2. Saint
Chapter 2
Saint
The Glock 19 disassembles smoothly in my hands, muscle memory taking over as I clean each part with practiced precision. One by one, I lay the components on the cloth spread across the table in our club's armory. I've done this hundreds of times—weapon maintenance is part of my responsibility as Sergeant at Arms for the Shadow Reapers.
But today my mind isn't on the task. It keeps wandering back to those dark eyes, long black braid, and soft voice.
Those eyes. Scared but defiant. Frightened but fierce.
An electric charge sizzled through the air between me and that woman outside the bar last night.
Girl, really, and way too young for me, I remind myself.
But something in me recognized something in her—a kindred spirit fighting against impossible odds.
"Preciosa," I mutter under my breath as I reassemble the Glock with quick, efficient movements.
"You say something, hermano?" Hawk asks from across the room where he's checking inventory on our ammunition supplies.
"Nah." I slide the magazine home with a satisfying click, then rack the slide. "Just thinking out loud."
"You've been doing that a lot this morning," Blade adds, the hint of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. "You got something going on we don't know about, Saint.”
Saint—the road name the club gave me when I patched in. An ironic nod to my Catholic upbringing, my last name, and the large Our Lady of Guadalupe tattoo that covers my back. Or maybe they thought it was a funny sort of irony calling a man with so much blood on his hands "Saint."
"Someone, not something," I correct, surprising myself with the admission.
Hawk's eyebrows shoot up as he sets down the ammo crate he's been counting. "No shit? Saint Santiago got himself a little sugar?”
I give him the finger and curse at him in Spanish without looking up.
He laughs, unfazed. "Whoever she is, she must be special to get under your skin like that.”
The armory door swings open before I can respond, and Ghost strides in, his massive frame blocking the light. As President of the Shadow Reapers MC, Axel "Ghost" Morrison has a presence that commands attention even when he's silent. Right now, his steel-gray eyes are studying us with uncomfortable intensity.
"Church in five," he announces.
I nod, returning the weapons to their proper storage. Club meetings—church, as we call them—typically mean trouble brewing, and from the look on Ghost's face, this one's serious.
* * *
We assemble around the heavy wooden table in our chapel—the club's private meeting room. Hard faces of hard men who have seen too much, done too much.
The smell of leather and stale cigarette smoke hangs in the air. Years of defiance are embedded in the very walls.
Ghost takes his seat at the head of the table, solid as a mountain and twice as immovable. To his right sits Blade, our VP, his tactical awareness as sharp as the knives he always carries. I’m on Ghost's left in the enforcer's traditional position. Around the table sit the other officers and senior members: Hawk, our Road Captain; Cipher, our intelligence officer; and several other brothers who've earned their seat at the table.
Ghost wastes no time on pleasantries. "Kovalev's operation is expanding," he begins, his deep voice filling the chapel.
Ghost “nods at Cipher, our resident tech genius, who opens his laptop. The blue glow illuminates his face. "Surveillance picked up increased activity at several locations we've been watching. Particularly the Golden Touch Day Spa."
"What kind of activity?" I lean forward in my chair.
Cipher pulls up surveillance photos on the table's central monitor. “Facial recognition got a hit on this guy seen entering the establishment.”
The screen shows a balding man with a thick neck exiting a black SUV outside the spa. "Anatoli Petrov," Cipher continues. “Known associate of Kovalev. Has connections to human trafficking rings in Eastern Europe."
A cold weight settles in my gut as I study the image.
"We think they're moving girls through the place," Ghost says. "Using the massage parlor as a front for prostitution at minimum, possibly a full-scale trafficking operation."
Blade taps his fingers on the table. "The owner's a piece of work too. Mikhail Popov. Russian national, got a sheet for assault and extortion. Served three years back in 2016."
We've been watching Kovalev for months, trying to figure out his operation. At first we thought he was just a small time gangster, a two-bit loan shark. Now we know better.
My jaw clenches so hard my teeth might crack. I hate fucking traffickers.
Ghost leans forward, his massive forearms on the table. According to our intel, this day spa is integral to his growing network. A hub, if you will.”
"What's our play?" I ask, scenarios already unfolding in my mind. "Surveillance for now," Ghost replies. "We need more intel before we move. Cipher will continue monitoring electronic communications. Hawk, I want eyes on that spa around the clock. Rotating shifts so we don't draw attention."
Hawk nods. "I'll set up a schedule."
“Our ultimate goal is to completely disable the operation.” Ghost scratches his jaw as he speaks. "But we move carefully. Kovalev has connections we don't fully understand yet. Could be cops on his payroll. Could be worse. We rush in half-cocked, people get hurt."
Ghosts dismisses church but asks the handful of officers to remain.
"Any leads on the rat?” Blade asks, his eyes hard as he surveys the table.
Ghosts voice drops lower when he answers, “Still nothing."
A heavy silence falls over the chapel as brothers exchange wary glances. The presence of a traitor in our midst is infuriating. Trust is everything in an MC. We’re nothing if not a brotherhood.
Cipher ’s expression is grim. "First the arms deal in August, then the stakeout at the pier last month, now the warehouse. Too many coincidences."
"Could be one of the hang-arounds," Hawk suggests, shrugging.
“We need to consider every possibility." Ghost agrees. “Someone's playing both sides, and I want to know who the hell it is before they get one of us killed.”
Silence follows his statement, tense and loaded. The weight of suspicion is an ugly burden, but not as ugly as what happens when treachery goes unchallenged.
“Continue to sweep for bugs," I remind the others of the increased security I set up. "Change security protocol. Keep your eyes open. Watch what you say, who you say it to. Need-to-know basis only.”
When Ghost bangs the gavel to conclude the meeting, I'm the first on my feet.
Blade catches me at the door. "Saint.” He slaps me on the back. "I need a favor, brother.”
I pause, nodding for him to continue.
“Sophie asked me to deliver supplies to her workplace. I can use a hand.”
Sophie—Blade's old lady—works at the local veterinary clinic, a job Blade helped her secure after rescuing her from an abusive home situation.
"Supply run? Ain’t that prospect work?”
Blade's eyes narrow slightly. “You've got something more pressing?"
“Naw, brother. Let’s get it done. Lead the way."