"Church in thirty," he says.
I leave Bloodhound and Maddox at the house, but Rookie will cover for Maddox later on.
Both of them are side by side on the porch, armed, immovable.
Bloodhound didn't speak when he arrived—just walked past me, went upstairs, looked in on Sadie Jo, looked in on Wrenleigh, came back down, and took his position.
He hasn't spoken since.
He doesn't need to.
I know what he's thinking.
It's the same thing I'm thinking, the same thing every man in this club is thinking tonight.
The only question is how, and how soon, and how permanent.
The second I get to the clubhouse I walk into the room where we hold Church.
Church is full.
Every officer who isn’t on guard duty, and every full patch.
I lay my phone with the photo I took an hour ago—the close-up of Sadie Jo's arm, four finger-shaped bruises on a thirteen-year-old girl's skin.
Nobody speaks for a long time.
Then Ruger stands.
"They came into a brother's home," he says. His voice is quiet. The whole room leans in because when Ruger gets this quiet, what follows is final. "They put their hands on his ol' lady. They put their hands on his children." He looks around the table, meeting every set of eyes. "We end this."
"Unanimous?" Bracken asks, even though everyone already knows the answer.
"Unanimous," every voice in the room says.
The gavel comes down.
Ruger turns to Ounce. "Victor Solis. I want to know where his men are staying, how many there are, and what it takes to make this stop. Tonight."
"Already on it," Ounce says. "My contact in Vegas confirmed Solis has six men in Morgantown. Two of them are the suits from Coin's porch. The other four are muscle, including the ones who hit the house tonight. They're operating out of a rental property on the north side, near the industrial park."
"How do we end it?"
"Two ways. We find them and we deliver a message so loud that Solis pulls his men out. Or—" Ounce pauses. "We find them and there's no one left to pull out."
The room is still.
Ruger looks at me. "Your family. Your call."
I think about Sadie Jo's arm. About the handprint.
About the sound of my daughter screaming through a phone from twelve minutes away while I sat in a chair doing paperwork.
I think about Leah's split lip. About the bruise around her eye.
About the woman I love sitting on my kitchen floor with blood on her face, telling me to check the girls before she'd let me check on her.
I think about Wrenleigh, sixteen years old, standing in her doorway with a baseball bat because the adults in her life failed to keep her safe.
