proper.”
Bronc raised an eyebrow. “Where’s the rest?”
“Houston, mostly. The Woodlands. Steiner’s operation is based out of a private compound north of town. Morgantown’s just window dressing.”
Wrecker leaned in, eyes narrowed. “Explain.”
“Steiner controls a multi-front business: clubs, loan sharking, and adult entertainment. The strip club is the nerve center—called The Eyrie. Exterior security’s excessive. Two perimeter fences, both electric. Interior: at least six armed guards per shift, rotating patterns. Private security contractors, not pack.”
Gunner looked genuinely confused. “Who the hell needs that kind of security in a hoity-toity part of Texas?”
I didn’t answer him. It was a rhetorical question, and it was the right one.
“His personal convoy consists of three armored SUVs. All custom—run-flat tires, bulletproof glass, police scanners. They rotate vehicles every two weeks and never park in the same place twice. Intel says he takes all his meals inside the club or at his own residence, or at his five-star restaurant called Savage Garden. It’s located in a restored historic Houston mansion with a secret underground dining chamber accessible only by freight elevator, where the Alpha’s closest associates feast on food prepared by chefs who’ve signed NDAs. My guess is he’s paranoid, but with cause.”
Bronc’s mouth tightened. “Likely bad blood between him and any number of people.”
“I’d guess if we pulled the blueprints of his club we’d find private rooms wired for AV and maybe video, and not just for security. He’s probably up to his beady little eyeballs in blackmail, control, maybe even surveillance of his own men.”
“Fuckers,” Gunner muttered, shaking his head.
I continued. “Wrecker might want to get on this. Looked like money’s moving fast. Too fast for a pack this size. Morgantown’spopulation is tiny. But Steiner’s bringing in Houston-level cash—property, cars, weapons. He’s got high-end taste and the muscle to back it up.”
Bronc let that land. “So what are we looking at? Cartel? Trafficking?”
“Could be both,” I said, not liking the confirmation. “He’s probably tied in with at least two other packs, but not as allies—more like subsidiaries. I think he’s testing how much he can expand before someone pushes back. And let’s not forget that those fuckers were involved with the witches who killed Papa.” I looked next to me and saw Papa’s knuckles go white as he gripped his coffee mug.
I squeezed his massive shoulder just to let him know how glad I am he’s still with us.
Wrecker spoke up, voice just a rasp: “What’s your angle on his pack? Anything unusual?”
“He surrounds himself with a lot of guys who aren’t wolves. I don’t get that. We’re the best muscle you can get. Why have humans as security unless it’s because they are expendable?”
That got everyone’s attention.
I let the silence stretch, then finished. “He’s not running a pack. He’s running a business. The wolves are incidental.”
