Chapter 10 #2
"Vouching doesn't mean he's not a security risk." I pull up Axel's file. "He's been a prospect for close to a year. That's still not long enough to know where his loyalties really lie under pressure. Could have been approached, offered money or leverage. We limit his access until we're certain."
"You're talking about punishing a prospect for doing nothing wrong except being new." Tate's voice hardens. "That sends a message to every man considering patching in that we don't trust our own."
"It sends a message that we take security seriously." Will's tone brooks no argument. "Axel keeps his prospect duties but doesn't have access to financial records or shipping manifests until this situation resolves. It's temporary, it's tactical, and it protects both him and us."
The vote passes. Tate abstains, leather creaking as he leans back in his chair, clearly unhappy but respecting the decision.
"Final matter," Will says. "If we confirm a leak from inside the Brotherhood, what's the response?"
The room goes quiet. Coffee cups stop moving. Someone's boot stops tapping the floor. Everyone understands what's being discussed. Betrayal from within destroys trust, fractures unity, makes every Brother question everyone else.
Shaw speaks first. "Patch-stripping and exile. No second chances, no forgiveness. You betray the Brotherhood, you lose everything that comes with the patch."
Agreement ripples around the table. The punishment is severe, but it has to be. The patch represents years of service, sacrifice, and earning trust. Betraying that trust means losing the right to wear it.
Will closes Church. Brothers file out slowly, tension still present but managed. Chairs scrape against concrete as some head toward the bar for drinks and decompression, voices low as they process what was decided. Others leave immediately, bike engines firing up in the parking lot.
Shaw stays. So does Will. I watch the last Brother exit before turning back to the two men who founded this club with me over a decade ago, who came home from Delta Force deployment and built something from nothing.
We don't talk immediately. Just move to the bar where Will pours whiskey into clean glasses. Brotherhood tradition after difficult Church meetings. Drink together, decompress together, remember why we started this.
"Fallujah," Shaw says quietly. The single word carries weight. A city where we learned what war really costs, where we lost Brothers and carried others through enemy territory while under fire.
"You carried me through hell with a sucking chest wound and a dislocated shoulder," Will says. "Told me the whole way that if I died, you'd kill me."
"You were heavy." I take a drink, let the burn settle. "And you wouldn't shut up about Sarah waiting for you back home."
The memory sits comfortable between us. Shared history that doesn't need elaboration. We survived things together that most people can't imagine, came home different than we left, built a club for men like us who needed purpose after war.
Shaw studies me over his glass. "The fed. You're in deep."
It's not a question. Shaw reads people the way I read electrical systems, sees patterns in behavior that others miss.
"Yeah." No point denying it. "Didn't plan it. Doesn't change the operational reality."
"Sarah got through my walls before she died," Will says. "Changed everything. Made me better, stronger, gave me reason beyond just surviving. Gemma's doing the same now. If Shelby's that for you, protect it. We'll handle club business."
"I'm VP. Security is my responsibility." I set down my glass.
"VP also doesn't have to carry everything alone." Shaw's voice is steady. "We're Brothers. We handle threats together. You focus on keeping Monroe safe and building the case that clears us. Will and I manage club security and Gemma's protection."
I want to argue. VP means being the one Brothers rely on when threats emerge, the one who manages responses and keeps everyone safe. But Shaw's right. Trying to manage everything while protecting Shelby and working her investigation divides my focus when I need to be sharp.
"Appreciate it." Simple words, but they carry the weight of trust built over years.
Will refills our glasses. "To Brothers who have your back."
We drink. Then Shaw and Will head out, leaving me alone in the bar with tactical planning that needs doing.
I pull up the intelligence file on my laptop.
Alan Kline. Former Special Forces, multiple deployments, dishonorable discharge for excessive force during interrogations.
Pattern of targeting and destroying businesses that competed with his criminal operations.
Smart, ruthless, trained in exactly the tactics that make him dangerous.
Delta Force training kicks in automatically.
Threat assessment: military-level skills, access to weapons and personnel, motivation to eliminate anyone who threatens his trafficking network.
Target analysis: operates through shell companies and proxies, stays mobile, uses others to do direct action while maintaining distance.
Elimination strategies: locate through financial trails and veteran network contacts, surveil to establish patterns, engage when he's isolated and vulnerable.
This isn't the bastard underneath emerging.
This is who I've always been, just usually kept leashed by legitimate operations and legal boundaries.
No internal war about crossing lines. No hand-wringing about morality or consequences.
Just clinical calculation about what needs doing and how to accomplish it.
I open a separate file and start building plans that cross legal boundaries.
Surveillance using the same kind of equipment I used in Delta Force.
Infiltration of known associates using false identities and social engineering.
Interrogation tactics not sanctioned by civilian law but highly effective for extracting information quickly.
If Monroe's federal investigation works, none of this becomes necessary. But if the situation escalates, if anyone touches Gemma or Shelby or any Brother, I'm ready to do whatever it takes. No hesitation. Just efficient violence that ends the threat permanently.
The bar's back door opens. Will returns with Gemma. Her expression is tight, anger mixed with fear.
"Gemma needs to hear the full situation," Will says.
I close the laptop and give her my full attention. "Someone left a photograph of you working with a threat message. They're trying to leverage you to stop Shelby's investigation."
Will takes over. "Shaw shadows you until this is over. If you need to go anywhere, you coordinate with Cole or me first so we can ensure you're protected."
"What does that mean?" Her voice is steady despite the fear in her eyes.
"Means you don't go anywhere alone," Will says, his tone leaving no room for argument.
"You want me to hide."
"I want you alive." Direct truth, no sugar coating. "We're dealing with a professional with military training and no moral boundaries. Someone who's already eliminated people to tie up loose ends. They won't hesitate to hurt you if it serves their tactical objectives."
Gemma's jaw tightens. "I'm not running. I won't let you become something you're not because of me."
She sees it. The darkness I keep leashed, the Delta Force operative underneath the VP polish. The part of me that calculates elimination strategies and plans interrogations and knows exactly how to make threats disappear.
"I've always been this," I tell her. "Just usually don't need to use it. But if anyone touches you, Will and I will end them. That's not negotiable, not something you can talk me out of, not a line either of us is debating about crossing."
"Cole." Her voice breaks slightly. "Don't do something you can't come back from. Not for me. Not because some asshole is using me to get to you."
I can't promise what she wants. If someone hurts my sister, there's no coming back, no staying within legal boundaries, no letting the system handle it. There's just violence: efficient, final, and without apology.
"We're going to protect you," I say instead.
"Monroe's building a case, Brotherhood's coordinating to locate our target, and we're limiting tactical options.
But you need to let us do our jobs. That means staying where we know you're safe, accepting Shaw's protection, and trusting that we'll handle this. "
She looks at Will, who nods. Then back at me. "Okay. But promise me you'll at least try to do this the right way first."
"I promise we'll work with Monroe." That's as far as I can go. "Beyond that, I can't guarantee anything."
It's not what she wants to hear, but it's honest. Gemma hugs me again, tighter this time, then lets Will guide her toward the back exit. They'll go to their place where security is tightest, where Brothers are already positioned to watch approaches and respond to threats.
I'm pulling up the file again when my phone rings. Shelby. I answer immediately.
"They're back." Her voice is strained but urgent. "Three men moving up from the river. Military bearing, tactical movement. They're coming for the building."
I'm already heading for the exit. "Lock your door. Bathroom, tub, get low. Call 911. I'm hours out but I'm coming."
"Cole—"
"Do it. Now. Police first, then barricade yourself."
I grab my go-bag from the truck, the one I keep packed with equipment from my time in Delta Force. Night vision, sidearm, flex-cuffs, gear designed for ops that don't appear in official records.
Then I'm driving, engine roaring as I hit the highway north toward Portland. Hours between me and Shelby. Hours where she's alone with professional operatives closing in. Shelby's voice replays in my head—strained but controlled, reporting the threat like the trained agent she is.
The highway stretches dark ahead of me. Calculations run automatically. Drive time at current speed. Police response time in that district. Shelby's defensive position and training. Whether three men can breach a locked bathroom door before backup arrives.
My foot presses harder on the accelerator. The engine roars, speedometer climbing past legal limits.
If she's hurt when I get there, I won't need to locate Alan Kline through financial trails and veteran networks. I'll follow the blood trail back to whoever sent them, and I'll make sure it ends with all of them.