7. Line Drawn
SEVEN
LINE DRAWN
STEEL
The church table’s been scratched, bloodstained, and repaired more times than I can count. But tonight, it feels like it might finally crack.
Rock’s pacing by the whiteboard like he’s back in lockup, jaw tight. City’s got maps, burner logs, and club chatter open in three windows, fingers flying like they’re trying to race the threat.
Me? I’m sitting at the head of the table, trying not to snap a pen in half while listening to my brothers toss theories and fallout like dice. Waiting for the one that lands on war.
“They followed Crusher,” City says, tapping a freeze-frame from a traffic cam. “Black sedan. No plates. Matches the Iron Cross rotation from Amarillo last spring.”
“Could be a coincidence,” Rock mutters. But there’s doubt in his voice. He knows better. We all do.
“Nothing’s a coincidence when Duke Travers is breathing,” I say. That shuts the room up cold.
Crusher’s not here. He’s playing shadow outside Nevaeh’s apartment because she’s too damn stubborn to hole up at the clubhouse. But if I know him, and I do, he’s got one hand on his piece and one eye on every moving shadow.
“She put him on the radar,” Rock says. “And now we’re all flashing like a damn beacon.”
“She put herself there, too,” City adds. “If they wanted to use her as leverage…”
They don’t need to finish that sentence.
I lean back in the chair and stare at the ceiling for a beat, jaw tight. My mind drifts like it always does when one of my own’s out in the open.
Crusher’s first year with us, he nearly got himself killed pulling Throttle out of that burning house in Saginaw. Took a bullet through the thigh and still carried him half a block to the van. Never once asked for a patch early. Never played the hero. Just said he couldn’t leave him.
Crusher is loyal like that. Loyal to a fault. And now he’s wrapped around a woman whose mouth just declared us open season.
“We don’t let this spiral,” I say finally. “Not over one article.”
City scoffs. “That article’s got Iron Cross sniffing around like we’re holding their leverage. And she named Crusher by road name. They’ll use it.”
“They already are,” Rock adds. “Got word from our contact in East Grand. Iron Cross is meeting with the Rust Hounds. That’s not a sit-down. That’s recruitment.”
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, pinching the bridge of my nose. “You think they’re building an alliance?”
“Looks like it,” Rock confirms. “Word is they want to disrupt the Fallen Spades territory line, too. Could be testing for a broader move.”
I slam my hand down on the table. Not loud, just firm enough to cut the air. “Then we draw the line now.” Silence stretches. “They come near our turf, they don’t walk back out,” I continue. “But until that happens, we keep our heads. We don’t pull heat unless they force our hand.”
City leans forward, tapping the screen. “Then we need to get ahead of it. I’ll work my contacts in Lansing, see if anyone’s flipped sides lately. If Iron Cross has a mole in our circles, we’ll find ’em.”
Rock nods. “I’ll hit the hardware shop tomorrow. Reinforce the back lot, double-check the security system.”
“Good,” I say. “And somebody tell Throttle to sober the hell up and check our arms inventory.” A few of the guys snort. But the energy in the room shifts. Sharper now. Focused.
I lean back in my chair and let the weight settle where it always does. On my shoulders.
My phone buzzes in my cut pocket. Crusher’s name lights the screen.
“Talk,” I answer, already bracing for the worst.
“They followed us,” he says, low and clipped. Engine noise hums in the background. “Black car, no plates. Same one from the event. Lost them three turns in, pulled off M20.”
“You sure it was them?”
“Duke’s fingerprints were all over the night. I’m not assuming shit.”
“Where’s the girl?”
“At her place. I’m staying nearby. Not inside.”
“Should’ve brought her in.”
“She’s not ready, Prez,” he says. “I’m not pushing her there. Not yet.”
I grind my molars together, frustration curling through my ribs like smoke. “You planning to handle this your way, then?”
He doesn’t answer at first. “No one gets to her.”
“Make sure that includes you,” I snap. “Keep your head clear, brother. We’re too close to blow this on pride.”
“I hear you,” he says. But I don’t think he does.
The call ends. I lower the phone slowly, feeling every ounce of pressure shift back onto my shoulders.
Crusher’s too close to this. And if he lets the lines blur, we’re all going to pay for it.
I glance at City. “Run that plate we scraped from the gas station. Cross-check it with known Iron Cross affiliates. I want names.”
Rock cracks his knuckles. “Are we doing this loud or quiet?”
“We’re not doing anything yet,” I say. “They fire the first shot, we finish the war. Not before.”
My gut’s already twisting with the truth.
The shot’s already been fired. We’re just waiting to hear it hit.
After they leave, I step out back, light a cigarette, and scan the lot.
The wind’s sharp, cutting through the night like teeth.
I stare out at the bikes lined up, faithful as always, waiting for the next call to move.
“You want a war, Duke? Come knock. We’ll answer. ”
This club has survived cartel fire, federal sweeps, and traitors in patched leather. But sometimes, the biggest threat comes from something smaller. A woman. A sentence. A crack in the armor.
I respect what Nevaeh’s trying to do. She’s smart. Fearless. But the kind of fearlessness that gets someone else killed when the bullets fly. The kind that writes headlines without knowing who bleeds for them. It’s not her fallout she’ll be cleaning up.
It’s ours.