Chapter 8 War Council #2
I find Aiden Reed, City, leaning against the seat of his dark red Road Glide like he's casing the block. His boots are scuffed, his shirt untucked, legal pad resting on the gas tank. He looks like a man waiting for a tail to pass.
“Didn’t peg you for the paperwork type,” I say, eyeing the stack of zoning maps beside him.
He doesn’t look up. “Someone’s gotta keep us off the city radar.”
I step closer. His handwriting is small and surgical. Notes on land parcel IDs, shell Corp ownership trails, and audit triggers.
“You see something?”
He nods once, taps the edge of a map. “This lot here, warehouse twelve. It’s in the dummy company name, but someone refiled the lease two weeks ago. Not one of ours.”
That sets off a low warning in my gut. “Who?”
“Name’s local. Fake ID. Could be a freelancer trying to sniff us out. Or a rat with ambition.”
I drag a hand down my jaw. “How the hell did you catch it?”
“The zoning board posted updates online. No one reads those except retirees and nosy assholes like me.”
I shake my head, impressed despite myself. “Are you always this paranoid?”
His eyes finally flick up, sharp and calm. “I like knowing who’s looking our way. That’s all.”
We stand there for a second, just two guys with too many secrets and not enough backup. “You think Jordyn saw this?”
He snorts. “Jordyn’s cleaning up after we’ve already been hit. I’m trying to stop the bleeding before it starts.”
There’s no cockiness in the way he says it. Just a fact. Just the kind of presence that keeps a club like ours from getting buried under the wrong attention.
“You ever think about doing this full time?” I ask.
He shrugs. “I already do. You just didn’t know it yet.”
I nod, slow and certain. “Then it’s time the others did.”
Later that night, I find Throttle in the garage, shirt off, knuckles split and raw, wrapping duct tape around his hand like it’s a fix for broken bones instead of busted pride.
Sweat slicks his back, the concrete floor under him spattered with blood, oil, and maybe whatever’s left of his dignity.
The air reeks of metal and grit, thick enough to chew.
“You good?” I ask, flipping on the overhead fan. The air smells like oil, sweat, and iron.
He shrugs with one shoulder, spit trickling down from a cracked lip. “Depends. Are you any good at stitching up face wounds?”
“You get your ass handed to you underground again?”
Throttle spits blood into a bucket and grins like it’s just another Tuesday. “They said I had a chance. Didn’t mention the other guy looked like he bench-pressed a semi.”
I toss him a towel. “Why the hell are you doing this, man?”
He’s quiet at first, tightening the other hand. “My ma’s lupus meds doubled in price. Medicaid kicked back the claim. And my little brother just got braces put on last week, which my uncle, his real dad, promised to pay for before he split town.”
“They repo’d my mom’s car last week while she was still in it,” Throttle says, teeth gritted. “She walked three miles home in the rain.” He yanks the tape tighter. “I ain’t letting her do that again.” He finally looks up, eyes sharp through the bruises. “I’m the only one left to cover it.”
“You ever think about not getting your head caved in to help?”
Throttle shrugs. “You offering something that pays quicker?”
“I’m offering you something that lasts,” I say. “Ride with me tomorrow. Watch how I handle things.”
He blinks at me. “This isn’t a charity case.”
“Damn right it’s not,” I say. “It’s a war. And I’d rather have a fighter like you beside me than bleeding out in a ring for rent money.”
He sits still for a beat. “What’s the catch?”
“You keep your hands clean from this point forward. You fight for the club, not for crowds. Not for cash. For the name on your back.”
Throttle frowns, wiping sweat and blood off his chin. “That a test?”
“It’s an invitation,” I tell him. “You’ve already got the fight. I’m trying to give it direction.”
He’s quiet. When I start to think I lost him, he mutters, “You trust me for that?”
“I’m trusting you not to bleed out by morning.”
He snorts, then winces. “You got jokes.”
“I got eyes,” I say. “You swing hard. You don’t fold. But the club needs you on your feet, not face down on concrete.” He doesn’t answer. Not with words.
The next morning, when I roll out for business, Throttle’s already outside with his helmet in hand, knuckles still taped, but with real tape this time.
He follows my lead on drops and pickups without saying a word or questioning what I’m doing with shady as shit paperwork.
And maybe, for the first time, believing in something that doesn’t hit back.
A week later, we’re all lined up outside the Clubhouse to finish off the leak and Las Estrellas Negras. The engines growl beneath us like a pack of wolves ready to tear through flesh.
We’re rolling twenty deep, but it feels heavier than that, like ghosts are riding with us. Old patches. Dead brothers. Buried grudges.
My dad, The General, rides at the front, helmet low, his black Road King still painted with faded war stripes from the last time shit got bloody. I’m beside him, riding steel on steel. My father hasn’t let go of the reins, but I’m not just along for the ride anymore.
Throttle pulls in behind me. Still bruised from the last fight, but sharper now. Lean, mean, and dead quiet. He rides like the devil’s chasing him.
Rock’s on The General’s flank, knuckles bruised, jaw locked tight. He hasn’t said much since the betrayal came to light, like if he opens his mouth, someone might die before we even get there.
Jordyn and City ride in the rear stagger. City’s got a backpack full of burner phones and a fire in his eyes he can’t mask, no matter how much black he wears. Jordyn’s riding smoother than a kid his age should. He’s got the books locked down, but tonight he’s wearing Kevlar like the rest of us.
We head toward the docks, where the intel says the cartel’s using an abandoned seafood distributor as a front. Forty-five minutes of dark roads and nerves so sharp they buzz.
Throttle pulls up beside me at a red light. “You sure this isn’t a suicide run?”
I glance at The General, then back at him. “If it is, we’re making it worth it.” He nods once. No more questions. The light changes, and we roar into war.
We cut the engines two blocks out. Dad raises a fist, and silence falls.
Rock and I take point, weapons drawn. He’s got the shotgun, I’ve got a suppressed nine. We flank left while Throttle, Jordyn, and two patched members from Tama’s day, Crow and Ridge, go right through the alley.
City and another prospect stay behind to jam signals and sweep for security cams. I catch the flash of City’s hoodie vanishing behind a dumpster, then nothing.
The front looks dead. Too dead.
Dad’s voice buzzes in my earpiece. “Gas line’s behind the freezer truck. Stack up. Quick and clean.”
We breach the side door. Three men are inside. One is packing, two are talking. They don’t hear us enter. Rock moves like thunder. One round to the chest of the armed guy, the others I drop fast with zip ties.
We clear the warehouse room by room. Someone spots us and panics, pulling a fire alarm.
Dad finds the safe room. Inside, crates of uncut product, a stack of unregistered weapons, and a woman chained to a pipe.
Ridge kneels to cover her while Jordyn starts taking pictures for leverage.
Then hell opens.
One of the cartel guards bursts from a hidden panel and nails Ridge in the leg before I drop him with two shots. Blood sprays across the white tile.
Throttle tackles another guy into the wall, breaks his arm in a single twist, and holds him there while Rock interrogates.
“Who’s feeding you intel?” Rock growls, pressing a knife to the man’s throat.
The guy’s too scared to talk, but after a little coercion, he blubbers like a baby.
“I… I don’t know his name. He has scars on his hands, and he’s bald with a grey beard.
That’s all I can tell you.” That’s enough for us.
Dad nods to Rock, a slight move, and Rock slices the guy's throat in one quick movement. I don’t think he even blinked before his blood was drawn.
Jordyn breaks apart from us, writing down serial numbers from the crates.
Dad pulls me aside. “Burn the files. Take the woman to the shelter. We walk away clean.” I nod my head in agreement.
City radios in. “Cops on route. Three minutes, max.” We’re ghosts before the sirens ever reach the harbor.
The ride back is quieter. No cheers. No war cries. Just the low hum of engines and the smell of blood and powder.
Throttle’s got a split lip again. I hand him a rag at the next red light. He doesn’t thank me, just presses it to his face and keeps riding.
Ridge is in the back of the van with Rock and the rescued girl. Jordyn rides beside the door, keeping watch. The kid hasn’t spoken since the first shot was fired, but I saw his hands were steady. Unshaken.
Aria rides in the van also, sitting beside the rescued girl with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. She holds her hand the whole way back, murmuring soft reassurances. I catch her reflection in the back panel. Her blue eyes are fierce, mouth is tight.
I’ve seen Aria in courtrooms and back alleys, in leather and lace. But this version, steady in crisis, gentle with survivors, is the one that roots me to the world when it starts spinning.
City rides next to me, jaw tight, pulling my attention away from Aria. “Someone’s selling our routes. They knew too much. I traced a call from the warehouse. You’re not gonna like where it came from.”
“Who?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Let’s get home first, but this is the proof you need.”
Dad pulls into the front lot of the clubhouse. Engines cut. Helmets off. Everyone looks to him, but his eyes find me.
He motions to the side of the Clubhouse, away from prying eyes, and lights up a cigar by the old, rusted bike that’s been here longer than I’ve been alive.
“You let me lead that,” I say, voice low.
“I didn’t let you,” he says. “I watched you.”
We stand in silence for a while. “You’re not a kid anymore,” he adds. “But you’re not me yet either.”
“I don’t want to be you,” I say. “I want to build something that lasts.”
Dad studies me, then taps his ash into the gravel. “You remind me of Steel Saint,” he finally says. “Had that same quiet fury. That same spine. The difference is, you’re not just fire. You’re sharp, too.”
I nod, throat tight.
“And them boys?” He jerks his chin toward the clubhouse. “They’ll follow you. One by one.”
I don’t say anything. I just watch the sky stretch wide over Michigan’s broken skyline, and know the war’s only just begun. But I’m not alone. Not anymore.
Later that night, I sit in the chapel, looking at the old patches nailed to the wall. Dad comes up behind me and claps my shoulder once. His hand is heavy with history.
“Steel.”
I don’t answer. Just stand there and let the name settle in my chest, like it’s always been there waiting. The room holds its breath. Then, one by one, they echo it back.
Not loud. Not shouting. Just reverent, bone deep.
Steel.
And then nothing.
Just the hum of the overhead fan and the quiet creak of old wood, like the club itself just bore witness. But something shifted tonight.
They don’t look at me like a kid anymore.
They look at me like Steel.
Later, in the chapel, after the brothers echoed my name, Steel, and the silence settles, Aria finds me alone at the edge of the chapel wall.
She doesn’t say anything. Just reaches for my hand, links our fingers. Her skin is warm. Real. And it steadies me more than any patch or praise.
Her voice is soft. “You built something tonight.”
I nod. “Not done yet.”
She leans in, close enough that her lips brush my jaw. “Good. Because I’m not leaving.”
I turn to look at her, really look at her, long dark hair loose down her back, her sharp blue eyes filled with something that burns. Not pity. Not pride. Just us. The quiet truth of it.
“Come with me,” I murmur.
She follows without hesitation, past the chapel doors, through the dark hallway, and into my room. No words, no nerves. Just something simmering, years in the making.
Inside, I press the door shut behind her and lean back against it. My hands are still stained with oil, blood, and ink. She reaches for one and kisses my knuckles like they’re sacred.
“You carry so much,” she says, lifting her eyes to mine. “Let me take some of it tonight.”
My throat tightens. “I don’t want to break you.”
“You won’t.” She steps into me, palms flat against my chest. “I’ve already survived more than most men ever could. But I’m not surviving with you. I’m choosing.”
Her kiss is soft at first. Searching. And then it deepens, catching fire between us like it always threatened to. I lift her by the waist, and she wraps her legs around me like she belongs there, like she always has.
Clothes fall away between touches, between gasps of breath, between all the unsaid things we’ve buried under years of friendship, longing, fear. Her skin is warm and soft and real, and when I lay her down, it's like laying down my guard, too.
She moans my name, quiet and reverent, like a vow. And when I slide into her, the world finally stills.
We move slowly, like we’ve got time. Like we’re writing something new on each other’s skin.
Once we catch our breath, she lies against me, fingers trailing the line of the Saint tattoo on my chest, she whispers, “Whatever comes next... I’m all in.”
I kiss the top of her head. “You’ve always been.”
And in the dark, with her body molded to mine and the weight of the gavel still lingering in my mind, I finally let myself believe that I don’t have to carry it all alone.
Not anymore.