Chapter 13
THIRTEEN
LUCKY
I roll into the clubhouse lot just after noon and kill the engine, and heat shimmers off the asphalt while the place already looks busy.
Bikes are scattered everywhere, and a couple guys lean against them with coffees, talking low.
Nobody’s laughing, and that’s the first sign this isn’t a social call.
Inside, the air is thick with that pre church quiet.
It isn’t silence, just a hum that sits under everything.
Guys are posted along the walls while a few hang near the bar, and most of them drift toward the table.
Riot’s standing with Tank, and both of them are watching the room instead of talking.
When Riot spots me, his eyes flick over me quick, checking.
“You look alive,” he says when I step up.
“Last I checked.”
He grunts, and it’s satisfied enough. “Coffee’s trash but it’s hot.”
I pour a cup anyway, and it tastes like burnt dirt, but I drink it. Riot studies me over the rim of his mug like he’s reading what I’m not saying.
“You good?” he asks, and it sounds casual even though it isn’t.
“Yeah,” I say. “I just need a hand fixing a door later.”
“You gonna tell me what happened to her door?” he asks.
I set the cup down. “I kicked it in.”
Riot freezes. His stare goes flat and hard. “You did what.”
Tank’s head turns at the tone alone.
“I kicked in her front door,” I repeat, and I lift my hands a little. “She was screaming. I thought somebody was hurting her.”
Riot’s jaw tightens. “You broke into a civilian woman’s house in the middle of the night,” he says slowly. “What the fuck happened, Lucky?”
“I heard her screaming,” I say, and I can still hear it echoing in my head. “Not yelling. Not talking. Screaming like she was being attacked. I wasn’t standing on the porch waiting for an invitation.”
“So you went in blind,” Riot snaps. “No call. No backup. You just kicked a door and hoped for the best.”
“I went in because I thought she was in danger,” I shoot back. “And I’m not sorry about that part.”
Tank steps closer, eyes narrowing. “And what did you actually walk into?”
I scrub a hand over my jaw. “A nightmare,” I admit. “That’s it. She was fighting the sheets and screaming in her sleep. By the time I got to her she was waking up and confused, and I’m standing there with her door splintered behind me.”
There’s a beat of silence.
“You’re kidding,” Tank mutters.
Riot stares at me. “So you scared the hell out of her over a dream.”
“I didn’t scare her,” I say quickly. “Not once she realized it was me. She was shaken up, yeah, but she let me stay. I calmed her down.”
He exhales hard through his nose. “Jesus Christ, Lucky.”
“I heard a woman screaming,” I say again, quieter but firm. “I reacted. I’d do it again if I thought somebody was hurting her.”
Riot drags a hand over his face. The anger doesn’t vanish, but it shifts into something tighter and more controlled.
“You don’t get to freelance like that,” he says. “You wanna play hero, fine, but you loop the club in. You don’t go smashing doors and creating problems we have to clean up.”
“I’m fixing the door,” I say. “Today. Reinforcing it so it’s better than it was.”
“You’re damn right you are,” Riot replies. “And you make sure she’s actually okay with all of this. Not just the door. All of it. She didn’t sign up to get dragged into club chaos because you panicked.”
I hold his stare. “I didn’t panic. I made a call.”
“And next time,” he says, voice low and final, “you make it with backup.”
I nod once. “Next time I call.”
Tank huffs a breath and shakes his head. “Man hears screaming and goes through a door. Could’ve been worse reasons.”
Riot shoots him a look, but some of the tension bleeds out of the space between us. “Still a dumb move,” Riot mutters.
“Yeah,” I say. “Maybe. But she’s safe.”
“We’ll talk after,” Riot tells him, and that’s the end of it for now.
Before Tank can push it, Mason’s voice cuts through the room.
“Time for Church.”
Everything shifts, and chairs scrape while conversations die off. Guys close in around the table until the room feels tight with bodies and attention. Mason waits until he has all of it, and then he looks around.
“Anybody got fires we need to put out?” he asks.
Quick reports roll out, and they’re short and clean.
Perdition’s quiet, runs are smooth, and nothing urgent is burning.
Then Tank leans forward, and the room settles deeper.
“We’re done pretending this Russian shit is gonna burn itself out,” he says.
“They’ve been poking at us for years with drugs and pressure and shots at our people, and they’re not leaving. ”
A low murmur of agreement moves through the room, and nobody looks surprised.
Riot plants his hands on the table and looks around. “They’ve been creeping back in piece by piece, and we’ve all seen it. Storage spots popping up, locals running errands, and money moving through side channels. It’s organized, and it’s getting tighter.”
“They’re getting comfortable,” Switch mutters.
“Too comfortable,” Tank agrees. “And they’re counting on us to keep reacting instead of swinging first.”
That lands heavy, and Mason’s gaze sweeps the table.
“We’re done reacting,” he says. “We take the board back.”
Piston leans in a little. “How loud do you want this?”
“Quiet at first,” Mason says. “We cut their legs out before they even know we’re moving.”
Riot nods because he’s already tracking it. “Then we hit their money and their stash at the same time. We freeze what we can, and we shut down payment routes so their people don’t get paid.”
“And the storage?” Tank asks.
“We empty it,” Riot says. “No fireworks and no mess. It’s just gone, and the spots get burned so they can’t reuse them.”
“Locals are gonna start asking questions,” Jax says.
“Good,” Mason replies. “We lean on them hard, and they either pick a side or they get out of the way.”
The room goes still because everyone’s picturing it.
“That’ll flush their leadership,” Piston says.
“It forces them to show their faces,” Riot agrees. “They won’t sit back while their cash and product dry up, and they’ll have to step in.”
Mason nods once. “That’s what we want, and we pressure them until they push back.”
“And when they do?” Tank asks.
Mason’s eyes go cold. “We’re ready.”
Silence settles, and it isn’t uncertain. It’s steady and ready.
“This isn’t a slow bleed,” Mason continues. “We move fast, and we hit multiple points, and we keep them scrambling until their operation collapses before they can steady it.”
“How long?” Switch asks.
“Two weeks,” Mason says. “And we make it hurt inside ten days.”
I feel the shift in my chest because this isn’t talk and it isn’t posturing. It’s a countdown.
“They’re gonna come at us dirty,” Riot says. “And they always do.”
Mason’s jaw tightens. “Which is why you lock your people down. Women and kids and families come first, and you change routines while you keep eyes on them.” The temperature in the room drops. “Trackers on vehicles,” Mason adds. “Phones and houses secured. I don’t want anyone easy to reach.”
A rumble of agreement rolls through the brothers, and it’s low and serious.
“They’ve already shown they’ll go after our families,” Tank says quietly.
“And if they try it again,” Mason replies, and his voice is flat, “we end it.”
Nobody questions what that means, and nobody needs to.
Mason straightens and looks around the table. “We move together, and nobody freelances. If you see something, you bring it here, and we handle it as a unit. We’re not losing anyone because somebody thought this was just business.”
Chairs shove back, and the room breaks into motion. Guys pair off while phones come out, and voices stay low and sharp as plans start locking into place.
Riot steps in close to me. “We’ll fix that door today.”
“I know.”
His hand clamps on my shoulder, and it’s solid and grounding. “Good. Handle your side, and we’ll handle the rest.”
This isn’t just another round with the Russians. This is the club drawing a line and daring them to step over it.
Riot follows me back to my house, and I swap the bike for my truck while he waits in the driveway.
We don’t waste time talking. We just climb in and head for the home improvement store.
I grab everything we’re going to need for the door, lumber and steel and a new frame kit, plus the tools to make it stick.
Riot tosses a few extra things into the cart without a word, and then we load it all into the bed and head back to her place.
When we pull up to the curb, I catch movement in the window. The curtain shifts, and I see her fingers pinch the fabric as she pulls it aside to check who’s out front.
As soon as we park, her front door swings open, and she steps out onto the porch with her arms crossed tight over her chest. She stays there at the top step, watching us like she’s bracing for whatever we brought with us.
I huff a quiet laugh and lean back against the truck. “Yeah,” I say. “Nothing says curb appeal like splintered wood and a boot print.”
Her gaze drops to the door and then slides back to me. “It adds character,” she says, and there’s a spark of humor in it that wasn’t there this morning. “Very rustic. Very… dramatic.”
“Dramatic is one word for it,” Riot mutters as he starts unloading lumber. “Unsafe is another.”
She glances at him and lifts a hand in a small wave. “Hey, Riot.”
“Morning,” he replies, voice easy but brief before he goes back to hauling tools.
Her lips twitch like she’s fighting a smile, and she steps back to give us room when I grab the new frame and head up the walkway. Up close, the damage looks even worse. The wood around the lock is chewed up, the frame split where my boot hit it. A dull knot settles in my gut.
“I really did a number on it,” I say.
She leans her shoulder against the wall. “You were… enthusiastic.”
“I thought someone was hurting you,” I remind her quietly.