Page 4 of Property of the Bikers

“Could be personal,” Priest says from the end of the table.

“Could be,” Ghost says. “Six years is a long time to run reliably and then go personal without a word.” He leaves it there. Ghost doesn’t oversell. He states things and lets them land.

Jax drops the front legs of his chair back onto the floor. “Maybe some Russian tourists decided Montana was scenic this time of year.” He delivers it straight, no expression, and two of the newer patches almost smile before they catch themselves and remember where they are.

“Jax,” I say.

He nods. Done.

Jax works things out by putting them in the air first. It’s not disrespect, and it’s never been. He needs to say the absurd version before he settles into the real one, and he does it fast, and when I shut it down, he closes it immediately. We’ve had that understanding for long enough that neither of us needs to explain it.

I look back at Reeve. “Bratva or something smaller operating in their name?”

“Bratva structure. The transaction methodology matches patterns I’ve tracked in three other jurisdictions over the past five years. This isn’t someone improvising. They’re running a system that’s been refined through use.” He pauses for exactly one second. “Whoever built this has done it before and knows what they’re doing.”

“Where are they in the timeline?”

“Financial setup phase. The money is still moving, which means they’re still building toward something. No physical indicators on our ground yet. Whatever they’re funding hasn’t moved into active operation.”

I sit with that. Active financial movement with no physical presence yet means the play hasn’t started. They’re getting pieces into position. Whatever hand they’re holding, they haven’t shown it.

“Ghost,” I say. He looks at me. “Two men on the north access road, rotating every six hours starting tonight. Nobody gets through that gate who isn’t patched into this club or personally vouched for by a member. Not a supplier’s regular driver. Not someone’s family passing through. Not anyone with a reason that sounds fine. A member puts their name and their patch behind it, or the gate stays closed.”

He nods once. It’ll be done before I finish the rest of this conversation.

“Reeve. Everything on those LLCs. Registered agents, any utility connections, or any indication someone is actually using either of them for a physical operation. If money is moving through Montana soil, I want to know what it’s moving toward before it gets there.”

“Already running,” Reeve says.

I look at the rest of the table. “Perimeter patrols double as of tonight. Two-man circuits, no solo runs, no exceptions made for anyone for any reason. Compound access is full lockdown. You bring someone through that gate, you’re doing it with your name attached to it. Not a recommendation. Your name. Your patch. That’s the standard until I say otherwise.”

Hayes raises two fingers off the table. “What are we telling the staff and the women?”

“That security protocols are at an elevated level until further notice. Nothing more than that.”

He drops his hand. That’s sufficient, and he knows it. Hayes has been around long enough to understand that explanations generate questions, and questions generate rumors, and rumors inside a compound under elevated security create a second problem layered on top of the first one.

I pick up the gavel and bring it down once. Clean and final.

The room breaks apart the way it always does after church, chairs pushing back, low voices coming back up, the sound of men moving from one mode into another. Ghost is through the door before most people have stood up, phone already in his hand, already running the rotation schedule in his head. Reeve collects his folder and stands without hurrying, the way he does everything. Jax catches my eye across the table and holds it for a beat, a look that says he’s available later if I need to run through anything, and then he’s gone.

I stay in my seat.

It’s a habit. I don’t stay because I’m still thinking through the decision. I made the decisions before I sat down, which is why they came out clean, and nobody saw me hesitate. I stay because the empty room tells me things the full one can’t.

Tonight, it’s telling me something is organized, patient, and pointed in our direction, and I don’t know what it wants yet.

Montana is Ruthless territory. That isn’t a boast. It’s a geographic fact, the same way the mountains outside are a geographic fact, and like the mountains, most operations with any sense don’t try to argue with it. Every few years, something comes through that needs reminding. That’s what the club is for.

I look at the empty chair at the far end of the table.

It sits at every church meeting, and nobody takes it, and nobody asks about it. The men who have been here long enough stopped seeing it years ago. The newer ones learn quickly that some things inside this clubhouse are not questions.

I think of Mira the way I think of a call I made and don’t second-guess.

Five years ago, Billings. Three weeks. She was sharp and self-contained and had no idea what living inside this world actually costs over time, and I had enough clarity left to make the call before she found out the hard way. I put her in a car heading east. I didn’t go after her.

That’s the doctrine. I built it in that moment. I’ve held it since.