Chapter 14 Augustine #2
The rest of the guys started weighing in—one or two on Carl’s side, more on Seneca’s, most just looking for the right wind to blow them toward the safest answer. The air in the room was so thick with smoke I could barely make out the details of the faces at the far end.
That was when a voice from the back, thin and reedy, cut through everything.
"Or we just give her back."
It was one of the prospects—the new kid, barely old enough to shave, standing with his hands jammed into the pockets of his cut. His lip curled up at the edges, a sneer like he’d practiced it in the mirror but hadn’t earned it yet. "One bitch ain’t worth a war," he added, looking straight at me.
The words hung there, lead-heavy.
Every head turned. Seneca grinned, but his eyes were dead flat. Carl's jaw flexed. Even Damron’s face lost a little color.
I stood up slow, letting the chair screech across the floor, and the prospect tried to keep his gaze steady. He failed. I walked the length of the table, every step a dare, until I was right in front of him. I didn’t need to say a word yet. He knew.
But then I said it anyway, leaning in until he could smell the ghost of last night’s whiskey and the blood I hadn’t bothered to wash off. "What did you say?"
He swallowed, but tried to hold his ground. "Just saying, Sergeant. We lose more if we keep her. I mean—"
That’s when I slammed my fist down on the table, hard enough that two mugs jumped, a few rounds of ammo tumbled from a box, and every other argument in the room snapped shut like a bear trap. The kid flinched. Good.
"We never abandon our own," I growled, low and final. "Your cut means something, or it means fuck-all. You see anyone in this room walking away from a brother? From someone under our protection? Because if you do, point him out."
I looked around the room, making eye contact with every face, making it a personal indictment. Most looked away. A few nodded, tight and nervous.
I turned back to the prospect. "You wanna wear this patch, you better start learning what it stands for. Otherwise, I’ll rip it off you myself and toss you to Cutler for spare parts."
Silence, except for the ragged sound of the kid’s breathing.
But I wasn’t done. "This club took me in when I had nothing. The Scythes. Fed me, taught me, gave me my first bike, my first gun. And you know what else? Not one of them ever said I wasn’t worth the trouble."
I stabbed a finger at his chest, then swept it across the table. "That’s what makes us different from the Leatherbacks. We don’t trade people like fucking cattle. We don’t forget who’s got our back. We don’t break when someone pushes. We push back."
I stepped back and let the words settle.
The kid dropped his eyes. The room shifted, the energy changing from hungry to disciplined, the way it did right before a job when you realized everyone was about to sign up for a blood pact.
Even the old-timers, guys who’d spent years talking shit about the new generation, looked at me like I’d just passed some secret test.
Damron’s voice cut through. "Anyone else wanna weigh in?"
Nobody did.
He nodded, just a hint of a smile in his ruined face. "Good. Then we’re settled. Augustine’s got perimeter. Seneca’s got the caches. Carl, you’re backup on the inside. The girl stays here, locked down. Nobody touches her, nobody talks to her unless I say so. Understood?"
A round of "yeahs" and "got its" filled the space.
Damron glanced at the prospect. "You get one free fuckup in this club, son. This was yours."
The kid nodded, sweat trickling down his neck.
Damron poured out another splash of bourbon, but this time it wasn’t just for him—it went all the way around, even to the prospects. A weird kind of unity, as good as it ever got.
I went back to my seat. Seneca caught my eye, then raised his glass. "To family, then," he said, and this time everyone joined in.
"To family," I answered, and drank it down.
"Augustine’s right about one thing," Damron said, slow and measured. "Standing against Cutler’s tyranny sends a message to every MC in the southwest. If we bend now, we’ll be bending for the rest of our lives."
He nodded at Seneca, who immediately started marking up the maps with new notes, plotting out backup plans on top of backup plans.
"So we do both," Damron said. "We dig in, but we get loud about it. We let every club from here to the border know the Scythes don’t break for anyone.
Diablos. Rust Devils. Maybe even the old Crowbar crew in Santa Fe, if they still got teeth. "
Carl looked up, interested despite himself. "We calling in debts, or promising payback?"
"Both," Damron said. "We offer what we got: guns, muscle, and a cut of whatever the ‘Backs leave behind. We make it clear that anyone siding with Cutler gets the same deal he gets—no deals. Just dirt."
The room picked up again, but this time it was different—focused, hungry, almost hopeful.
Everyone wanted a part in the plan. Seneca outlined the fallback positions, listing which brothers would anchor which buildings and who would rotate patrols.
Carl mapped the escape routes for families, making sure every woman and kid was ready to vanish the minute the first round went off.
Even the prospects, faces still raw from my speech, got put to work running comms and stacking the basement with enough firepower to make the ATF wet themselves.
When the talk finally hit a lull, Damron looked my way. "And the girl?"
I shrugged. "She’s in my room. Door’s locked, window’s got rebar. Nobody gets in unless they want to lose an eye."
Damron nodded, the respect there, even if he’d never say it out loud. "She stays put. Last thing we need is her getting scooped up and used as leverage."
A murmur of assent. No one wanted to argue anymore.
"Fine," Damron said. "We ride it out. If the Leatherbacks want a war, they get a war. But we don’t forget who started it, or who we’re fighting for."
It felt like electricity, a ripple through the room that made every old scar tingle and every heart beat a little harder. This was why I’d stayed alive. This was why I’d never run, even when the odds sucked.
Damron gave me a long look, then swept his hand over the map, like he was blessing the whole bloody enterprise. "Meeting adjourned, again. Get ready, and get right with your gods. We lock down at 0500."
The club filed out, more sober than I’d ever seen them. No one slapped backs or cracked jokes. Seneca lingered, folding up the maps with surgeon’s hands. Carl left last, pausing at the door to nod at me, the kind of nod that says, "If you die, I’ll kill you."
I stayed at the table, staring at the red marks, at the lines of attack and the fallback routes, thinking about all the times I’d been the bait and all the times I’d wanted to be the wolf.
I thought about Melissa, asleep or not asleep in my bed, probably dreaming of a life she’d never get.
I thought about my uncle, about the way he used to say, "The world doesn’t hand you loyalty—you gotta carve it yourself. "
I didn’t notice Damron come back until his hand landed on my shoulder. It was heavy, not just with muscle, but with everything he’d carried to get here.
"Your uncle would be proud," he said, quiet enough that no one but me could hear it. "Throttle never backed down, even when it made more sense to run. You got that same rot in your bones."
I didn’t answer. He squeezed once, then left me with the map and my thoughts.
For a minute, I just sat there, counting the bullet holes and thinking about how much blood it took to make a brotherhood.
I stood, finally, and went to check the locks on my door.
If war was coming, I was going to make damn sure it knew who to shoot first.