Chapter Three
The chapel smelled like cigarette smoke and bad decisions, which meant church was about to get interesting.
Striker took his seat at the long table, the worn wood smooth under his palms. Around him, the brotherhood settled into their places—Tornado at the head, Shadow on his right, Diesel and Rascal flanking the middle, Hatchet and Ridge down at the far end.
The room was soundproofed with egg-crate foam that had seen better decades, and the gavel Tornado's grandfather had carved from mesquite sat waiting at the President's elbow.
"Alright." Tornado brought the gavel down once. "Striker. You got something for us."
Striker stood, spreading the napkin map on the table alongside Jessup's note.
"Dean Pollard. Runs a protection racket across the rodeo circuit and county fairs in our territory.
Fifteen-man crew, maybe more. They squeeze vendors, competitors, livestock contractors—anyone who makes money off the events. "
"How long's this been going on?" Shadow asked, leaning back in his chair with that easy grin that meant he was already calculating who needed hurting.
"Two years, at least. Maybe longer." Striker tapped the note.
"They're organized. Pollard runs command from a motor home that follows the circuit.
His lieutenants handle the face-to-face—a guy named Jessup does the muscle work, another one named Fenton handles logistics, and there's a third who specializes in making problems for anyone who doesn't pay. "
"What kind of problems?"
"The animal kind." Striker let that sit for a beat. "A barrel racer refused to pay a few months back. Woke up to find her horse with wire cuts on both legs. Deep enough to end its career."
The room went quiet. These were hard men, outlaws who'd done hard things. But horses were different. Horses were tools for working people, livelihoods for families who had nothing else.
Hurting horses was a line.
"Diesel." Tornado's voice cut through the silence. "What do we have on Pollard's movements?"
Diesel pulled a folded paper from his cut—a printout covered in handwritten notes. "Motor home convoy's been spotted on Route 66 corridor roads three times in the last month. They're following the circuit schedule, staying mobile, never parking in the same place twice."
"Smart," Ridge muttered.
"Smart enough." Diesel shrugged. "But they're predictable. They show up two days before each event, work the vendors and competitors, collect their money, and move on. Same pattern every time."
"Shadow." Tornado turned to his VP. "What about our people?"
Shadow's grin faded into something harder.
"Two livestock contractors under our protection stopped bidding on Panhandle events last month.
Said they couldn't afford the risk anymore.
" He cracked his knuckles. "I had Rascal ask around.
Turns out Pollard's boys threatened to torch their trucks if they showed up without paying. "
"And they didn't come to us?"
"They were scared." Shadow's voice went flat. "Pollard's crew made it clear that talking to anyone—clubs, cops, anyone—would make things worse. They believed it."
Striker watched Tornado process that. The President's face didn't change, but something cold settled behind his eyes. Pollard hadn't just been running a racket on Outlaw territory. He'd been making their protected people too afraid to ask for help.
That was worse than the money. That was an insult.
"This ends." Tornado's voice carried the weight of a death sentence. "Striker, you're running point. Take Ridge, Hatchet, and six brothers. Mobile response team. I want this operation dismantled before the month is out."
"Gladly." Striker felt the familiar rush—the hunt beginning, the pieces falling into place. "I've got a source on the circuit. Barrel racer named Teagan Duvall. She's been watching Pollard work for three events, knows his patterns, his crew, how he operates."
"The one you pulled out of the fire this afternoon?" Hatchet asked, one eyebrow raised.
"She was holding her own when I got there. Cracked Jessup across the face with a lead rope before I threw him across the parking lot."
That earned a round of grins. Shadow let out a low whistle.
"Sounds like your type, brother."
"She's an asset." Striker kept his voice flat, but he could feel the heat creeping up his neck. "She's got intel we need."
"Uh-huh." Ridge's smirk said he wasn't buying it. "And I'm sure that's all you noticed about her."
"Can we focus?" Striker growled.
"We are focusing." Shadow's grin was back, sharp and knowing. "On the fact that our Warlord found himself a cowgirl who swings a lead rope like a weapon and tells protection rackets to go to hell. That's very relevant information."
"For the operation—"
"For your love life, brother." Diesel laughed. "Which, let's be honest, could use the help."
Striker flipped him off, which only made the laughter louder.
Tornado let it run for a moment, then rapped the gavel once. The room quieted.
"Striker's personal interests aside—" A ripple of snickers. "—this operation is priority. Pollard's been stepping on our territory, threatening our people, and running his racket without permission or payment. That's not business. That's disrespect."
"What's the play?" Rascal asked, his pale eyes sharp with interest.
Striker pulled out a second piece of paper—a calendar he'd sketched while waiting for church to convene.
"Pollard follows the circuit schedule. That means we know where he'll be and when.
" He pointed to the dates. "Four events in the next three weeks, all on our stretch.
His crew shows up two days early to work the vendors, stays through the event, moves on. "
"So we hit them at the events?"
"No." Striker shook his head. "Too many civilians, too much chaos. We hit them where they stage—the camps and parking lots where they sleep between venues. Catch them at rest, not at work."
"Divide and conquer," Hatchet said approvingly. "Pick off the crew piece by piece."
"Exactly." Striker traced a line on the calendar. "We start with surveillance. Learn their patterns, their rotations, figure out where the motor home parks and how many men Pollard keeps close. Then we start taking pieces off the board."
"The lieutenants?" Ridge asked.
"Jessup first. He's the muscle, the face of the operation. Take him out, and Pollard loses his enforcer." Striker tapped another point. "Then Fenton, the logistics guy. He's the one who keeps the racket running smooth. Without him, Pollard's blind."
"And the third one?" Shadow's voice had gone cold. "The one who hurts the horses?"
"Him we save for last." Striker met Shadow's eyes. "Because that one, I want to take my time with."
The room went quiet again, but this time it was the quiet of men who understood. Some crimes demanded quick justice. Others demanded something slower.
"What about the girl?" Tornado asked. "The barrel racer."
"She's agreed to club protection in exchange for intel. She's got four more events to qualify for nationals, and she's not pulling out of any of them." Striker paused. "She's got backbone, Prez. Told me she didn't need saving—just backup."
"And you believe her?"
Striker thought about Teagan standing in front of her trailer, lead rope in hand, fire in her eyes. The way she'd checked her horse before she'd checked herself. The way she'd laid out Pollard's operation without flinching.
"Yeah," he said. "I believe her."
Tornado nodded slowly. "Then she's under our protection. Full coverage—brother on her trailer every night, escort to every event. If Pollard's crew so much as looks at her wrong, I want to know about it."
"Understood."
"And Striker?" Tornado's eyes held his. "Don't let whatever's going on between you and this girl compromise the operation."
"There's nothing going on."
"There's something." Shadow's grin was insufferable. "We can all see it, brother. You walked in here with that look."
"What look?"
"The look that says you found something you want to keep." Shadow laughed. "It's a good look. Just make sure you finish the job first."
Striker didn't dignify that with a response. He gathered his papers, his calendar, his notes, and shoved them back into his cut.
"We roll out tomorrow," he said. "Surveillance first, then we start picking targets. Ridge, Hatchet—you're with me. Everyone else, be ready to move when I call."
The brothers nodded, the room filling with the scrape of chairs and the rumble of conversation as church broke up. Striker headed for the door, his mind already running through logistics—patrol schedules, safe houses, the best angles of approach.
But underneath all of it, he kept seeing auburn hair and dark eyes. A woman who swung a lead rope like she'd been born to fight.
Don't let whatever's going on between you and this girl compromise the operation.
Tornado was right to warn him. Striker knew it.
The problem was, he wasn't sure he cared.
"Hey, Striker." Hatchet fell into step beside him as they crossed the compound yard. "This barrel racer of yours. She as tough as you say?"
"Tougher."
Hatchet grinned. "Then this ought to be fun."
Striker thought about Pollard's crew, about the horses they'd hurt and the people they'd terrorized. He thought about Jessup's blood on the parking lot gravel, about the look in Teagan's eyes when she'd told him she'd been chasing this her whole life.
"Yeah," he said. "It will be."
They'd hit the crew where it staged, not where it worked. Pick them apart piece by piece until there was nothing left but Pollard and a debt that needed paying.
And when it was over, Striker was going to make damn sure Teagan Duvall made it to nationals—even if he had to burn Pollard's whole operation to the ground to get her there.