Chapter Three
Justice
Morning rolls in on a haze of smoke and hangovers. Sunlight cuts through the blinds of the clubhouse like a blade, slicing through my brain and revealing the heap of humanity passed out in every corner. Brotherhood has a scent leather, sweat, and stale beer.
Creed’s voice rumbles from the meeting room before the door even opens. “Justice.”
One word, sharp enough to sober the dead.
As I cross the threshold, the air shifts. Maps, notes, and photos are scattered across the table, and Creed stands behind them, all authority and calm menace. Reaper leans against the wall, arms folded, watching.
“The women are all okay. A few have scrapes and bruises. Lucy’s dad is seeing to them and said none of them have serious injuries,” Creed says, pausing.
“What was done to them is going to take a long time to heal. Some have family, but a few have asked to stay with us until they get back on their feet. These women are off limits to every member of the MC unless they initiate an interaction.”
The words land heavy. Jet’s going to be okay.
Creed shakes his head. “If that happens, make sure it’s what they want. Make sure every brother knows we will not traumatize these women further. If they’re thinking of getting their dicks wet, make sure the women want it.”
“How many are staying?” I ask.
“Five of them. Justice, you did good out there, but she’s not your problem. Keep your distance.”
Every instinct fights the order. Creed is the president, the man everyone listens to, but the voice in the back of my skull doesn’t care about rank.
Whatever the look on my face, Creed points and says, “Jet’s been through hell. She needs space, not you hovering. Let Devil and the other club girls handle her. You know she’s got the touch, and Jet already trusts her.”
Anger bubbles under the surface at his order, but the fact he noticed me watching her throws me. Everyone knows I like the ladies. I like them fast, easy, and forgettable. What makes him think she’s any different?
“I don’t even know her.”
Reaper huffs out a laugh. “You watch her whenever she’s in the room. We all know you, brother, it’s not like you to show such an interest.”
A long exhale leaves Creed before I can tell Reaper to mind his own fucking business.
“We’ve got another problem brewing. A contact inside the Jacksonville Sheriff’s Office says the feds are circling.
They’re linking the takedown at the Crimson Wheelers’ compound to us, calling it an execution.
Word is they’re gearing up to make an example out of the Bastards. ”
Reaper straightens from the wall, tension slicing the room. “We cleaned that mess up.”
“Apparently not enough,” Creed growls. “The Bureau’s got whispers about Russian involvement. Lev Ivanov’s name came up in connection with the port shipments. The feds think he’s using us as a buffer between his operation and the law.”
My jaw tightens. Lev Ivanov is cold, methodical, and loyal only to his family. A man who’d burn his allies alive if it bought him a minute of peace with the feds.
“If Ivanov thinks we’re a liability, we’re done,” Creed continues, voice low. “The feds want to choke the supply lines into Jacksonville, and they’re itching to pin something on us. Make sure Lev sees we’re still an asset, not a risk.”
Reaper snorts. “How the hell do we do that? He’s Russian. Loyalty’s just a business transaction to that bastard.”
“Then we remind him business is better with us alive.” Creed’s eyes harden. “For now, lie low. No noise, no heat. Keep our heads down and keep our focus sharp. The last thing we need is a war on two fronts, one with badges, one with the Russians.”
Every muscle coils tight. Orders or not, it’s only a matter of time before Lev tests that loyalty. And if he does, someone’s going to bleed.