Chapter 8 War Council
EIGHT
WAR COUNCIL
ISAIAH STEEL KING
We’re gathered at the long table. The air’s thick with smoke and tension.
Patches sit in their respective seats, arms crossed, waiting for a verdict none of us wants to say aloud.
The only one missing is Dog, Dad’s SAA. Dad leans forward, forearms braced on the scarred table like he wants to break it in half.
Aria’s leaning in the doorway, arms crossed, dark hair swept over one shoulder like a curtain shielding her thoughts.
She's in a slate-gray blazer over a white tank, jeans tight on long legs that carry more authority than half the room. She doesn’t speak yet, just watches.
Her blue eyes scan the room like a lawyer clocking motive and weakness in a jury box.
She’s not patched. Not blood. But no one questions her presence. She’s here because I trust her more than any man in this room. And because I asked her to come.
Rock, Rampage, Honor, and Throttle were at a warehouse drop earlier tonight when they were ambushed by the Las Estrellas Negras Cartel. The four of them barely made it out by the skin of their teeth.
“Someone gave up our location,” I growl. “There is one person missing tonight, and to me, that means guilty.”
Saint holds his hands up in defense. “You cannot go around accusing a member of treason without backup.”
“He rolled on us,” Dad says, his voice is quiet enough to cut steel.
“He was at the warehouse drop two nights ago,” Rock says, still favoring his ribs. “Told the cartel we’d be light. Gave them the truck route.”
“Bastard nearly got Rampage killed,” Honor adds, eyes blazing. “And he’s one of ours?”
“Was.” Dad’s voice goes sharp. “He was a founding brother. Bled beside me before some of you were born. He pulled me out of a burning truck in '98. Watched my son take his first steps. Doesn’t change the fact that he nearly got you all killed. That doesn’t make him family anymore.”
Aria doesn’t flinch. She’s heard that tone before. Quiet finality before blood gets spilled. Her gaze cuts to me, asking a question without speaking. You sure you’re ready for this? I don’t answer out loud. Just hold her stare a beat longer than necessary.
The silence is heavy, like the sky’s about to fall.
Throttle’s perched on the edge of a chair, knuckles scraped raw. “So, what now? We send a message or play defense?”
A map is spread wide across the table like a corpse in a morgue. Burnt edges. Coffee stains. A red Sharpie circles the warehouse in Greystone twice. Once with calculation, once with fury.
Dad doesn’t look at it. He looks at us. “This isn’t just business now,” he says. His voice scrapes like it’s been dragged through gravel. “One of our own sold us out. They’re gonna pay for it in blood.”
Rampage stands with his arms crossed, fresh bruises under his eye from a backlot brawl the night before. “We hit hard, we hit once. No dragging this out.” His knuckles are taped, but one is still bleeding. He probably punched a wall before walking in.
“Not just a punch, brother,” Honor murmurs from the edge of the table, eyes lowered.
“We do this wrong, we bury more than traitors. We bury the future.” He’s wearing his patch with a black button-up and a chain with a tiny silver cross tucked beneath it.
His presence is different. Calmer. Like he’s carrying grief that hasn’t happened yet.
Rampage opens his mouth, and Dad holds up a hand, not to silence him, but to weigh them both. “You two always were the fire and the fuse.”
“You suggesting we let it slide?” Rampage growls, stepping closer.
“I’m saying God isn’t the only one watching,” Honor replies, meeting his stare. “If we go scorched earth without thinking, we burn saints with the sinners.”
The tension between them crackles, but Dad cuts through it with a hand slam on the table. “This ain’t Sunday mass,” he says to Honor, “and it damn sure isn’t a prizefight,” he adds to Rampage. “It’s war. You don’t like how it feels? You don’t pick up a gun.”
They go quiet. Then all eyes shift to me. I didn’t ask for that. Dad doesn’t say my name. Just stares.
“We're bleeding,” I say finally. “Internally. That warehouse isn’t the only fire. The books are leaking, too. If we hit now, we look disorganized. Weak. We patch those leaks first.”
Rampage scoffs. “So, what, you want to delay the raid and audit invoices?”
“I'm saying we prep like it’s our last stand,” I say evenly. “You want this clean? Then we get cleaner first. No more surprises.”
Dad watches me like I’m someone else. Not his son. Not the kid who used to ride on the back of his Dyna and count telephone poles. Someone harder. Someone... useful.
“You sound like Saint,” he mutters.
That lands like a punch I never saw coming.
Honor’s jaw flexes, but he nods like he understands. “Steel Saint wouldn’t have charged blind.”
Rampage doesn’t speak. He just grabs a pen and starts marking the second exit route.
Dad grips the edge of the table, weathered fingers white-knuckled. Then he lets go, stepping back. “You call it, Isaiah,” he says.
And just like that, I’m standing in Church with ghosts and men twice my age, the youngest voice in the room, but the one they’re listening to.
I glance at the blueprint spread in front of us. The paper’s smudged with motor oil and someone’s blood, but the routes are clear. If we strike now, fast and ugly, we cut the cartel’s north push and clean out the rat’s whole operation.
“I say we hit them hard,” I answer. “But not with rage. With math.” That gets a few raised brows.
“Emilio Calderon’s shell company’s got a legit pipeline contract in the east district.
But the books are bad, he’s laundering with double vendors and shadow bids.
I already filed the tip anonymously. By this time tomorrow, the city will freeze his assets. ”
Jordyn looks up from his tablet with wide eyes. “You serious?”
I nod. “Neither Calderon nor Las Estrellas Negras won’t see us coming because they’ll be scrambling to cover everything up. That’s when we hit his distro spot. Two birds, one stone.”
I feel Aria step closer behind me. Her voice, low and precise, floats over my shoulder. “If you’re right, freezing his assets gives you forty-eight hours at most before the feds start sniffing around. You need someone in place to reroute attention when they do.”
I glance back at her. “You volunteering?”
She shrugs one elegant shoulder. “I’ve got a couple of favors I haven’t called in yet from my old firm. City zoning and corporate fraud are hobbies now.”
Her presence, cool, professional, dangerous in heels or boots, settles over the room like a second skin. Dad eyes her once but doesn’t object. That’s as close to a blessing as you get around here.
Dad stares at me long and hard. Then he gives a slight nod. “Draw it up. We ride when you say we’re ready.” Dad slams the gavel onto the table, signaling the end of Church.
I find Jordyn Cox, the Club’s accountant’s son, in the back office, legs kicked up on the desk like he’s running the damn club. There’s a calculator in one hand, a highlighter in the other, and three spreadsheets spread across the table like crime scene photos.
Jordyn doesn’t look up when I walk in. Just punches a few keys, frowns, then jots something down in the margin with surgical focus.
“You always break into secured offices,” I ask, leaning against the doorway, “or is this a special occasion?”
Jordyn finally glances up, smirking like a fox that has already robbed the henhouse. “Dad gave me his keycard. Said if I thought something was wrong, then prove it.”
“And did you?”
He nods toward a manila folder on the desk. “Page three.”
I flip it open. Laundry reports. Dummy shell transactions. A few highlighted lines with matching vendor names, but wildly different amounts.
“Oil drums?”
“Nonexistent,” he says. “Three different suppliers, all billing us for products that never shipped. Whoever's behind it is smart enough to ghost the inventory trail, but not smart enough to vary the dates.”
I do the math in my head, then double-check his numbers. They’re right. Too right. “How much?”
He leans back in the chair, lacing his fingers behind his head like he’s got all the time in the world. “Eighty grand last quarter. Possibly more if they keep shifting the payment cycles.”
I whistle low. “You’re what… fifteen?”
“Almost sixteen,” he corrects, flipping to the next binder. “Dad caught me hacking the garage vending machine at twelve. Thought I’d be trouble. Turns out I’m good at paperwork.”
“Does he know you’re cleaning up his messes now?”
“He told me to fix it,” Jordyn says, matter-of-factly. “Guess he finally figured out I’m better at it.”
While Jordyn explains the vendor scam and I’m triple-checking his numbers, Aria leans on the edge of the desk, sipping lukewarm coffee. “The paper trail’s solid,” she says. “But the vendor names? They’re pulling from defunct LLCs. That’s cartel laundering 101.”
Jordyn raises an eyebrow, impressed. “You a lawyer or a mob wife?”
She grins. “I was born in Detroit. I can be both.”
I close the folder, watching Jordyn work. His eyes flick across rows of numbers like he’s reading a foreign language he was born fluent in. “You ever think about doing this full-time?”
“I thought this was full-time,” he says, scanning another ledger. “You guys don’t have a financial fail-safe. One of these days, a real audit’s gonna hit, and it’s gonna hurt.”
I let out a slow breath. Kid’s not wrong. “You’re dangerous, you know that?”
“I prefer useful,” Jordyn replies, not even smiling this time. Just… sure.
I reach for my phone. “You’re hired.”
He doesn’t even blink. “Cool. I want my own login and a locking drawer. Also, your current payroll app is garbage.”
I grin despite myself. “Jesus Christ.” But I give him the login. And the drawer.