"They think wrong," Maddox says from the back of the room.
Ounce almost smiles. Almost. "The other two properties are smaller—relay points. Product comes in through the mining roads, stops at the relay points, gets moved to the main stash house, and from there it gets cut and distributed. The cutting is happening on-site, which is why the dosing is all over the place. They're not chemists. They're running a volume operation and they don't give a damn who dies from a hot batch."
"How much product?" Porter asks.
"Conservative estimate? Two hundred kilos moved through in the last month alone. Street value is in the millions. This isn't a side hustle. Somebody's invested serious money into this operation and they're expecting a return."
The room takes that in.
Two hundred kilos of fentanyl-laced meth flooding through a college town in Appalachia.
The math on how many people that can kill isn't math anyone wants to do.
Ruger stands.
When he does, the room goes silent the way it always does—not out of fear, but out of respect for a man who doesn't speak until he knows what needs to be said.
"We're hitting the stash house," he says. "Friday night. Full patch ride. We go in hard, we go in fast, and we burn every ounce of product we find. Then we pay a visit to the relay points and we make it crystal clear that Morgantown is not open for business."
"Ground rules?" Bloodhound asks.
His arms are crossed. He's been quiet all morning, which means he's been thinking, and when Bloodhound thinks, it usually ends with someone in a hospital or a hole.
"Defensive only," Ruger says. "We're not there to kill anyone unless they make us. We're there to send a message. But if they shoot first—" He pauses. Looks around the table. "—we shoot last."
Nods around the table. Not a single soul disagrees with him.
"Bracken, I want routes planned by Thursday. Three ways in, three ways out. Ounce, I want a final headcount on the crew by tomorrow night. Bloodhound, Maddox—you're point. Coin, I need you coordinating from the clubhouse on comms. Someone's got to keep the details straight, and that's you."
"Understood," I say. I don't argue about being on comms instead of on the ride.
My girls need me alive and unshot, and Ruger knows that without either of us having to say it.
"Friday," Ruger says. He slams the gavel. "Be ready."
Church ends.
Brothers file out, the energy in the room shifting from tension to purpose.
There's something about a club moving toward action—a current that runs through all of them, pulling loose parts tight, turning individuals into a unit.
I've felt it before. It never gets old.
I'm the last one out. I check my phone—no missed calls, no alerts from the cameras.
The girls are at school. Krypton's on Morgantown High, Wraith's on Suncrest Middle. Bloodhound took the early house shift.
Everything's covered. Everything's in place.
So why does my chest feel like someone's sitting on it?
I know something is wrong before I open the front door.
It's a feeling.
Not a sound, not a sight—just a shift in the air, the kind of wrongness that lives in the space between what should be and what is.
My hand goes to the Glock before my brain catches up, and I clear the porch, check the windows, scan the yard.
