30. Blade
BLADE
The clubhouse never really sleeps anymore.
Even in the middle of the night there’s movement somewhere.
Boots against concrete downstairs. Quiet conversations outside in the yard.
Pipes rattling when somebody showers two rooms over.
Women waking from nightmares and needing water, food, reassurance, medication, something steady enough to pull them back down from panic.
The building breathes differently now than it did a month ago.
Less like a headquarters. More like a crowded shelter balanced on top of a powder keg.
I’m halfway through inventorying medical supplies in the infirmary when Bishop walks in without knocking. That alone tells me something’s wrong. Bishop respects workspaces when he’s calm. When he stops caring about doors, problems usually follow.
He tosses a small black device onto the stainless steel counter beside my elbow. “Guess where I found that.”
I look down at it automatically. Quarter-sized. Matte black casing. Thin wire antenna partially exposed where Bishop must’ve pried it open already. Not store-bought bullshit. Professional.
My stomach drops before he even answers his own question.
“Nora’s kitchen.”
For a second I just stare at the device while my brain catches up. Then another one lands beside it.
“Living room,” Bishop says.
Another.
“Her bedroom.”
This one looks like it was ripped from her home device. The room suddenly feels colder.
I set the inventory clipboard down carefully, because my grip tightens hard enough to bend the metal clip otherwise. “How many?”
Bishop rubs a hand over his mouth. He looks tired. We all do lately. “Seven so far. Maybe more. I still got guys sweeping the property.”
“Seven,” I repeat quietly.
“Yeah.”
I pick one of the bugs up between my fingers. Lightweight. Sophisticated. Clean soldering. Encryption hardware embedded into the shell.
“Tell me you found them before transmission,” I say.
Bishop snorts once without humor. “No chance.”
That answer settles heavy in my chest which means somebody listened.
Somebody heard Nora moving around inside that house.
Heard Paxton laughing. Heard us talking.
Maybe heard conversations about routes, meetings, shipments, the club.
Maybe worse. Maybe they listened to bedtime routines and morning coffee and quiet conversations in the kitchen while Nora thought she was finally safe somewhere.
Rage crawls slow and ugly beneath my skin.
“When?”
“We don’t know yet,” Bishop says. “But judging from battery life and wear? They’ve been there awhile.”
“Awhile meaning?”
“Days minimum. Could be weeks.”
Weeks. I lean both hands against the counter and lower my head for a second as I suddenly find myself mentally retracing every single visit to Nora’s house, like I can somehow undo them now.
Some stranger could’ve been listening to all of it. Watching all of it.
I straighten immediately. “Where’s Stryker?”
“War room. Viper’s already there.”
I’m moving before he finishes the sentence.
The clubhouse feels different by the time I hit the hallway.
Faster. Sharper. Men already repositioning.
Prospects jogging instead of walking. Weapons openly visible now instead of tucked away casually beneath cuts and jackets.
Somebody downstairs is arguing about vehicle rotations while Reyes barks instructions over him from the stairwell.
Lockdown.
Word spreads fast inside the Wolves.
By the time I step into Stryker’s office, Viper is pacing beside the desk while Stryker stands behind his laptop talking quietly into a burner phone.
Maps cover half the table already. Black Rock.
Vegas. Los Angeles. Route markers and warehouse locations spread beneath scattered ammunition boxes and half-drunk coffee.
Stryker glances up when I walk in. “Bishop tell you?”
“Yeah.”
His jaw shifts once. “House was dirty.”
Viper laughs quietly, but there’s nothing amused about the sound. “Dirty,” he repeats. “That’s a cute fucking way to phrase somebody listening to our family for God knows how long.”
Family. None of us correct the word anymore.
Stryker hangs up the phone and tosses it onto the desk. “Every property gets swept tonight. Clubhouse included. No unnecessary movement. No solo runs. Nobody leaves without backup.”
“What about Nora?” I ask.
Viper stops pacing finally. “She knows about the bugs.”
“How bad?”
“She’s holding it together for the kids.” His expression hardens. “Barely.”
Nora’s good at composure. Too good sometimes. Most people miss when she’s struggling because she gets quieter instead of louder. More practical. More controlled. The fact that Viper says ‘barely’ means she’s probably one bad moment away from shutting down completely.
Stryker scrubs both hands over his face before looking back at us. “We underestimated this.”
We prepared for retaliation. Prepared for attacks. Prepared for cartel bullshit and Vegas remnants trying to recover territory. But somewhere along the way we let ourselves get comfortable inside the domestic routines forming around Nora and Paxton.
We let normalcy soften our edges. Now somebody might’ve been sitting behind a screen listening to every second of it.
Bishop walks in again, this time carrying a laptop beneath one arm. “Good news and bad news.”
“Start with bad,” Stryker says.
“Devices are military-grade adjacent. Not exact issue tech, but close enough somebody paid real money for them.”
“Good news?” I ask.
“They weren’t transmitting continuously. Motion and sound activation. Means whoever planted them wanted efficiency, not twenty-four hour surveillance.”
“That’s supposed to make me feel better?” Viper asks flatly.
“No. But it means there’s a chance they missed shit.”
Stryker exhales slowly before nodding once toward the table. “Sit down. We’re restructuring everything.”
The next two hours disappear into organized chaos. Guard rotations double. Vehicle routes change.
Prospects get reassigned from motel overflow back onto perimeter patrols.
The rescued women complicate everything because we physically have too many vulnerable people inside one location right now.
Every available room already holds somebody sleeping on mattresses or borrowed blankets while the Coyotes finalize transport arrangements from Miami.
Somewhere downstairs, children are still running through hallways pretending none of this is happening.
That contrast feels surreal.
I spend part of the meeting organizing emergency medical contingencies.
Trauma kits redistributed. Evacuation routes mapped.
Secondary safe locations prepared in case the clubhouse gets hit directly.
Reyes and I argue briefly about supply priorities before realizing we’re both too exhausted to care who wins.
By the time the meeting finally breaks, my shoulders ache from tension I didn’t realize I was carrying. I find Nora in one of the quieter downstairs lounges near the back offices.
Paxton sits cross-legged on the floor beside Lena surrounded by flashcards and half-built Lego structures while Eva helps one of the rescued women fill out paperwork nearby. The television runs muted cartoons no one is actually watching.
Nora’s sitting on the couch, but the second I see her face I know Viper was right. She’s holding herself together through sheer force of will. The moment she notices me, she straightens automatically like she’s bracing for more bad news. That alone makes something twist hard in my chest.
I cross the room quietly and sit beside her. “You eat yet?”
Her mouth pulls slightly like she already knows that’s exactly the kind of question I’d ask first. “I’m okay.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
She sighs softly before shaking her head once.
I stand immediately. “Stay there.”
“Blade—”
“Angel.”
Her eyes flick up to mine.
“You’re shaking,” I say quietly. “Let me take care of one thing.”
She doesn’t argue after that.
Five minutes later I’m back with food she’ll actually eat instead of picking at.
Toast. Soup. Water instead of more coffee because she’s already overcaffeinated and anxious enough.
She accepts the tray reluctantly while Paxton notices me returning and immediately waves both hands excitedly for attention.
I crouch beside him automatically.
Look, he signs proudly before pointing toward the flashcards.
Lena beams beside him. We’re making them to help the bikers learn to sign better.
Eva laughs quietly from the couch nearby. “Apparently half the club can’t sign blue correctly.”
Paxton makes an exaggerated offended face before correcting his own hand shape carefully for me. I copy it slower. He nods seriously in approval.
Nora watches the interaction silently while holding the soup bowl between both hands. I can feel her eyes on me even before I glance back toward her.
Across the room, Viper walks through carrying two rifles over one shoulder while arguing with Maddox about perimeter coverage.
The contrast probably looks insane from Nora’s perspective.
One second domestic calm. The next armed men preparing for war in the middle of a building full of children and survivors.
She notices me watching her reaction.
“I don’t know how you all live like this,” she says quietly.
“We compartmentalize.”
“That sounds unhealthy.”
“It probably is.”
That almost gets a smile out of her. Almost.
The smile fades quickly though when her gaze drifts toward Paxton again.
“Someone was listening to us in that house,” she says softly. “Do you understand how sick that feels?”
“Yeah.”
Her voice stays calm, but tighter now. “I tucked my son into bed there every night. I thought we were safe there.”
Guilt settles ugly beneath my ribs because she’s right. We failed that.
I lower my voice carefully. “I should’ve swept the property sooner.”
Her head turns immediately. “No.”
“I’m serious.”
“And I’m serious.” She sets the soup bowl down harder than necessary. “You are not taking responsibility for somebody else doing something monstrous.”
“We brought danger to your door.”
“You also got us out before whatever this becomes escalated further.”
I look at her fully then.
She looks exhausted. Hair pulled up carelessly. One of my hoodies hanging oversized around her shoulders because she steals clothes from all three of us now without realizing she’s doing it half the time. But underneath the exhaustion there’s anger too now. Sharp enough to hold her upright.
“Nora,” I say quietly, “if you want out after this?—”
“No.”
The answer comes too fast for hesitation. We both pause. Her eyes widen slightly like she surprised herself too.
I keep my voice steady. “You sure?”
“No,” she admits honestly after a second. “But I know leaving won’t magically make this disappear either.”
Smart. Too smart to cling to fantasies about safety existing somewhere else now.
Before I can answer, Bishop appears in the doorway holding his laptop again. “Need Stryker and Blade upstairs.”
I stand automatically. Nora catches my wrist before I move away completely. The touch surprises both of us.
“You’ll tell me what’s happening?” she asks quietly.
“Everything we can.”
That seems to matter to her. I squeeze her hand once before following Bishop upstairs again. The war room feels worse now.
Maps still cover every surface. Additional monitors now display security feeds from surrounding roads while Trace coordinates rotating patrols through an earpiece near the window.
Legacy sits cleaning weapons methodically at the corner table while Isa naps against his shoulder like she trusts him to keep the world standing alone.
Stryker looks up when I enter. “Calder’s coming.”
“When?”
“Morning.”
That’s fast.
“Bringing men?” I ask.
“Enough.”
Viper drops into a chair across the room and drags both hands down his face. “This is getting too big.”
Nobody argues because he’s right again.
What started as isolated shipments and missing women now stretches across multiple cities, multiple organizations, and enough resources to hide surveillance inside a single mother’s house for weeks without detection.
Hydra all over again. Every answer creates three worse questions behind it.
Bishop pulls up a feed on the main monitor. “Tracing device manufacturers now. Couple serial fragments match equipment seizures tied to Eastern European networks.”
Stryker folds his arms across his chest. “Kadyn, this has to be the bratva.”
“Most likely.”
“Joquain?” I ask.
“Still murky,” Bishop says. “But we have to assume there’s something they’re both getting. Vegas too.”
Viper laughs quietly. “Cool. Love when our enemies unionize.”
No one smiles.
I move toward the board and stare at the photos pinned there. Warehouse shots. Route maps. Grainy security stills. One blurry image from Vegas catches my attention because suddenly, all I can picture is Nora sitting barefoot in her kitchen while somebody listened through hidden microphones nearby.
I should’ve checked sooner. Should’ve trusted instinct harder. Should’ve assumed escalation faster.