I wanted to touch him. Put my hand on his arm, his shoulder, the back of his neck—the way I steadied horses, through contact, through physical reassurance that someone was there. But the room was full of his people and the touch would have said too much.
So I looked at him. Held his eyes when they found mine. And let the look carry what the touch couldn't.
The call came an hour later.
Diego's phone buzzed on the common room table where he'd left it during the press conference. I was across the room, talking to Tank about the logistics of transporting workers—he'd been listening to my description of the ranch layout with the focused attention of a man who thought in terms of load-bearing capacity and structural problem-solving. How many workers. How far from the road. How many vehicles. The questions of a man who'd moved people and equipment under hostile conditions before and was already running the math.
The phone buzzed again. I recognized the number from ten feet away. Danny.
I crossed the room in four steps. Picked up the phone.
"Danny." I answered before the third ring. "It's Logan."
Danny was breathing too hard, the words tumbling over each other. The steady kid I'd left on the ranch was gone. This Danny was rattled.
"Logan, bikers came to the ranch." His voice cracked on the second word. "Seven of them. They rode in like they owned the place. I told them what you said, that you disappeared, that I hadn't heard from you. They didn't buy it. One of them, the big one with the scar on his neck, he got in my face. Said they knew you'd been seen with a Phoenix, that you were working with the enemy, and that if I was hiding you, they'd burn the property to the ground."
My chest tightened.
"Are you okay? Are you hurt?"
"I'm fine. They didn't touch me. But Logan—" His voice dropped lower. "They went to the bunkhouses. They lined up the workers. All twelve of them, out front, like a roll call. And one of them, the one with the scar, he walked down the line and grabbed Tomás. Just grabbed him by the arm and yanked his shirt sleeve up. Checked his shoulder." Danny swallowed. The sound was audible through the phone. "There's a mark onhis shoulder, Logan. A brand. Like, a burn. The biker looked at it and nodded, like he was checking a serial number on a piece of equipment. Then he let Tomás go and said something to the others in a voice I couldn't hear, and they all got on their bikes and left."
I closed my eyes. Tomás. Nineteen years old. His arm wrenched up by a man in leather who inspected his branded shoulder the way you'd inspect a tag on a steer.
"They said they'd be back," Danny continued, fear bleeding through the forced composure. "Tomorrow, maybe the day after. The one with the scar told me they're 'moving the assets.' Those were his words, Logan.Assets.He was talking about people."
Diego was beside me. He'd crossed the room when he saw me pick up the phone, close enough to hear Danny's voice through the speaker.
"Danny, listen to me." I kept my voice level. "You did exactly right. You played it perfectly. But I need you to do one more thing. I need you to stay on the property, stay visible, act normal. We're coming. Do you understand? We're coming, and we're bringing people who can handle this."
"Who? Who's coming?"
I looked at Diego. He looked at me.
"Help," I told Danny. "The kind that rides."
I hung up. The phone sat in my hand, warm from my grip. Tank was standing now. Tyler had stopped whatever he'd been doing at the laptop. Ghost was in the doorway.
Diego was already moving. Not toward me, not toward the phone—toward the corridor that led to the meeting room. His stride changed. Faster. Harder. The deliberate pace of a man who'd made a decision and wasn't asking for approval.
I followed. Behind me, Tank fell in without a word. Then Tyler. The sound of boots on concrete multiplied as we passed the first hallway crossing—two men I didn't know stepped out ofa side room, saw Diego's stride, read the energy in his shoulders, and joined the column without asking a single question. At the next intersection, three more. One of them was already pulling his phone from his pocket, texting something I couldn't see. By the time we reached the meeting room, there were a dozen men behind us, and not one of them had been told where we were going. They'd seen Diego walk. They'd read the pace. That was enough. The silent communication of men who'd been through enough together that words were a formality their bodies had outgrown.
Church filled in five minutes. Around twenty men crowded the room, some in chairs, some standing, some leaning against walls with their arms crossed. The air was thick with body heat and the smell of leather and gun oil and coffee. I stood near the back, acutely aware that I was the only person in the room without a patch, the outsider granted entry because Diego had vouched for me.
Diego spoke first. His voice came out in compressed intensity, the voice of a man who'd already made a decision and was bringing his club into it.
"The Iron Wolves are moving on Logan's ranch." His voice filled the room. "Seven riders. They've threatened the foreman. They inspected the workers' brands. They're coming back to 'move the assets.' Their words." He let the phrase land. "Twelve people. Eight men, four women. One of them is nineteen years old. They've been branded, starved, forced to work without pay, and now the people who did it to them are coming to take them to the next labor site. Or worse."
Hawk stood at the head of the table. Arms crossed. His expression carrying the weight of a man who'd made this kind of decision before and understood what it cost.
"What are you asking for?" Hawk's voice was level. Not reluctant. Measuring.
"An extraction team. Small, fast. We drive north, we get the workers and the foreman off the property, and we bring them south to safety." Diego looked around the room. Not just at the men I was learning to recognize—Tank, Irish, Declan, Ghost—but at all of them. "There's also the building on the north acreage of Logan's property. A transit facility. If the Wolves are moving workers, that building might have people in it too. We split into two teams. One secures the ranch workers and the foreman. The other clears the building."
"Transport?" Tank. Practical, immediate. Already running logistics.
"My truck," I interjected, stepping forward. Every head turned. Twenty pairs of eyes on the outsider. My pulse climbed but my voice held. "The F-250 fits six inside. More in the cargo bed if we pack tight, though it won't be comfortable. We'll need vans for the workers. At least two if we find more people at the north building."
