Chapter 10
TINY
“Church in ten.”
Capone's voice still echoes off the hallway walls as I enter the common room. The air smells like smoke, sweat, and steel. The usual before bad news.
Blayze leans against the wall near the window, arms crossed, quiet but watchful.
Torch and Trigger file in behind me, road weary and silent.
Bones drums restless fingers on the table, the sound sharp as a ticking clock.
Dagger drops into the seat beside me, rolling his shoulders like he’s still shaking off the ride.
Derange and Aftermath share the far end of the table, trading looks that say they’ve already guessed what’s coming. Red’s laptop throws a ghost-blue glow across his tired face.
Even the air feels heavier when Capone steps in, cigarette tucked behind his ear, Danyella’s scent still clinging to his cut. He shuts the door, the soft click pulling every eye to him. Capone doesn’t wait for quiet, it falls on its own.
“Red pulled the feed,” he says, lighting the cigarette, voice steady and low. “Same truck. Hellhound tags, moving north fast.” He exhales, smoke curling through the dim light. “Lattimer’s not hiding anymore.”
The room goes still.
Trigger breaks the silence first. “That son of a bitch wants a war.”
“We knew this was coming,” Torch mutters. “Question is, does he have the stones to hit us head-on or just keep picking off our shipments?”
“Either way,” Derange says, voice low, “he’s making a statement.”
Capone nods. “Yeah. And I want to know who’s signing it.”
Red swivels his laptop toward us, a map of the south border glowing red. “The truck was spotted near San Ysidro. Moved fast, then vanished off the grid ten miles north. No checkpoints, no drone hits after that.”
Blayze crosses his arms tighter. “Means someone’s clearing a route for him. Military precision.”
“Cartel?” Torch asks.
“Too clean,” Dagger says. “Cartel likes chaos. This feels…organized.”
My stomach knots, the Hellhound mark flashing in my mind, fresh paint still sticky under my glove.
“Could be mercs,” Aftermath offers. “Private hires. Lattimer’s got deep pockets.”
“Maybe,” Capone says. “Or maybe he’s buying loyalty from ghosts.” His gaze flicks to me for half a second, too quick for the others to catch. “Tiny, you led recon. What did you see that you didn’t say?”
Every pair of eyes lands on me. Heat creeps up my neck. The silence stretches until I can hear the hum of Red’s laptop fan. “Warehouse was tagged,” I say finally. “Hellhound insignia. Fresh paint.”
Blayze’s brows lift. “Hellhounds? Thought they were long gone.”
“So did I,” I say.
“Could be some rogue crew copying the mark,” Dagger suggests quickly.
“Could be,” I echo, throat dry.
Capone studies me too long, reading every lie like scripture. “You sure?”
“Pretty sure.” The lie tastes like iron.
Capone exhales smoke through his nose, slow and deliberate.
“Alright. We don’t jump shadows. Trigger, tighten supply lines.
Torch, prep transport backup. Dagger, check the ridge routes south, find out how the truck ghosted us.
Red, cross-check drone feeds from last night and pull satellite sweeps.
Blayze, coordinate with our Vegas charter.
I want ears in both directions. Derange, and Aftermath, you two work with Tiny.
If Lattimer’s moving product, I want to know where the road ends. ”
“Copy that,” Aftermath says.
Bones leans forward, voice sharp. “And when we find him?”
Capone grinds his cigarette out in the ashtray, gaze sweeping the table. “Then we remind him why you don’t carve a Hound’s mark on our city.”
A murmur of grim agreement ripples through the room. Brotherhood.
Trigger cracks his knuckles. “Guess we’re not getting our beach day after all.”
Torch grins, humor dark. “You ever been to the beach with us? It’s still a war zone, just with sand.”
Dagger laughs. “And less clothing.”
“That’s supposed to be a bad thing?” Bones asks, deadpan.
Even Capone smirks at that. “Focus, boys. I’m not paying for therapy when this goes sideways.”
Blayze chuckles. “You don’t pay for therapy anyway.”
“Exactly,” Capone says, and the tension breaks for a heartbeat. Laughter fills the room, boots scrape against the floor, and shoulders bump.
I stay quiet. Because while they talk logistics and retaliation, I can still see that warehouse wall. Still smell Creed’s paint.
The Hellhounds aren’t a ghost story anymore. They’re back and they’re mine to kill, or die trying.
The room empties in waves, laughter and footsteps fading down the hall until it’s just the sound of engines cooling outside and the faint hum of Red’s equipment shutting down.
Blayze pats my shoulder on his way out. “You did good, brother.” I nod, not trusting myself to reply.
When the last man leaves Church, Capone doesn’t move. He stands at the head of the table, eyes fixed on the map still glowing from Red’s laptop. The cigarette between his fingers burns low, with the ash hanging by a thread.
“Close the door,” he says.
I do. The soft click sounds louder than any gunshot I’ve heard.
He takes a long drag, exhales smoke toward the ceiling, and finally looks at me. His eyes are calm and dark, like deep water before a storm.
“You lied to me.” It’s not an accusation. It’s a fact dropped into the quiet.
I stiffen, words scraping my throat. “About what?”
He raises a brow, unimpressed. “Don’t play dumb. I’ve known you too long. You touch the scar on your palm when you’re hiding something.” He steps closer, the weight of him filling the room. “You hesitated when you said the word Hellhounds.”
My mouth goes dry. “Old habits, maybe.”
“Bullshit.” He plants both hands on the table. “I know that name hits you different, Tiny. You think I don’t pay attention?”
I say nothing.
He leans forward. “You were one of them.” It’s not a question.
“Was,” I correct, voice tight.
“Then tell me why they’re in my city.”
I meet his stare, the weight of every mile I’ve ridden pressing into my spine. “Because some devils don’t stay buried.”
“Cut the poetry,” Capone snaps. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”
The truth sits on my tongue like glass. Creed’s name, the smell of spray paint, the way my hands trembled when I saw it. But if I tell him… the brothers will never look at me the same.
So I lie again. “No.”
Capone studies me for a long time, smoke curling between us. “You’d tell me if there was, wouldn’t you?”
My jaw flexes. “Yeah.”
Capone exhales slowly through his nose, controlled.
“I trust you, Tiny. You’ve earned that. But don’t make me regret it.
” The silence that follows hums with unspoken things.
Finally, he straightens, flicks his cigarette into the ashtray, and nods once.
“Get some rest. We’ll brief again in the morning. ”
“Yes, Prez.”
He starts toward the door, pauses halfway, and glances back. “One more thing.”
“Yeah?”
“Whatever ghosts you’ve got chasing you, don’t bring them through my gate unless you plan to bury them here.” Then he’s gone, the door swinging shut behind him.
I stand in my spot for a long time, staring at the empty chairs, the faded wood of the table carved with years of our faith. Protect. Respect. Honor. Words carved into wood that’s seen more blood than peace.
Outside, engines rumble softly as the brothers return to their rooms. The smell of oil and desert dust blends with the night air. I take a deep breath, but it doesn’t soothe me. Not tonight.
I press my palms flat to the table and bow my head. “I won’t bring them here,” I whisper. “I’ll take them to hell myself.”
I drag a hand down my face, the skin rough under my palm. I push away from the table and head for the garage. The smell of oil and metal steadies me. Machines don’t lie. They break, and you fix them.
Torch’s old Harley sits half-gutted on the lift, chrome scattered across the floor like bones. I grab a wrench and start tightening bolts that don’t need it, just to keep my hands busy. The clinking and scraping sound fills the silence, giving me a moment to breathe.
Every time the wrench hits metal, I hear Capone’s voice again. Don’t bring your ghosts through my gate.
Too late for that. They’re already inside.
The door creaks open behind me, and Bones pokes his head in, a beer in each hand. “You’re still at it?”
I don’t look up. “Something to do.”
He walks in, tosses me one of the bottles. “You keep fixing bikes that aren’t broke, you’re gonna run out of problems to solve.”
“Not likely.”
Bones takes a long pull, studying me over the rim. “Capone breathing down your neck again?”
“He’s just doing his job.”
“Yeah, and you’re not answering my question.”
I finally meet his gaze. “You ever lie to the club?”
Bones smirks. “Brother, I lie to myself daily. Helps me sleep.” He clinks his bottle against mine. “But I never lie to my brothers. Not about the stuff that matters.”
“Maybe I don’t know what matters anymore.”
He tilts his head, grin fading. “You do. You just don’t like what it costs.”
We drink in silence. Outside, the sun sinks low, spilling a warm orange glow through the garage windows. The light hits the chrome, burning gold, and for a moment, everything looks too calm to be real.
Bones drains his beer, sets it on the counter, and slaps my shoulder. “Whatever’s eatin’ you, handle it before it eats back. Trust me. Regret’s worse than bullets.”
He leaves me with the hum of silence and the tick of cooling metal.
By the time night falls, the garage is dark except for one flickering bulb. My knuckles ache, grease stains the creases of my hands, and the guilt hasn’t budged an inch.
That’s when I hear Syvannah's soft, distant laugh. It drifts in from the porch where the night air rolls in off the city. A thread of light through the dark.
I should walk away, let her rest. But my feet move anyway.
The porch light glows low, painting her in amber. She’s wrapped in a blanket, mug cradled in her hands, hair loose around her shoulders. Peanut sits at her feet, tail twitching like a metronome.
“Capone giving you hell?” she asks without turning.