"All in favor of this approach." Will doesn't phrase it as a question.
Hands go up around the table. Mine included. Shaw, Tate, Danny, Jackson, Mike. Nash keeps his hands on the table, jaw set, but he doesn't vote against. Abstention is allowed. Dissent is noted.
"Motion carries." Will makes another notation. "Next order of business. Prospect Axel."
Nash speaks up immediately. "He's been seeing someone for about two months now. Woman he met at the coffee shop. That's a potential security risk."
"You think he's talking?" Shaw asks.
"Don't know. That's the problem."
I lean back, considering what I've observed over the past eleven months. Axel's former Army MP, twenty-four, understands hierarchy and chain of command. Works hard at the shop, follows orders, respects protocol. "I've been watching him. He keeps his personal life separate. Girlfriend's never been to the bar or the shop. He doesn't bring her around, doesn't talk about her beyond mentioning he's seeing someone."
"Does anyone know if she asks questions?" Tate speaks up.
"According to Danny, she asked Axel if he was in a gang when they first started dating," I say. "Axel told her we're a legitimate MC, all veterans and first responders, running legal businesses. She hasn't pushed for more information since then."
Shaw nods. "He's been solid at the shop. Doesn't complain, handles the grunt work without attitude. Never heard him running his mouth about club business. Customer service is professional."
"He's good on the bikes," Tate adds. "Knows his way around an engine, pays attention to detail. No red flags from my perspective."
I've broken men for less in interrogation rooms overseas. Read their lies, exploited their weaknesses, extracted what I needed. The skills translate to reading people in civilian life. After eleven months of observation, I'd know if Axel was a security risk. He keeps his mouth shut, maintains boundaries, doesn't try to skip steps or push for advancement before he's earned it.
"Relationship is new enough that it could become a problem if it goes sideways," I say. "But he's handling it by the book so far. I'm good with voting him in next month. Give him that time to prove the relationship isn't going to be a security issue."
"Agreed," Shaw says.
Will looks around the table. "All in favor of tabling the vote?" Hands go up. "Motion carries. We'll revisit Axel in four weeks."
Will makes notes. "Anything else that needs to be addressed in Church?"
"Shop inventory needs restocking," Tate says. "I've got a list of parts we're running low on. Need approval for the purchase order."
"Send it to Cole for review," Will replies. "If the numbers work, green light it."
We handle a few more administrative items. Maintenance schedules for the club bikes. Discussion about expanding the custom build schedule to accommodate increased demand. All the practical business of running a legitimate motorcycle club with actual revenue streams and operational expenses.
Church wraps thirty minutes later. Will bangs the gavel again, officially closing the session, and the Brothers start filtering out toward the main bar where coffee and food wait. Sunday routine, as familiar as breathing.
I'm gathering my notes when I hear the rumble of engines outside. Not one of my Brothers' bikes. Different pitch, smoother idle. I move toward the front windows alongsideShaw, both of us reading the situation before we're fully conscious of doing it.
Several black SUVs pull into the parking lot with the kind of precision that screams federal training. Tactical positioning, clear sight lines, professional spacing. Not local PD. Not even state police.
Old instincts kick in, and I'm counting vehicles, identifying exit routes, calculating response times. In Delta Force, we'd already be running contingencies for how to handle federal interest. Most of them involved making problems disappear before they became threats.
Civilian life means I settle for damage control.
"Fuck." Shaw's voice is flat and controlled. "Federal."
Will appears at my shoulder, taking in the scene with the same calculating assessment. "Everyone stay calm. We've got nothing to hide. Let them serve whatever warrant they're carrying, cooperate fully, and get them out as fast as possible."
The SUV doors open in synchronized precision. Multiple agents in tactical gear, vests marked with bright yellow ATF letters, sidearms visible but not drawn. Professional approach, not a raid, but definitely not a friendly visit either.
I count them automatically—six, maybe seven agents. Standard federal response for a warrant service on a known MC. They're expecting potential resistance, prepared for it, but not anticipating actual violence.
In Delta Force, we'd assess the threat level, identify the ranking officer, calculate what it would take to neutralize the situation if it went sideways. Old habits. Dangerous habits I'm supposed to have left behind.
Leading the group is a woman who moves with the kind of controlled confidence that comes from extensive training and real-world experience. Dark hair pulled back in a tight bun, sharp features, average height in boots. She's wearing the sametactical gear as her team, but something about the way she carries herself suggests she's in charge.
