Coalition meetings were weekly now. The war was moving fast, and everyone knew the Hand was pressing in. Every bike club still pledging allegiance had turned up. Not by choice, but because of the pressure we’d applied the last few days.
“What damage reports do we have this week?” Indie didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. The room leaned toward him, regardless.
“Arson attempt in Consett,” someone said from the far end of the table. A Mancunian accent, stark against the rumble of north east drawls. One of the smaller clubs that’d been dragged into this whether they liked it or not. “It was a garage unit. Bikes inside. Didn’t take, though. Fire service reckons it was rushed.”
“Rushed,” Indie repeated. Flat. “Message job.”
“Same in Ashington,” another cut chimed in. “Not bikes. Clubhouse doors. Petrol bomb. Middle of the night. Done a fuckload of damage to the doors. Can’t reopen the bar till it’s fucking sorted.”
A murmur rippled around the table. Low. Angry. Escalating as it rolled.
“They’re not trying to wipe us out,” Magnet muttered beside me. “They’re rattling cages.”
“They’re trying to make us look weak,” the Reverend interrupted from beside Tomahawk. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, fingers laced like he was saying grace, the white of the dog collar peeking through at his neck, bright against the black shirt he wore under his cut. “They want to make it seem like standing with the Kings gets you burned.”
I scanned the room while they talked. Who leaned in. Who leaned back. Who spoke too quickly, too eagerly. Fearwore different masks, but it always smelled the same. Sweat and pride and the need to look harder than you felt. But if you looked closer, you could see the little cracks. A leg vibrating as a foot tapped the floor. Skin picked from around fingernails. Lips pushed too tight together, trying to look stoic but not quite succeeding.
“They’re trying to break the coalition,” Indie’s voice rumbled low around the packed room. “Last time it was the only thing that stopped them…”
“And Demon…” someone muttered, but I couldn’t tell where from.
“They’ve hit supply lines,” Indie interrupted, steering the conversation away from our injured enforcer before the entire coalition realised how out of action he was. “Three separate clubs have had businesses compromised this week. Cut off the cash. Destroy the bikes. I would do it too. But someone’s been talking. The Hand knows too much.”
That landed heavily and I felt it in my gut, that slow, sinking drag. We all did. You could blow up a garage and we’d rebuild it. You could torch a clubhouse, and we’d drink in the ashes. But a mouth? A mouth was rot.
“Talking how?” an Angels and Demons officer asked. He was younger than the rest of the club. Tall. Dark blond hair with a thick beard a shade darker. “Intercepts? Tips?” he continued. “Or someone inside?”
Indie’s jaw tightened. Just a fraction.
“Inside,” he said. “Maybe not patched. Maybe not even a member. But close enough to know too much.”
Silence stretched. Nobody liked that answer.
“The Hand have been visiting independents,” the Reverend added. “Off the books. No colours. No noise. Just pressure. Leaning on families. Businesses. Old debts.”
“Offering protection,” someone scoffed.
“Or extinction,” I said.
Eyes flicked to me. A few nodded. Others looked away.
“They’re not here to rule,” I continued. “They’re here to fracture. Divide us until there’s nothing left to hold, and you are all too frightened to fight back. That’s how they work.”
And, fuck, didn’t I know. My fingers dragged through my beard as something old and ugly shifted in the back of my mind. The same playbook. Break a man’s nerve before you ever break his bones. Indie leaned back in his chair, eyes settling on me for a second longer than anyone else noticed.
“Old tricks,” he said quietly. “Some of us remember.”
He held my gaze for a second.
“We respond together,” he said after a breath. “No club handles this alone. If one of us is hit, we all show. If one of us is tested, we answer loud.”
That was an enormous commitment. I wasn’t the only one of us in this club trying not to breathe.
“And the ones sitting on the fence?” someone asked.
Indie smiled thinly. No warmth in it.
“They won’t be sitting long.”
