Chapter Three
Church was called for seven o'clock, which meant Edge walked through the chapel doors at six-forty-five to find half the brotherhood already seated and Jackpot at the head of the table looking like he hadn't slept.
The chapel occupied what used to be the harbormaster's office, back when this warehouse handled legitimate marina business.
Now the windows were blacked out, the walls reinforced, and a heavy oak table dominated the center of the room—scarred from years of fists and bottles and the occasional knife that got drawn during heated discussions.
Edge took his seat along the left side, between Ghost and a prospect who was running coffee. The kid's hands shook slightly as he poured. First time in church. He'd learn.
Riptide came through the door last, salt still clinging to his jacket from whatever marina business had kept him late. He dropped into the VP's chair at Jackpot's right hand and gave a short nod.
"We're here," Jackpot said. No preamble, no small talk. That wasn't his style. "Pike. What've you got?"
Pike leaned forward, forearms on the table. The Road Captain knew every mile between Atlantic City and Philadelphia, every backroad and shortcut and surveillance blind spot. When he said something was wrong with the roads, you listened.
"Been watching traffic patterns the last two weeks. Something's off downbeach." He glanced at Edge. "Delivery trucks running routes that don't make sense. Catering vans hitting residential streets at midnight. Commercial vehicles in neighborhoods that don't have commercial businesses."
"Could be nothing," Block said from the end of the table. "Construction crews work weird hours."
"Construction crews don't circle the same blocks three nights running." Pike shook his head. "This is something else. Someone's building routes. Testing coverage. Figuring out which streets get attention and which ones don't."
Edge felt the pieces clicking together before Pike finished talking.
He'd seen this before—not here, but overseas.
Supply lines disguised as legitimate traffic.
Distribution networks hidden inside normal business patterns.
Someone was setting up an operation in the shore towns, and they were doing it smart.
"It's a distribution network," he said.
Every head turned toward him.
"Explain," Jackpot ordered.
"The delivery trucks, the catering vans—they're cover.
Someone's using legitimate businesses to move product through residential neighborhoods.
Places where nobody looks twice at a florist van or a catering truck.
" Edge kept his voice level, but his jaw tightened.
"Wealthy communities. Big houses. People with money to spend and privacy to spend it in. "
"Pills," Ace said. The Sergeant at Arms rarely spoke in church, but when he did, it landed like a hammer. "Opioids. Maybe powder. High-end clientele, high-end prices."
"Fits the profile." Pike nodded. "The routes I've been tracking run through Margate, Longport, parts of Ventnor. Money neighborhoods."
Jackpot's scarred face didn't change, but Edge could read the tension in his shoulders.
The shore towns were Outlaws territory. Every block from the boardwalk to the bay, from Brigantine to Ocean City.
Someone setting up a drug operation in those neighborhoods wasn't just breaking the law—they were stepping on the club.
"Any idea who's behind it?" Riptide asked.
"Working on it." Pike pulled out his phone, scrolled through something.
"I've got three businesses that have changed hands in the last six months.
A dry cleaner in Margate. A sandwich shop in Ventnor.
A cleaning service in Longport. All bought by the same shell company, all suddenly running vehicles at odd hours. "
"Someone's compromising local businesses," Edge said. "Buying them out or pressuring them to cooperate. Using their delivery routes to move product."
The room went quiet. Everyone understood what that meant. The shore towns weren't just territory—they were home. Brothers had grown up in those neighborhoods, raised families there, buried parents in those churchyards. An outside operation setting up shop wasn't just a business problem.
It was personal.
"There's more," Edge said.
Jackpot's eyes found his. Waiting.
"I've been hearing about a flower shop in Margate. Shore Blooms. Owner's been getting pressure from men in suits. They want her to 'partner' with them."
"You know her?" Block asked.
"Know of her." Edge kept his voice neutral, but something shifted in his chest when he thought about the woman who ran that shop.
Small. Dark hair. Hands that always had nicks from thorns when she came to his grandmother's grave.
"She delivered arrangements to my grandmother for two years.
Every week, without fail. Never charged me for the funeral flowers when Grandma passed. "
"So she's one of ours," Ghost said.
"She's downbeach. That makes her mine to protect."
The words came out harder than Edge intended. Possessive. Territorial. A few brothers exchanged glances, but nobody commented. In this room, claiming responsibility for someone wasn't questioned. It was respected.
"What kind of pressure?" Jackpot asked.
"Don't know the details yet. But if they're recruiting legitimate businesses to move product, a florist is perfect.
Access to wealthy homes, flexible delivery windows, nobody suspicious of a woman carrying flowers.
" Edge's hands curled into fists beneath the table.
"She's been saying no. Which means they're going to escalate. "
"You think she's a target."
"I think she's the exact kind of target they're looking for. Small business owner, works alone, no muscle to back her up." Edge met Jackpot's gaze. "She needs protection whether she knows it or not."
Silence stretched across the chapel. Outside, Edge could hear the bay water lapping against the dock, the distant rumble of a boat engine somewhere in the marina.
Jackpot leaned back in his chair. The scar across his jaw caught the overhead light, a reminder of every fight that had built this club into what it was.
"This is Outlaws business," he said. "The shore towns are ours. Every block, every business, every person who calls those neighborhoods home. Someone wants to run drugs through our territory, they go through us first."
Nods around the table. Grim faces.
"Edge." Jackpot's voice carried the weight of command. "Downbeach is yours. Find out who's behind this. Find out how deep the network goes. And make sure that florist understands she's got backup now."
"Understood."
"Pike, keep tracking those routes. Get me license plates, company names, anything we can use to trace this back to whoever's running the show. Ace, I want you ready to move when we find them. This ends bloody or it doesn't end at all."
"Always does," Ace said.
Church broke up ten minutes later. Brothers filed out toward the bar, toward bikes, toward whatever waited for them in the dark outside the compound walls. Edge stayed seated, watching them go, his mind already in Margate.
The flower shop. The woman who said no when saying yes would have been easier. The men in suits who didn't understand that the shore towns weren't unprotected—they just looked that way.
Ghost paused at the door. "You need backup tonight?"
"Not yet." Edge stood, rolled the tension out of his shoulders. "Reconnaissance first. I want to see what she's dealing with before I bring the cavalry."
"Your call." Ghost's expression stayed neutral, but there was something knowing in his eyes. "Just don't wait too long. These assholes sound organized."
"They can be as organized as they want. They're still operating in my territory."
Ghost almost smiled. "There it is."
Edge didn't ask what that meant. He grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair and headed for the door, mind already mapping the route to Margate. Twenty minutes if he pushed it. Fifteen if traffic cooperated and he didn't care about speed limits.
He didn't care about speed limits.
The parking lot was cold and smelled like salt water and motor oil, that particular compound perfume that meant home. His bike waited where he'd left it, chrome catching the floodlights mounted on the warehouse corners. Edge threw a leg over the seat and let the engine rumble to life beneath him.
Margate. Shore Blooms. A woman with nicked hands and a backbone that wouldn't bend for men in suits.
He didn't know her—not really. Didn't know anything about her beyond the flowers she'd brought to his grandmother's grave and the quiet way she'd stood beside him at the funeral, offering condolences without empty words.
But something about the image of her cornered by predators made his blood run hot in a way that had nothing to do with club business.
She was downbeach.
She was his to protect.
And tonight, she was going to find out she wasn't alone anymore.
Edge pulled out of the compound lot and pointed his bike south, toward the quiet streets and wealthy homes and a florist who didn't know what was coming.