I leaned against the wall after I walked in. I didn’t sit in another club’s chairs unless I was invited or threatened.
Jersey took one of the chairs opposite the desk. He looked like he’d been home for five seconds and his bones were already settlingdifferently.
Blackjack dropped into his seat, grabbed his phone off the desk, and flipped through something quickly. His jaw ticked. Then he tossed the phone down like it offended him.
“Roman got the photos,” he started. “Ledger pages, dead Serpent, Cartel corpses, and Liberty’s glamour shots of your junkyard art project.”
I nodded.
“I sent it while you two were riding south. Ledger spreads with Bolivar and Steel Serpents braided together. The page where they talk about using his docks like they’re their own private highway. The dead Serpent in the junkyard. Your clubhouse after the hit. All of it.”
“How’d he take it?” Jersey asked.
“Like a man who just found out somebody’s been fucking his wife in his own bed,” Blackjack said. “He didn’t yell. Didn’t posture. Just went very, very quiet.”
8-Ball’s mouth twitched. “That’s worse,” he said.
“It is,” Blackjack agreed. He rubbed a hand over his face, beard rasping. “He said the ledger lines up with the things he’s been feeling in his bones for months. Money going funny. Dock schedules shifting a quarter inch to the left. People who used to look him in the eye suddenly needing to study the floor when they talk.”
“And now there’s proof,” I said.
“Now there’s more proof,” he corrected. “He didn’t believe it until we brought this problem to his doorstep. Now all this proof has made it all click. He’s testing harder. He’s got his accountants’ re-runningnumbers. Quiet audits on shell companies. Dock captains being ‘invited’ in for conversations. He’s looking at everyone’s phone logs, everyone’s personal schedules. Everything.”
Jersey’s fingers tapped against his knee. “Any movement on that fake route?” he asked. “The pier and warehouse you two lied about when Vladimir was in the room?”
“Nothing,” Blackjack said. “No one’s touched it. No extra eyes. No extra bodies. No one sniffing around yet. Either the rat got spooked or they’re smarter than we gave them credit for and are waiting to see where the first body drops before they make a move.”
I folded my arms.
“Or,” I said, “they’re busy opening other fronts and don’t have time to chase a maybe when they’ve got a sure thing in their hands. Ledger’s more valuable than one route.”
Blackjack nodded once. “Roman said the same,” he said. “He doesn’t know yet who’s doing the actual selling. Son. Consigliere. Dock-side leak. Someone in between. All of the above. But he’s done pretending it might just be coincidence. He told me if the ledger keeps lining up with what his own quiet digging finds, he’s going to start cutting pieces off his own family tree.”
“He sound scared?” 8-Ball asked.
“No,” Blackjack said. “He sounded insulted.”
He leaned forward, elbows on the desk.
“That’s where we are,” he said. “Roman’s trying to clean his house at his own speed. We don’t control that. Tesauro is probably on the phone taking progress reports personally. Meanwhile the Steel Serpents are running fetch and die missions. Those Bolivar boys are hitting our allies. Hell, they just sent them Serpents into a junkyard and lose bodies at the Vipers’ yard.”
He met my eyes.
“We’re not waiting for the next surprise,” he said. “We can’t. If we keep waiting, we’ll only be behind.”
“Or they’ll think us too weak,” Jersey said.
Blackjack grunted. “From here on? We assume war’s already landed and we act like we’re under siege until it’s over.”
“That language I understand,” I said.
He pushed back from his desk.
“Church,” he said. “Time to update everyone.”
***
Devil’s Church felt like every judgment room I’d ever walked into.
