Chapter 23 #5
The ride to the compound took twenty minutes, and Permafrost spent every one of them cataloging what he knew and what he suspected. The bruise on her face. The plywood where the mirror used to be. The way she flinched when the door opened. The strangers who watched her like they owned her.
Someone was making a move on the Pickaxe. On his territory. On a woman whose father had served Savages for thirty years, who'd poured Permafrost's beer every Thursday night since she inherited the place.
On Maren.
His grip tightened on the handlebars until his knuckles ached.
The compound was lit up when he arrived—brothers gathered in the main building, bikes lined up outside like chrome soldiers. Permafrost killed his engine and was off the bike before it stopped rocking, his boots eating ground as he pushed through the clubhouse doors.
"Church," he said. "Now."
The word cut through the usual noise like a blade. Brothers looked up from their drinks, from their conversations, from the pool table where Whiteout had been running the table against a prospect. They saw their president's face, saw whatever was burning in his eyes, and they moved.
Two minutes later, the chapel doors closed behind the last man, and Permafrost stood at the head of the table with his palms flat on the scarred wood.
"Someone want to tell me what the hell is happening in Hibbing?"
Silence. Then Tundra shifted in his seat, his Finnish features giving nothing away but his voice carrying that flatness that meant trouble.
"McBride. Dale McBride. Ran meth through the Dakotas for fifteen years, decided Minnesota looked like easy territory about six months ago.
" Tundra's scarred hands curled around his beer.
"We've been tracking his people for weeks.
They've been testing borders, asking questions, setting up operations in towns we don't patrol regularly. "
"And nobody thought to bring this to church?"
"We were gathering intel." This from Ironside, his Swedish accent thickening the way it did when he was defensive. "Wanted to know what we were dealing with before we raised alarms. These men—they're not amateurs, Prez. They've got muscle, money, and a reputation for making problems disappear."
"How many?"
"Twelve that we've counted. Maybe more." Tundra pulled a folded paper from his cut, spreading it on the table. "They've been hitting businesses along Highway 53. Bars, mostly. Asking owners to cooperate with distribution, making it ugly when they refuse."
"Define ugly."
Tundra's eyes met his. "Three bar owners in the Dakotas. Two bent the knee eventually. The third—nobody's seen her in six months."
The fury that had been simmering in Permafrost's chest roared into something volcanic. He thought about Maren's bruised face, about the plywood where her grandfather's mirror used to hang, about the terror she'd tried so hard to hide.
"They're making a move on the Pickaxe."
"Looks like it." Ironside's missing fingers drummed against the table. "Halvorsen's place is perfectly positioned—highway access, local traffic, no real police presence. If McBride wants to run product through the Iron Range, it's the smart play."
"And Maren?"
"Word is she told them no." Tundra's voice carried something that might have been respect. "Pulled a shotgun on their enforcer three days ago. That's when they started getting rough."
Permafrost closed his eyes. Behind his lids, he saw her face—that flash of stubborn backbone before she'd shuttered it away. She'd stood up to armed drug dealers with nothing but her grandfather's shotgun and Norwegian grit.
And they'd hurt her for it.
"Who's the enforcer?"
"Cody Pruitt. Six-three, prison muscle, did eight years in Sioux Falls for aggravated assault." Tundra's lip curled. "He's been bragging about what he did to her. About what he's going to do when she doesn't meet their deadline."
"When's the deadline?"
"Friday."
Two days. She had two days before these bastards came back to finish what they'd started.
Permafrost opened his eyes. The brothers around the table had gone still, watching their president with the wariness of men who'd seen what happened when his temper slipped its leash.
"This is Savage territory," he said, and his voice was quiet in a way that made Ironside shift in his seat. "The Pickaxe has been Savage territory since my father drank there. Since Nils Halvorsen served our brothers with respect when half the Iron Range treated us like criminals."
He straightened, rolling his shoulders back, feeling the weight of his cut settle across them like armor.
"Maren Halvorsen is under our protection.
As of right now, tonight, anyone who touches her answers to this club.
" His eyes swept the table, meeting each brother's gaze in turn.
"I'm claiming this mission personally. Tundra, Ironside—you're with me.
We ride to the Pickaxe tomorrow night and make sure these flatlanders understand exactly whose territory they've wandered into. "
"And if they don't listen?" Whiteout asked, his sniper's stare already calculating angles and distances.
Permafrost's smile was thin and sharp as a blade.
"Then they learn why we're called Savages."