Chapter 3
Roughcut stood at the back of chapel like a prospect should—spine straight, mouth shut, hands folded in front of him.
The converted mine manager's office felt like a vault.
Reinforced walls, heavy door, a table scarred by decades of fists and bottles and decisions that ended lives.
The Savage leadership sat around it like men who'd carved their authority out of frozen ground: Permafrost at the head with his granite face and cold blue eyes, Tundra to his right with the predator stillness of a man who'd learned to kill in mountain warfare, Ice and Ironside flanking, Whiteout silent in the corner with his thousand-yard stare.
These were the men who'd survived when the mines closed. Who'd built something from the wreckage of abandoned towns and broken families.
Roughcut had spent two years trying to prove he belonged among them.
"Tell it again," Permafrost said. His voice was quiet. It didn't need to be loud. "From the beginning."
Roughcut kept his report clean. Kovich walking in with two enforcers. The threat delivered publicly. The mic stand grabbed like punctuation. His own intervention and Kovich's tactical retreat.
"He backed off when he saw the cut," Roughcut finished. "Made his threat and left. But he meant it. She's done on the Range unless she crawls back to Wennberg."
Silence settled over the table.
Tundra leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over a chest that had stopped shrapnel in Afghanistan. "Wennberg's been running his racket for what—ten years?"
"Longer," Ice said. His ice-road trucker's squint was fixed on the middle distance, calculating. "Started small. Booking fees, protection money from bar owners. Built it up slow enough that nobody noticed until he owned every stage north of Duluth."
"We noticed," Ironside rumbled. The Swedish miner's accent thickened when he was annoyed. "We just didn't care. Civilian business."
"It was civilian business," Permafrost said. His gaze hadn't left Roughcut. "Until Kovich walked into Maren's bar."
The temperature in the room dropped.
Roughcut understood. Every man at that table understood.
Maren Halvorsen wasn't just a bar owner—she was Permafrost's claimed woman.
The Timber Wolf wasn't just a friendly establishment—it was Savage territory by extension.
Kovich hadn't just threatened a musician.
He'd planted his boots on ground that belonged to the president of the North Star Savages and acted like he owned it.
That kind of insult didn't go unanswered.
"What do we know about his operation?" Permafrost asked.
Ice pulled a worn notebook from his cut. "Five venues. Three he owns outright, two pay into his network for booking access. Rotating crew of bouncers who double as enforcers—maybe fifteen, twenty guys total. Most of them are bar-fight tough, not professional."
"Most," Whiteout said from his corner. First word he'd spoken. "Not all."
"Kovich is the exception," Roughcut said. "Head of security. Handles the physical enforcement personally. The two with him last night were muscle, but Kovich is the real threat."
"Who else?" Tundra asked.
"Booking manager named Sandoval. Runs the schedules, coordinates the blacklisting.
He's the operational brain—knows every bar owner's debts, every musician's calendar.
" Roughcut had spent half the night going over what Elise had told him, mapping the network in his head.
"And there's a Duluth connection. Fencing operation that provides outside muscle when local intimidation isn't enough. "
Permafrost's expression didn't change, but something shifted behind his eyes. "Duluth muscle."
"The singer—Elise—she said Wennberg imports them when things get serious. Men who burn vans and break fingers." Roughcut kept his voice level. "She's seen it happen to other acts who tried to leave the network."
The table went quiet again.
Ironside's massive hands flexed on the table surface. "So we have a protection racket squeezing Range businesses, a blacklist controlling who works and who doesn't, and Duluth connections that can escalate when the local boys aren't enough."
"And a civilian nuisance that just became a territorial insult," Tundra added.
"The woman." Permafrost's voice cut through the side conversations. "The singer. What's her stake?"
Roughcut felt every eye in the room shift to him.
"Minneapolis showcase in six months," he said. "Real producer, real venue. Her shot at getting off the Range circuit permanently. Wennberg can't let her make it—if she walks, everyone else sees it's possible. His whole network starts questioning whether they need him."
"So she's leverage," Ice said.
"She's a target." The words came out harder than Roughcut intended. He forced himself to ease back, to remember his place. "Wennberg's not going to let this go. Kovich made that clear. She's either going to crawl back to him or he's going to make an example of her."
Permafrost studied him for a long moment.
Roughcut held the stare. Didn't flinch. Didn't look away.
He'd spent two years as a prospect, hauling equipment and running errands and proving he could be trusted with the small things.
Two years since a hillside in northern Minnesota had taught him what happened when heavy things moved without care—when a man in a hard hat disappeared under forty tons of overburden while Roughcut watched from a dozer cab, close enough to see, too far to stop it.
He'd come to the Savages because they were the only people who didn't tell him it wasn't his fault.
Now he was asking them to trust him with something that mattered.
"You want the detail," Permafrost said. It wasn't a question.
"I want to help."
"That's not what I asked."
Roughcut let out a breath. "Yes. I want the detail."
"Why?"
Because she sang like her voice could cut through walls.
Because she'd stood her ground when Kovich tried to intimidate her and hadn't backed down an inch.
Because she'd mapped Wennberg's entire operation from memory while sitting on an equipment case with shaking hands, turning her fear into something useful.
Because when she'd looked at him in that back room, she'd seen the sadness he carried and hadn't flinched from it.
"Because someone needs to," Roughcut said finally. "And I can."
Tundra snorted. "Prospect thinks he can handle a protection detail solo."
"Didn't say solo." Roughcut kept his eyes on Permafrost. "Said I can do it. Whatever backup the club decides to provide."
Another silence. Longer this time.
Permafrost looked at Tundra, then Ice, then Ironside. Some communication passed between them—the shorthand of men who'd been riding together for years, who knew each other's thoughts before they became words.
Then Permafrost nodded.
"The singer stays under Savage protection until this is resolved," he said. "Roughcut takes point on the detail. Keep her safe, keep her working if possible, and report back anything that moves."
"And Wennberg?" Ironside asked.
Permafrost's smile was cold enough to frost the windows.
"Wennberg walked into our territory and made threats.
We'll be having a conversation about that.
But first we need to know what we're dealing with.
" He turned back to Roughcut. "This is your prospect test. Keep her alive, keep her gigging, and prove you've got the judgment the patch requires. "
Roughcut felt the weight of those words settle onto his shoulders.
The patch. The thing he'd been working toward for two years. The proof that he could be trusted with heavy things again—that the man who'd watched a hillside bury someone could carry weight for his brothers without breaking under it.
"Understood," he said.
"Don't make me regret this." Permafrost's voice carried no threat. It didn't need to. "Dismissed."
Roughcut walked out of chapel with the morning light cutting through the compound windows and a woman's safety resting in his hands.
He'd spent two years learning to be gentle with everything he touched.
Now he had to figure out how to be dangerous again without losing the gentleness that kept him human.