"Done," Ruger says. No hesitation.
"Prospects can rotate on the house," Bracken offers. "Shots, Beats, and Lock. Maybe Rookie if he doesn’t have class. Eight-hour shifts. I'll run the schedule."
"I'll dig into the Las Vegas side," Ounce says. "I still know people who know people. Loan sharks that size—if they're sending muscle cross-country, this isn't some backroom bookie. This is organized. I'll have names by the weekend."
Porter pulls off his reading glasses and rubs his eyes. "Two hundred thousand. That's not a number they negotiated down to. That's a number that's been growing. Interest, penalties, fees. The original debt was probably half that."
"Does it matter?" Bloodhound speaks for the first time. His voice is low. Quiet. The kind of quiet that makes you pay attention. "The number doesn't matter. They came to his house. They know where his girls go to school. The rest is details."
He looks at me across the table, and what I see in his eyes isn't anger—it's worse than that.
This is a man who almost lost the woman he loved to a threat he didn't see coming fast enough.
He knows what it feels like to have someone you love in someone else's crosshairs.
"Whatever you need, brother," Bloodhound says. "I'm there."
I nod. I don't trust my voice for a second, so I just nod.
Ruger looks around the table. "All in favor of backing Coin's play—protection detail, intel, full club support until this is resolved."
Every hand goes up. Every single one. No discussion. No dissent.
"Unanimous," Ruger says. "Anything else?"
"Pipeline update," Ounce says, shifting gears the way he does—smooth, no friction. "Bloodhound and Maddox ran the rural corridors two days ago. Found tire tracks on three of the old mining access roads. Someone's using them regularly—heavy vehicles, probably box trucks. I've got a line on a property outside of town that might be a stash house. I'll confirm by next week."
Ruger nods. "Stay on it. Anything moving through our territory, I want to know about it before it gets where it's going." He slams the gavel down and stands. Church is over. "Coin—you need anything tonight, you call. Any hour."
"I will."
The brothers file out.
Hands on my shoulder as they pass—Maddox, whose hand feels like a catcher's mitt. Bracken, a quick squeeze. Decorum, a nod that carries the weight of a prayer.
Porter, who stops and says quietly, "We'll sort the money side. Don't carry that number in your head. It doesn't mean what they want it to mean."
Then it's just me and Bloodhound.
He's still sitting across the table, arms crossed again, watching me with those eyes that don't miss a single thing I'm trying to hide.
"You good?" he asks.
"No."
He nods. Appreciates the honesty. Most men in this club would have saidyeah, brother, I'm fineand meant none of it. Bloodhound and I have never been most men.
"Leah know?"
The question catches me sideways. "Why would Leah know?"
His expression doesn't change. "Because she's my sister. Because she's been coming around more. Because if this thing escalates and she's anywhere near your family, she's in the radius."
He's right. He's absolutely right, and I hate that he's right because it means the box in the back of my mind—the one with the scar that matches mine and the soft voice and the steady hands—just became relevant for reasons that have nothing to do with what I've been trying not to feel.
"I'll keep her clear of it," I say.
"You better." It's not a threat. It's a brother talking to a brother about the person they'd both die for, and we both know it.
