Chapter 2
Arsenal
The clubhouse was at its best before dawn.
Most guys thought that was after hours, during the silent slot between bar close and the sunrise, when every surface still held a film of the previous day’s sweat and gasoline but before anybody had the energy to spill blood or secrets.
Me, I liked the hour when the only people inside were the ones you’d trust to hold your skull while you puked, or hide your body if you went missing.
The Iron Valor MC clubhouse still looked newly built from its rising from the ashes of the explosion that killed Parker, Wrecker’s mate.
But the building crumbling on top of her couldn’t keep her dead thanks to the Angel King.
He brought her back to life. Now the Angel King is Big Papa’s father-in-law. What a mind-fuck that turned out to be.
I showed up early, per habit. My boots didn’t squeak on the painted concrete.
I let the main doors swing closed behind me and stood there a second, letting the place tell me who was in it.
Nobody in the lobby. Distant sounds—coffee percolator, sound of a shower, the quiet scrape of a barstool being set down—told me exactly who was already up. No danger. No surprises.
I passed through the main hall, where the faded American flag and the club’s own heart and dagger insignia flanked the long table.
Church, they called it, though the only worship happening here was of the tactical variety.
I noted the fresh slug in the drywall from last night’s argument—Wrecker’s handiwork, unless I missed my guess.
Menace’s absence was palpable, now that he was running the Midwest. The whole building felt fractionally lighter, like a sandbag had been cut from the load.
I found Bronc alone at the table, salt and pepper head bent over a stack of handwritten notes and the inevitable legal pad, his reading glasses perched halfway down his nose. He looked up at my entrance, blue eyes registering and dismissing me in a single pass.
“Regan,” he said. “Coffee’s fresh.”
I nodded once, no words wasted. Got myself a cup, black, one sugar and sat to the right of Bronc one seat removed. Bronc watched me, measuring, but I outlasted him easily. Silence didn’t bother me.
Gunner arrived next, boots still muddy from chores, a plaid shirt clean but already untucked.
He grinned at me, big dumb farm-boy energy, and clapped a hand on my shoulder.
Most people hated being touched, but with Gunner you either accepted it or you ended up with a broken wrist. He slid in next to me, last chair in the row, then tried to flatten his wavy auburn hair with spit.
It had never worked before; today was no different.
“Wrecker’s running late?” Gunner asked, voice pitched low.
“Five says he’s wrapped up with Parker,” I replied. I didn’t actually bet, but I liked the way Gunner’s eyes lit up at the thought.
Bronc snorted. “Church will wait until VP’s in the seat. He brings the intelligence; you bring the muscle, Gunner. Arsenal brings the fucking rules.”
I shrugged. “Somebody has to.” I sipped my coffee, savoring the burn.
Big Papa sauntered in, usual smile on his scarred face.
“Gentlemen. I think we’re gonna be graced with a fantastic day.” He placed two boxes of scones on the table, that everyone went for immediately.
Doc hauled his ass in on Papa’s heels looking like Clark Kent, all dark hair, good looks, wearing black horn-rimmed glasses, stoic as ever. “Fellas.”
At 5:47, exactly thirteen minutes before Bronc’s scheduled start, Wrecker slid into the room. He wore a shit-eating grin, three days of stubble, and a fresh scar at the corner of his mouth. He shot me a sideways glance, then dropped into his seat like gravity was optional.
“All here, then,” Bronc said, stacking his notes and folding his hands. Even after all these years, his knuckles looked like stone. “Arsenal, report.”
I opened my folder and started in my voice flat, all data.
“Recon on Morgantown Pack as requested. Alpha: Waylon Steiner.
Born ‘86, took over at age twenty-five. Secondary: Cornelius Madsen, listed as Beta but no direct pack relation. Estimated pack size: eighty to ninety, but only fifteen in Morgantown proper.”
Bronc raised an eyebrow. “Where’s the rest?”
“Houston, mostly. The Woodlands. Steiner’s operation is based out of a private compound north of town. Morgantown’s just window dressing.”
Wrecker leaned in, eyes narrowed. “Explain.”
“Steiner controls a multi-front business: clubs, loan sharking, and adult entertainment. The strip club is the nerve center—called The Eyrie. Exterior security’s excessive.
Two perimeter fences, both electric. Interior: at least six armed guards per shift, rotating patterns.
Private security contractors, not pack.”
Gunner looked genuinely confused. “Who the hell needs that kind of security in a hoity-toity part of Texas?”
I didn’t answer him. It was a rhetorical question, and it was the right one.
“His personal convoy consists of three armored SUVs. All custom—run-flat tires, bulletproof glass, police scanners. They rotate vehicles every two weeks and never park in the same place twice. Intel says he takes all his meals inside the club or at his own residence, or at his five-star restaurant called Savage Garden. It’s located in a restored historic Houston mansion with a secret underground dining chamber accessible only by freight elevator, where the Alpha’s closest associates feast on food prepared by chefs who’ve signed NDAs.
My guess is he’s paranoid, but with cause. ”
Bronc’s mouth tightened. “Likely bad blood between him and any number of people.”
“I’d guess if we pulled the blueprints of his club we’d find private rooms wired for AV and maybe video, and not just for security. He’s probably up to his beady little eyeballs in blackmail, control, maybe even surveillance of his own men.”
“Fuckers,” Gunner muttered, shaking his head.
I continued. “Wrecker might want to get on this. Looked like money’s moving fast. Too fast for a pack this size. Morgantown’s population is tiny. But Steiner’s bringing in Houston-level cash—property, cars, weapons. He’s got high-end taste and the muscle to back it up.”
Bronc let that land. “So what are we looking at? Cartel? Trafficking?”
“Could be both,” I said, not liking the confirmation.
“He’s probably tied in with at least two other packs, but not as allies—more like subsidiaries.
I think he’s testing how much he can expand before someone pushes back.
And let’s not forget that those fuckers were involved with the witches who killed Papa.
” I looked next to me and saw Papa’s knuckles go white as he gripped his coffee mug.
I squeezed his massive shoulder just to let him know how glad I am he’s still with us.
Wrecker spoke up, voice just a rasp: “What’s your angle on his pack? Anything unusual?”
“He surrounds himself with a lot of guys who aren’t wolves. I don’t get that. We’re the best muscle you can get. Why have humans as security unless it’s because they are expendable?”
That got everyone’s attention.
I let the silence stretch, then finished. “He’s not running a pack. He’s running a business. The wolves are incidental.”
He let it hang a second. “Arsenal, you and Gunner will handle another recon. Wrecker, dig into Steiner’s contacts—see if there’s a pattern.”
I nodded, closing my folder. “Copy.”
Bronc looked at each of us in turn. “We don’t move on this until we know more. I want to get to the bottom of their involvement in Papa’s abduction. I also want to know if they are flesh peddling. If it’s trafficking, we end it.”
“Roger that,” Gunner said, a touch too loud.
Bronc’s gaze landed on me. “Arsenal. If you see something—if there’s a personal angle—bring it to me.”
He didn’t say it like a threat, but it didn’t need to be.
I stood, saluted with my mug, and left the room first.
Church let out, and as bodies scattered, I intercepted Wrecker in the corridor.
Parker joined us from the living room. Wrecker fell in behind me like we were back in formation, and Parker trailed with her usual soft-footed stealth.
I cut through the admin hall to the back office, knowing we’d be undisturbed.
Not even Bronc poked his head in; he knew when a room was about to get classified.
The office had been reinforced in the rebuild.
What used to be a crappy room with rickety furniture, now had a nice wooden desk and several padded chairs.
The only adornment was a Texas flag with a bullet hole dead center.
I’d put it there the first day we got back inside; nobody dared to take it down.
I waited until both of them sat—Wrecker slouched, knees splayed, arms crossed; Parker on the edge, back ramrod straight, black nails clicking a nervous rhythm on the tabletop.
“Alright,” I said, closing the door, “I’ve got something. You need to keep this off the record.”
Wrecker’s eyes went flat, all jokes off. Parker just raised one eyebrow, like she was waiting to be amused.
I braced my palms on the table and looked at the flag, not at them. “There was a dancer at the club. Her name is Harper Lawson. She’s my mate.”
The word hit like a stray round in the room. Wrecker’s brow furrowed, then his lips parted. “You’re shitting me.”
Parker blinked once, then stared at me with an intensity I hadn’t seen since Wrecker threatened to spank her in the middle of the club picnic a few weeks ago. “You have a fucking mate?”
“Had. She rejected me. Sort of. I haven’t seen her since before I joined Iron Valor. Not since…” I trailed off, steeling myself. “Not since she walked out. Five years ago.”