Chapter 10 #2
The silence that follows is deafening.
Every man in this room has a mother, a sister, a daughter, or an ol’ lady.
Every man in this room understands exactly what I'm saying.
And every man in this room is thinking the same thing I am.
This cannot and will not stand.
Ruger leans forward, his forearms on the table. "This Virgil. What do we know about him?"
"Small-time dealer. Been working the Morgantown area for years. Had his hooks in Vanna when she was using—kept her high, kept her dependent. That's all I've got so far."
"I know him."
The voice comes from my left.
Ounce.
He's been quiet until now, watching and listening with those sharp eyes of his.
But when he speaks, everyone turns to look at him.
"You know him?" Ruger asks.
"I know of him." Ounce's expression is dark, shadows pooling in the lines of his face. "Virgil Sykes. He's been around for a while. Started out dealing, small stuff, worked his way up. But dealing's not his main business anymore. Hasn't been for years."
"What is?"
Ounce meets my eyes, and I see something there that makes my blood run cold.
Something that tells me this is about to get so much worse.
"Girls," he says. "He runs girls. Trafficking."
The word lands like a bomb in the center of the table.
"You're telling me this motherfucker is a trafficker?" Ruger's voice is deadly quiet. The kind of quiet that comes before he’s about to shed blood. "And he's threatening one of our own?"
"That's what I'm telling you." Ounce turns to address the table, his voice steady despite the horror of what he's describing.
"I ran into him a few times, back when I was in that life.
He's got connections—pipeline runs through here to bigger cities.
Pittsburgh, Philly, sometimes down to DC.
He finds girls who are vulnerable. Addicts, runaways, women with nowhere else to go.
Gets them hooked, gets them in debt, then puts them to work.
By the time they realize what's happening, they're too deep to get out. "
"Son of a bitch," Coin breathes.
"Vanna fits the profile," Ounce continues.
"Former addict, history of disappearing, no family support for years.
He probably had his eye on her for a long time.
The only reason he didn't move on her sooner is because she's connected to this club.
To you." He looks at me. "But now she's clean. She's healthy. She's—"
"Valuable," I finish, the word like acid in my mouth. "He sees her as valuable."
"Exactly. A cleaned-up girl with no track marks, pregnant, connected to a biker? Some sick fucks would pay a premium for that. He's not trying to collect a debt. He's trying to add her to his stable."
The image slams into me—Vanna in some basement, chained to a bed, being sold to the highest bidder.
I grip the edge of the table so hard my knuckles go white.
"So, what do we do?" Bracken asks, his voice tight with fury. "We can't just let this stand."
"No," Ruger agrees. "We can't." He looks around the table, meeting each man's eyes in turn.
"This is a threat to one of our own. A threat to Bloodhound's wife and child.
The way I see it, we've got two options.
We can try to handle this quietly—pay him off, make him go away, hope he takes the money and runs. "
"That won't work," Ounce says immediately. "Men like Virgil don't take payoffs. They see it as a form of weakness. He'll take the money, wait a few weeks, then come back for more. And eventually, he'll come back for her."
"Which brings us to option two." Ruger's voice is hard as steel. "We find this bastard, and we make sure he never threatens anyone again."
"You're talking about killing him," Porter says.
He's the cautious one, always thinking about consequences, always calculating risk. "That's not a decision we make lightly. There are ramifications. Investigations. If we're sloppy—"
"We won't be sloppy." Ruger cuts him off. "But you're right. This isn't something we rush into. We do our homework first. Figure out his operation, his patterns, his vulnerabilities. When we move, we move smart."
He turns to me. "Bloodhound. This is your call. Your wife. Your family. What do you want to do?"
I don't hesitate. Don't need to.
"I want him dead."
The words hang in the air. No one speaks. No one needs to.
"All in favor of handling Virgil Sykes permanently," Ruger says, "raise your hand."
Every hand at the table goes up.
"It's unanimous." Ruger nods slowly. "We find him, we watch him, we figure out his patterns. And when the time is right, we end him. But we do this smart. No rushing in, no sloppy moves. We wait until we can do it clean."
"How long?" I ask.
"As long as it takes. Weeks, maybe. Could be a month or more.
" Ruger holds up a hand before I can protest. "I know you want this done yesterday.
But if we move too fast, we leave evidence.
We draw attention. We put the club at risk.
" He meets my eyes. "Your wife needs you free, Bloodhound.
Not sitting in a cell. So, we do this right. "
He's right. I know he's right, but every fiber of my being is screaming to go find Virgil tonight and put a bullet in his skull.
"In the meantime," Ruger continues, "Vanna doesn't go anywhere alone. Someone's with her at all times. We tighten security, keep eyes on the perimeter. If this asshole comes anywhere near the compound, we'll know about it."
"I'll start digging," Ounce offers. "See what I can find out about his operation. Where he lives, who he works with, what his schedule looks like."
"Good. Keep me posted." Ruger looks around the table. "Anything else?"
Silence.
"Then we're done. Church is adjourned."
The brothers file out, but I stay seated.
My hands are shaking—not with fear, but with the effort of holding back the bloodshed that wants to explode out of me.
Ruger claps a hand on my shoulder as he passes. "We've got you, brother. We've got her. This piece of shit is going to pay for what he did."
"I know." I take a breath. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet. Thank me when it's done."
He leaves, and I'm alone in the chapel with my rage and my fear and the image of my wife's bruised face burned into my brain.
One month. Maybe more. That's how long I have to wait.
It's going to be the longest month of my life.
Three days later, we make the drive to Mount Olive.
It's Vanna's idea.
After the attack, after the fear and the tears and the long nights of me holding her while she shook, she woke up one morning and said she needed to see her father.
Face to face. No more letters.
"I don't know how much time I have," she told me, her hand on her stomach. "I don't know what's going to happen with Virgil. But I know I don't want to die with things unfinished. And this—my father—it's unfinished."
I tried to argue.
Told her she didn't need to push herself, that the letters were enough, that she could take her time.
But she was adamant.
And I've learned by now that when Vanna sets her mind to something, there's no talking her out of it.
So here we are.
Pulling into the visitor parking lot of Mount Olive Correctional Complex, the same place I came alone just two months ago.
The January sky is heavy and gray, threatening snow, and the prison rises up out of the hills like something from a nightmare.
Vanna's quiet as we walk toward the entrance.
The bruises on her face have faded to yellow-green, mostly hidden by makeup she spent twenty minutes applying this morning.
But the ones on her throat are still visible—dark purple fingerprints that no amount of concealer can hide.
She's wearing a scarf to cover them, wrapped loosely around her neck, but I can tell she's self-conscious.
She keeps tugging at it, adjusting it, making sure it's in place.
"You okay?" I ask as we reach the door.
"No." She takes a breath, squares her shoulders. "But I'm doing it anyway."
The check-in process is the same as before.
Metal detectors, pat-downs, forms to fill out.
The guards look at Vanna's bruised face but don't comment.
They've probably seen worse.
Probably seen things that would make my stomach turn.
I want to tell them she's not a victim of domestic violence, that I would cut off my own hands before I hurt her—but I don't.
It's none of their business, and they wouldn't believe me anyway.
The visiting room is half-full when we enter.
Families scattered at tables, talking in low voices, trying to pretend this is normal.
Trying to pretend the fluorescent lights and the guards and the razor wire outside don't exist.
Children running between tables, laughing, not understanding where they are or why their daddy lives here.
I guide Vanna to an empty table near the window and pull out her chair.
She sits down heavily, like her legs don't want to hold her anymore.
"I can't believe I'm doing this," she murmurs, more to herself than to me.
"You don't have to. We can leave right now if you want. Say the word and we're gone."
"No. I need to." She reaches for my hand, squeezing tight. Her fingers are ice-cold despite the warmth of the room. "Just... don't leave me. Okay? Whatever happens, whatever he says—don't leave me."
"Never."
We wait. Five minutes. Ten.
My leg bounces under the table, impatient, anxious. I watch the door, waiting for—
And then he's there.
Rick looks the same as he did two months ago.
Clear-eyed, healthy, older than his years but carrying it well.
He's wearing the standard prison uniform, his hands clasped in front of him, his expression carefully neutral.
The expression of a man who's learned not to hope for too much.
But when he sees Vanna, everything changes.
His face crumbles.
Just for a second, before he gets it back under control.
His eyes go wet, his jaw trembles, and I see something in his expression that I recognize.
The desperate, painful love of a parent who's been separated from their child.