Page 9 of Property of Booker

I need to reach out to Riptide immediately to brief him on this morning's discoveries. He, Indiana, and Icer are about to head out with their old ladies to attend Pokey's farewell service, so time is short. To ensure I don't miss any details of their ongoing planning, I've set my program to record the stream so I can review it thoroughly at a later time.

I step out into the hallway and hear the door click shut as the bolt engages, protecting our digital command center from outside intruders. Locking my office door before leaving is a habit. It is not that I suspect my brothers of tampering with my equipment, but rather because the information stored here is incredibly sensitive and private. Our entire established architecture could be compromised by a single unauthorized keystroke from an oblivious brother, especially since the decryption protocols on my console are tied directly to this local terminal while Kendall and Branson actively manipulate the network from within.

Jogging through the main room and out to the front of the clubhouse, I see the guys packing the SUV for the women. “Rip,” I shout, rushing to him. “Need to tell you about a conversation I was privy to thanks to Vixen.”

Rip stops, his hand resting on the back of the SUV. He doesn't look annoyed, just focused. Indiana drops a heavy gear bag into the trunk with a thud and turns to face me. Icer leans his shoulder against the quarter panel, his arms crossed over his chest, his icy blue eyes, that are eerie as fuck at times, already reading the tension in my face.

“Make it quick, Book,” Rip says, his voice low and steady. “We're burning daylight.”

I don't waste time. “I had a live feed of Jerome talking to a guy named Lester. The syndicate head. Jerome is shaking, Rip. He's genuinely terrified.”

Indiana narrows his eyes. “Terrified of what? He's supposed to be king of that little sandbox.”

“Not anymore,” I say, my pulse speeding up just remembering the fear in Jerome's voice. “Lester is squeezing him. Jerome's operations are collapsing, and shipments are being seized. Lester told him he has until sunrise to find the leak or he's dead. Jerome is desperate enough to burn everything down to save his own skin.”

Icer shifts, his stance tightening. “If he's running scared, he's going to make mistakes. Big ones.”

“Exactly,” I agree, looking from Icer to Rip. “He's hunting for a ghost, and he's ready to tear his own house apart to find it. He thinks there's a traitor in his inner circle, but he has no idea how deep it goes.”

Rip nods, a decisive motion. He stares at the horizon for a second, calculating the threat. “So the clock is ticking on him. If he’s got until sunrise, he’s going to move hard and fast tonight.”

“He's already doing it,” I add. “He's obsessing over the courthouse, and he's demanding surveillance everywhere. He's spreading his resources thin.”

Indiana scoffs, a dark grin ghosting across his face. “Let him scramble. If he's focused on the courthouse, he's taking his eyes off us. That's the opening we need.”

“He's not just looking at the courthouse,” I warn them. “He's paranoid. He's ready to kill anyone he suspects. Vixen is in the line of fire.”

Icer steps away from the SUV, his eyes cold and hard. “We don't leave people behind, Book. Not if they're on our side. What's the plan?”

Rip looks at me, waiting. “You're the tech guy. You've got the pulse on this. What does he do next?”

I mull that over and decide. “He’s still going to let the raid on the clubhouse take place, that’s a foregone conclusion. But if he thinks Patrick’s mom is a threat, and with Patrick being a guest of ours, he’s gonna go one of two ways.”

Rip leans forward, his expression grave. “Give it to me straight. What are the plays?”

I trace a line in the dust on the SUVs trunk lid. “First, he goes for a scorched earth approach. He realizes the councilwoman is the real leverage and he tries to take her out of play entirely. That means a hit squad at the courthouse. Option two, he creates a situation where we have to show our hand.”

Icer spits on the ground. “He thinks he is playing chess with us. He forgets we are the ones who flip the board.”

Indiana cracks his knuckles. “If he wants a fight, we give him one. But I agree with Book. We can’t let him corner the councilwoman. If she goes down, we lose our biggest leverage against the town administration.”

Rip shakes his head, his face a mask of cold finality. “Patrick, Jerome, the syndicate, they can all tear each other apart for all I care. I don’t give a damn about the councilwoman or the mess Jerome is stirring up with her. Burying our brother in West Texas is our only priority today, and we are hitting the road now to leave this town in the rearview. Whatever happens while we’re gone is entirely up to you, Book. Slayer is staying behind, so use him and y’all come up with an alternative game plan. We’re out.”

I realized Pokey’s passing had deeply affected Rip, but the extent of his grief only becomes clear when he practically dismisses me, acting like this is an inconvenience instead of something that could come back and bite us in the ass if we’re not careful. Turning away after nodding my goodbyes, I formulate a fresh strategy—track down Slayer, brief him on the situation, and collaborate on a distraction for Jerome. We need a plan to keep him occupied so he doesn't investigate his inner circle and discover their betrayal.

I’ve come up with what should be the ideal diversion, though executing it will require Slayer’s assistance. Delivering a severed piece of Patrick straight to his doorstep ought to achieve the desired outcome. Given that they gouged out one of Sphinx’s eyes when his cover was blown and turned him against the brotherhood with threats against his sister, retaliation feels entirely justified.

CHAPTER

SIX

Kendall

Today is the day of the raid, and with my nerves completely shot, I know everything must unfold flawlessly without a single hiccup. Sitting at my station, I quietly whistle, “Hi ho, hi ho, it’s off to work we go,” while keeping tabs on the guys as they head down the interstate toward West Texas. At the same time, my backup monitor allows me to watch over Booker and the rest of the crew remaining at the clubhouse.

Branson and I are vibrating with a relentless energy we can't shake. Every second drags, stretching minutes into agonizing hours as we wait for the window to open. We’re trapped in this holding pattern for days yet, and the delay makes my skin crawl. We’re waiting to rip our families out of Jerome’s clutches, but the slow crawl of the clock tests our resolve. The fear gnaws at my gut, sharper than the throb in my bruised ribs. We’re running on fumes, and I just need this nightmare to end.

Booker logs on, and as his face appears before me, I smile. He’s the only thing that keeps me going these days. “You on, Vixen?”