Chapter Three
Church convened at nine AM with every officer present and a farrier sitting in the corner with her dog at her feet.
Anvil had caught the looks when he'd walked Josie into the compound at two in the morning—brothers on night watch clocking the woman on the back of his bike, the questions they were smart enough not to ask out loud.
He'd gotten her settled in a spare room, posted himself outside her door until dawn, and then sent word to Permafrost that they needed to talk.
Now the president sat at the head of the scarred wooden table, cold blue eyes fixed on the woman who'd lost everything to men operating in Savage territory.
"Tell me again," Permafrost said. "What you saw."
Josie's voice was steady. She'd slept maybe three hours, looked like she hadn't slept in weeks, but her spine was straight and her words were clear.
"Three weeks ago. I was finishing a job at the Mortenson ranch, taking the back way to my next client.
Old logging road that cuts past the abandoned Mesabi sites.
" She paused, her hands resting on her knees.
"I saw trucks. Four of them, maybe five.
Men loading equipment into one of the mine shafts. "
"What kind of equipment?"
"I don't know. Barrels. Tubing. Things covered with tarps." Her jaw tightened. "I didn't stop to look. Just kept driving."
"But they saw you."
"I don't know. Maybe." She met Permafrost's gaze without flinching. "I figured if I kept my head down, minded my own business, nothing would happen."
"And then they burned your truck with you inside it."
"Yes."
The single word hung in the air. Diesel whined softly from his spot on the floor, pressing closer to Josie's legs.
Anvil watched the brothers process the information.
Tundra leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, his scarred face showing nothing.
Ice drummed his fingers on the table, already calculating routes and logistics.
Ironside's massive hands were curled into fists, the Swedish accent thickening the way it did when he was angry.
"Brogan," Tundra said finally. "Has to be."
Permafrost nodded slowly. "What do we know?"
"Lyle Brogan. Runs a meth pipeline from cook sites in the abandoned mines down to buyers in Duluth and the Cities." Tundra's voice was flat, clinical. "Been operating for maybe ten years. Uses terrain nobody watches—old logging roads, mining access routes, trails that don't show up on any map."
"In our territory."
"On the edges. He's been careful to stay invisible. No product moving through our routes, no trouble with our people." Tundra's eyes flicked to Josie, then back to Permafrost. "Until now."
"How big is his operation?"
"Fifteen men, give or take. Mix of former miners, tweakers, and hired muscle.
His distribution guy is a trucker named Harlan Weeks—methodical, patient, handles the logistics.
His enforcer is Clete Munson, did six years for manslaughter, enjoys his work.
And he's got a mining engineer named Nolan Gunderson who manages the cook sites and handles. .. disposal."
The word landed heavy.
"Disposal," Permafrost repeated.
"Three people have disappeared in the last two years. All of them in areas where Brogan operates. None of them found." Tundra shrugged. "Gunderson knows those mines better than anyone. Knows which shafts are stable. Knows which ones go down far enough that nothing ever comes back up."
Josie's face had gone pale, but her hands stayed still on her knees. No trembling. No panic.
Anvil felt something in his chest tighten.
"She's a witness," Permafrost said. "Or Brogan thinks she is."
"Doesn't matter what she actually saw." Anvil spoke for the first time, his voice cutting through the room. "Brogan doesn't deal in probably. He's already tried to kill her once. He'll keep trying until she's in one of those mine shafts."
"And what do you propose we do about it?"
The question was aimed at Anvil, and he felt the weight of it—felt every brother's eyes turn toward him, felt the unspoken acknowledgment that he'd brought this woman into their world.
"We protect her," he said. "And we deal with Brogan."
"That's a war."
"It's already a war. He's been running product through our territory for years, and we didn't know about it.
Now he's burned down a barn on Lindquist's ranch—people we do business with—and tried to murder a woman Coldstart vouched for.
" Anvil's jaw tightened. "If we let that stand, we're telling everyone on the Range that the Savages can be operated around.
That you can run drugs through our backyard and burn our people without consequences. "
Silence.
Permafrost's cold eyes moved from Anvil to Josie, then back again.
"She's not club," the president said quietly. "She's not your old lady. She's a farrier who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time."
"She's under our roof." Anvil didn't look away. "That makes her ours to protect."
Something shifted in Permafrost's expression—recognition, maybe. Understanding.
"You're claiming responsibility for her."
It wasn't a question, but Anvil answered anyway.
"Yes."
Another silence. Longer this time.
Tundra broke it. "Brogan's been a problem we've been ignoring because he stayed out of our way. That's done now. He escalated. He brought it to us."
"Agreed," Ice said. "Can't let someone operate this close without consequences. Bad for business, bad for reputation."
Ironside's accent was thick with anger. "He burned a barn. Could have killed the horses. Could have killed her ." His massive fist hit the table once. "We end him."
Permafrost looked around the table, reading faces, measuring consensus.
"Coldstart?"
The mechanic had been quiet until now, watching from his seat near the door. "I vouched for her. Told Anvil she was good people, keep her mouth shut." His jaw tightened. "If Brogan kills her because of work I sent her way, that's on me. I vote we handle it."
Permafrost nodded slowly.
"Then we vote." His voice carried the weight of a man who'd led this club through harder decisions. "All in favor of taking action against Lyle Brogan and his operation—protecting the woman under our roof and eliminating a threat that's been operating in our territory too long."
Every hand at the table went up.
"Unanimous." Permafrost stood, signaling the end of church. "Tundra, I want everything you can find on Brogan's operation—routes, personnel, cook site locations. Ice, start mapping approaches. Anvil—"
He paused, his cold eyes finding Anvil's.
"She's your responsibility. Keep her safe until we're ready to move."
"Understood."
Brothers began filing out, conversations breaking into smaller groups, the machinery of violence beginning to turn. Anvil stayed where he was, watching Josie from across the room.
She hadn't moved. Hadn't spoken since answering Permafrost's questions. But when her eyes met his, he saw something there that hadn't been present before.
Trust.
Fragile. Uncertain. The kind of trust that came from someone who'd spent her whole life learning that depending on others meant disappointment.
But there.
"Come on," Anvil said, crossing to her. "I'll show you where you can get some real sleep."
"They're going to war because of me."
"They're going to war because Brogan's been poisoning this territory for too long and finally gave us a reason to do something about it." He offered his hand, helping her to her feet. "You're just the excuse."
"That supposed to make me feel better?"
"It's supposed to make you understand that this isn't your fault. Brogan made his choices. Now he gets to live with the consequences."
Diesel pressed against Josie's legs as they walked out of the chapel, tail wagging despite everything. The dog had decided the compound was safe, which said something about his instincts.
Or maybe about the man walking beside his owner.
Anvil led Josie through the main building, past brothers who nodded at her with something approaching respect—she'd sat through church without flinching, answered hard questions without falling apart—and up to the room he'd given her the night before.
"Get some sleep," he said. "I'll be outside if you need anything."
"You don't have to stand guard."
"Yeah." He met her eyes, letting her see the certainty there. "I do."
Something flickered across her face—gratitude, maybe, or the beginning of something she wasn't ready to name.
"Thank you," she said quietly. "For bringing me here. For—all of it."
Anvil nodded once.
"Get some rest. The hard part hasn't started yet."
He closed the door between them and took up position in the hallway, settling into the particular stillness of a man who knew how to wait.
The brotherhood had voted unanimous.
Brogan had been operating in their backyard too long.
And now he'd threatened someone under their roof.
That was a mistake he wouldn't live long enough to regret.