"See, that's the thing about coffee." Irish's eyes flicked past me, tracking something over my shoulder. I didn't need to turn to know Logan had emerged from the corridor. "It comes with whatever I decide to serve alongside it. Today's special is observations about your general aura of?—"
"Irish."
"—satisfaction. That's the word I was looking for. Very specific satisfaction."
"If you finish that sentence, I'm going to put this coffee somewhere creative."
"Violence before nine AM. That's more like the Blade I know." The grin went full power. "I was starting to worry all that relaxation had softened you."
Logan reached us. His hair still damp from a shower. Clean black t-shirt—borrowed, probably from the supplies Rosa had organized for the workers. He moved into position beside me, his shoulder close enough to brush mine. Brief. Electric. Deliberate.
Irish watched the configuration with undisguised delight. "Logan. Coffee?"
"Thanks." Logan accepted the mug that materialized from somewhere—Irish seemed to have prepared for the occasion—and took a long drink. "This is good."
"I make it strong enough to restart a dead man's heart. Seemed appropriate given the circumstances." Irish's eyes moved between us. "Slept well?"
"Best in weeks." The corner of Logan's mouth lifted.
"Interesting. Blade also seems rested." The grin somehow grew wider. "Must be something in the air."
"Must be," I agreed flatly. "Church in twenty, right? We should move."
"We should." Irish fell into step beside us as we headed toward the corridor, but his voice dropped lower. For me. "I'm happy for you, hermano. You deserve something good."
The sincerity beneath the teasing caught me off guard. I didn't have words for it. Just nodded.
Irish understood. He always did.
The storage room had been Nolan's domain since the Holt war.
Fifteen feet by twenty. Metal shelving units pushed back to create space for the folding table, the laptop, the whiteboard covered in financial diagrams. And the projector—mounted on a makeshift stand, throwing a pale rectangle onto the concrete wall. The room smelled like dust and paper and old supplies. Bodies were already filling the space, and the temperature was climbing with each arrival.
I took my position against the back wall. Concrete solid behind my shoulder blades. Sight lines clear to every face in the room. Logan settled beside me, close enough that our arms nearly touched. The configuration felt natural. Right. The way we'd stood in dozens of briefings in the army, processing information as a unit.
The room filled one by one. Ghost first, the grease wiped from his face but the energy still electric. Tank filled the corner nearest the entrance. Massive. Still. Tyler appeared behind him a second later, lean and sharp, laptop under his arm, their shoulders close. Axel took position against the side wall, arms crossed. Kai beside him—shoulders touching.
Irish and Declan came through together. Irish still carrying traces of the kitchen grin. Declan's posture straight, expression flat. Nolan was already at the head of the table, glasses reflecting the projector's glow, his fingers moving across the laptop keyboard.
Rosa stood near the door. Composed but watchful.
One by one, the remaining patched members—save for the ones standing guard—filled the room.
Hawk arrived last. Moved to the head of the table but didn't sit. His hands braced on the scarred wood. The shotgun visible on his back. He'd carried it everywhere since Holt's siege on the clubhouse. I wondered whether it was for readiness or penance.
"Thanks for coming in quick." His voice filled the cramped space. "Nolan's going to walk us through what he found. Then we plan."
Nolan rose. Adjusted his glasses. The look on his face was the same one I'd seen the night he'd explained Raymond Holt's money—the expression of a man who'd found something ugly and was about to make everyone else look at it.
"Fourteen sites." His voice quiet but precise. "Three states. Montana, Idaho, Wyoming." He clicked the laptop, and the projector threw a map onto the concrete wall. Red dots scattered across the northern territories. "Cattle operations. Agricultural facilities. Meatpacking plants. All staffed by workers from High Basin Agricultural Services."
The room was still. I let my hand find the folding tactical on my belt. Turned it in slow quarter-rotations without unclipping it.
"High Basin is a shell." Another click on the laptop. Corporate structure diagram—lines connecting boxes. "It's owned by a holding company called Great Plains Investments, which is owned by a trust called Clearwater Capital, which is administered by a law firm in Boise that exists only on paper." Nolan glanced at Irish. "Irish helped me cross-reference the filings."
"Eighteen hours of spreadsheets." Irish's voice dry. "I now dream in pivot tables."
"Every layer is designed to obscure the next," Nolan continued. "But money flows downhill. Follow it long enough, it tells you where it's going."
