"Sending a message," I agree. "Letting us know they can hit us in broad daylight, in our legitimate business."
"We need to coordinate our story before the cops get here," he says. "Gang violence, random target, we have no idea why we were hit."
I nod, though we both know the police won't believe it. They'll suspect club business behind the attack, but without evidence of our involvement in the warehouse raid, they can't prove anything. The civilians caught in the crossfire are merely collateral damage in the Reapers' eyes—a fact that fuels the rage building beneath my controlled exterior.
As first responders flood the scene, I shift into public relations mode. Concerned business owner, cooperating fully with authorities, shocked by this senseless violence. The role is familiar, practiced over years of straddling the line between our legitimate and underground operations.
Through it all, one thought circles continuously: This wasn't just retaliation. It was a statement. A declaration that the conflict has moved beyond club business into public warfare. And if that's the game they want to play, they'll discover the Saints Outlaws aren't easily intimidated.
Morning finds us regrouping at the clubhouse, our public bar still a crime scene swarming with investigators. Despite only a few hours of sleep, club members gather in the chapel for damage assessment and response planning.
"Final count: four brothers injured, all stable," Doc reports. "Sixteen civilians treated for injuries, mostly lacerations from glass. Miraculously no one was killed."
"Property damage?" Vulture asks.
"Insurance will cover most of it," our treasurer responds. "Initial estimate around $150,000. We can reopen in two weeks if repairs go smoothly."
I study the faces around the table—exhausted, angry, resolute. The attack wasn't just property damage; it was a violation of unspoken boundaries. Legitimate businesses and civilians have traditionally remained off-limits in MC conflicts. The Reapers crossed a line deliberately, forcing escalation.
"Security footage?" I ask, turning to Ice Pick.
He slides a tablet across the table. "Clear images of six Reapers. Identified three definitively. Thomas Riley, Jason Marks, and Dean Cooper—all known associates of their Burns Harbor chapter."
"Burns Harbor chapter," Vulture repeats, the significance clear to everyone present. "Not local. They brought in soldiers from outside territory to maintain deniability."
"Smart," Ghost acknowledges grudgingly. "Local law enforcement will be looking at known Reapers in the area. Out-of-towners can hit and disappear."
The tactical discussion continues—security measures, retaliation options, protection for our legitimate businesses and families. Throughout it all, my mind keeps returning to the precision of the attack. Its timing, execution, and targets suggest inside knowledge of our operations.
A knock interrupts our deliberation. Tessa enters without waiting for permission, her expression grim. "Maggie just called from the safe house. One of the women from the warehouse raid is missing."
The room falls silent, tension ratcheting higher.
"Which one?" I ask, already dreading the answer.
"Sophia. The one who recognized Hargrove from Seattle operations." Tessa's knuckles whiten around the phone in her hand. "Security footage shows her leaving voluntarily around midnight. Said she was going for a smoke, never came back."
Voluntarily. The word triggers alarm bells. Women rescued from trafficking operations don't simply walk away from security without coercion. Especially not those with direct knowledge of Hargrove's involvement.
"When was the last check-in?" Vulture demands.
"10 PM room check. Everyone accounted for." Tessa hands me her phone. "Then this came through twenty minutes ago. Unknown number, single text with coordinates."
The message contains nothing but a string of numbers—latitude and longitude—and a single word: Consequences.
"Ice Pick, verify these coordinates," I order, passing him the phone. "Could be a trap."
He works quickly, fingers flying across his laptop keyboard. "Location's an abandoned factory about thirty miles north. Remote, minimal surrounding structures."
"We need to check it out," I say, meeting Vulture's eyes. "But carefully. Full tactical approach."
He nods agreement. "Take Ghost, Zip, and Osprey. The rest secure our positions here in case this is a diversion tactic."
Within thirty minutes, we're geared up and rolling out—four bikes taking separate routes to the coordinates, maintaining communication via encrypted channels. My mind races with possibilities, none of them good. Best case, Sophia left voluntarily and sent her location for pickup. Worst case...
I refuse to complete the thought, focusing instead on the tactical approach. The factory appears on the horizon after forty minutes of riding—a hulking concrete structure abandoned years ago when manufacturing moved overseas. Ideal for privacy, whether for a clandestine meeting or something darker.
We establish a perimeter, Ghost's military training guiding our systematic sweep of the exterior. No vehicles visible. No obvious surveillance. No immediate signs of threat or ambush.
