"Son of a bitch," Coin breathes.
"Vanna fits the profile," Ounce continues. "Former addict, history of disappearing, no family support for years. He probably had his eye on her for a long time. The only reason he didn't move on her sooner is because she's connected tothis club. To you." He looks at me. "But now she's clean. She's healthy. She's?—"
"Valuable," I finish, the word like acid in my mouth. "He sees her as valuable."
"Exactly. A cleaned-up girl with no track marks, pregnant, connected to a biker? Some sick fucks would pay a premium for that. He's not trying to collect a debt. He's trying to add her to his stable."
The image slams into me—Vanna in some basement, chained to a bed, being sold to the highest bidder.
I grip the edge of the table so hard my knuckles go white.
"So, what do we do?" Bracken asks, his voice tight with fury. "We can't just let this stand."
"No," Ruger agrees. "We can't." He looks around the table, meeting each man's eyes in turn. "This is a threat to one of our own. A threat to Bloodhound's wife and child. The way I see it, we've got two options. We can try to handle this quietly—pay him off, make him go away, hope he takes the money and runs."
"That won't work," Ounce says immediately. "Men like Virgil don't take payoffs. They see it as a form of weakness. He'll take the money, wait a few weeks, then come back for more. And eventually, he'll come back for her."
"Which brings us to option two." Ruger's voice is hard as steel. "We find this bastard, and we make sure he never threatens anyone again."
"You're talking about killing him," Porter says.
He's the cautious one, always thinking about consequences, always calculating risk. "That's not a decision we make lightly. There are ramifications. Investigations. If we're sloppy?—"
"We won't be sloppy." Ruger cuts him off. "But you're right. This isn't something we rush into. We do our homework first. Figure out his operation, his patterns, his vulnerabilities. When we move, we move smart."
He turns to me. "Bloodhound. This is your call. Your wife. Your family. What do you want to do?"
I don't hesitate. Don't need to.
"I want him dead."
The words hang in the air. No one speaks. No one needs to.
"All in favor of handling Virgil Sykes permanently," Ruger says, "raise your hand."
Every hand at the table goes up.
"It's unanimous." Ruger nods slowly. "We find him, we watch him, we figure out his patterns. And when the time is right, we end him. But we do this smart. No rushing in, no sloppy moves. We wait until we can do it clean."
"How long?" I ask.
"As long as it takes. Weeks, maybe. Could be a month or more." Ruger holds up a hand before I can protest. "I know you want this done yesterday. But if we move too fast, we leave evidence. We draw attention. We put the club at risk." He meets my eyes. "Your wife needs you free, Bloodhound. Not sitting in a cell. So, we do this right."
He's right. I know he's right, but every fiber of my being is screaming to go find Virgil tonight and put a bullet in his skull.
"In the meantime," Ruger continues, "Vanna doesn't go anywhere alone. Someone's with her at all times. We tighten security, keep eyes on the perimeter. If this asshole comes anywhere near the compound, we'll know about it."
"I'll start digging," Ounce offers. "See what I can find out about his operation. Where he lives, who he works with, what his schedule looks like."
"Good. Keep me posted." Ruger looks around the table. "Anything else?"
Silence.
"Then we're done. Church is adjourned."
The brothers file out, but I stay seated.
My hands are shaking—not with fear, but with the effort of holding back the bloodshed that wants to explode out of me.
