Seneca didn’t even look up, just flicked the tip of his knife at the map and said, "Bad math, Carl. We pop them in public, ATF is up our ass before we get home. Damron's right—we let them come to us. Plenty of space to maneuver, plenty of cover."
Carl sneered, but before he could open his mouth, Seneca tapped the map three times, each one landing on a mark labeled "stash." "We’ve got weapon caches here, here, and here. Diablos still owe us after the Mexicans last summer. If we hold, we’ve got backup and a shitload of firepower."
The rest of the guys started weighing in—one or two on Carl’s side, more on Seneca’s, most just looking for the right wind to blow them toward the safest answer. The air in the room was so thick with smoke I could barely make out the details of the faces at the far end.
That was when a voice from the back, thin and reedy, cut through everything.
"Or we just give her back."
It was one of the prospects—the new kid, barely old enough to shave, standing with his hands jammed into the pockets of his cut. His lip curled up at the edges, a sneer like he’d practiced it in the mirror but hadn’t earned it yet. "One bitch ain’t worth a war," he added, looking straight at me.
The words hung there, lead-heavy.
Every head turned. Seneca grinned, but his eyes were dead flat. Carl's jaw flexed. Even Damron’s face lost a little color.
I stood up slow, letting the chair screech across the floor, and the prospect tried to keep his gaze steady. He failed. I walked the length of the table, every step a dare, until I was right in front of him. I didn’t need to say a word yet. He knew.
But then I said it anyway, leaning in until he could smell the ghost of last night’s whiskey and the blood I hadn’t bothered to wash off. "What did you say?"
He swallowed, but tried to hold his ground. "Just saying, Sergeant. We lose more if we keep her. I mean—"
That’s when I slammed my fist down on the table, hard enough that two mugs jumped, a few rounds of ammotumbled from a box, and every other argument in the room snapped shut like a bear trap. The kid flinched. Good.
"We never abandon our own," I growled, low and final. "Your cut means something, or it means fuck-all. You see anyone in this room walking away from a brother? From someone under our protection? Because if you do, point him out."
I looked around the room, making eye contact with every face, making it a personal indictment. Most looked away. A few nodded, tight and nervous.
I turned back to the prospect. "You wanna wear this patch, you better start learning what it stands for. Otherwise, I’ll rip it off you myself and toss you to Cutler for spare parts."
Silence, except for the ragged sound of the kid’s breathing.
But I wasn’t done. "This club took me in when I had nothing. The Scythes. Fed me, taught me, gave me my first bike, my first gun. And you know what else? Not one of them ever said I wasn’t worth the trouble."
I stabbed a finger at his chest, then swept it across the table. "That’s what makes us different from the Leatherbacks. We don’t trade people like fucking cattle.We don’t forget who’s got our back. We don’t break when someone pushes. We push back."
I stepped back and let the words settle.
The kid dropped his eyes. The room shifted, the energy changing from hungry to disciplined, the way it did right before a job when you realized everyone was about to sign up for a blood pact. Even the old-timers, guys who’d spent years talking shit about the new generation, looked at me like I’d just passed some secret test.
Damron’s voice cut through. "Anyone else wanna weigh in?"
Nobody did.
He nodded, just a hint of a smile in his ruined face. "Good. Then we’re settled. Augustine’s got perimeter. Seneca’s got the caches. Carl, you’re backup on the inside. The girl stays here, locked down. Nobody touches her, nobody talks to her unless I say so. Understood?"
A round of "yeahs" and "got its" filled the space.
Damron glanced at the prospect. "You get one free fuckup in this club, son. This was yours."
The kid nodded, sweat trickling down his neck.
Damron poured out another splash of bourbon, but this time it wasn’t just for him—it went all the way around, even to the prospects. A weird kind of unity, as good as it ever got.
I went back to my seat. Seneca caught my eye, then raised his glass. "To family, then," he said, and this time everyone joined in.
"To family," I answered, and drank it down.
"Augustine’s right about one thing," Damron said, slow and measured. "Standing against Cutler’s tyranny sends a message to every MC in the southwest. If we bend now, we’ll be bending for the rest of our lives."
