Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
Monk
The church room was chaos with a pulse, a powder keg finally blown open.
Brothers shouted over each other, their voices crashing together in a wall of anger, fear, and old resentment finally clawing its way to the surface.
Fists hammered the heavy oak table. Chairs scraped as men stood, sat, and stood again, too worked up to stay still.
The air was thick with cigarette smoke, sweat, and the sour stink of too many bodies packed into too little space.
Kansas sat at the head of the table, and for once, his presence wasn’t enough to hold the room together.
His face was gray with exhaustion, his eyes bloodshot, the skin around them raw and tight.
Deep lines bracketed his mouth. He looked like the last few hours had taken a decade off him and then come back for more.
“—can’t just pretend this didn’t happen—” someone bellowed from the left side of the table.
“—Montana had no fucking right—” another voice cut in, sharp and bitter.
“—we’re sitting ducks without Federation protection—” a third brother shouted, his words trailing off into nervous muttering.
“Enough!” Kansas’ voice cut through the noise like a gunshot, sharp and commanding. The single word reverberated off the walls of the cramped space. “Sit the fuck down and shut up.”
The room fell silent instantly, as if someone had flipped a switch.
The tension hung thick in the air, almost suffocating.
Slowly, reluctantly, like dogs being called to heel, the brothers took their seats.
Chairs scraped against the floor. Someone muttered something under their breath but thought better of continuing.
I slid into my usual spot at the table, the worn leather creaking under my weight, and took inventory.
Trigger sat to my left, jaw locked so tight it looked painful, still vibrating with the kind of rage that made a man stupid.
Across from me, Blackjack gave away nothing, same as always, his dark eyes shuttered and watchful.
Whisper and Widow held the far end like sentries at a grave.
Angel, Ashe, Judd, Fifty, Bongo, Lips—every patched man was there.
Full church. Which meant whatever came next was going to leave a mark.
Kansas leaned forward, his palms flat on the scarred wood, fingers spread wide like he was holding himself in place by force.
The overhead light carved hard shadows across his face.
“We all know why we’re here. Let’s not insult each other by pretending otherwise.
” He let his gaze drag across the room. “Pence is dead. Montana, Reaper, Sandman, and Malice are gone. The Diamondbacks are no longer under Federation protection. That leaves us exposed.”
“Because you kicked them out,” Trigger said, his voice hard and accusatory. He didn’t bother hiding the anger simmering beneath the surface. “You told Montana to fuck off. You severed the tie yourself, Kansas. This is on you, Prez.”
Kansas’ jaw tightened, a muscle twitching just below his left ear.
His knuckles went white where they pressed against the table.
“I told Montana we don’t answer to him,” he said slowly, enunciating each word with deliberate precision.
“That we make our own rules. That we’re not his fucking lapdogs. And I stand by that decision.”
“Even if it gets us all killed?” Blackjack asked quietly. His voice barely rose above a murmur, but it cut through the room clean as a blade.
Kansas didn’t answer right away. He stared at nothing, jaw working like he was chewing on words too bitter to swallow.
When he finally spoke, his voice came out low and rough, like gravel dragged across concrete.
“Pence was my best friend. My brother. We came up together, bled together, built this whole goddamn thing together after the massacre. And yeah, he fucked up. Bad. I know that. But Montana didn’t give me a choice.
Didn’t give me a second to think, to figure out how to make it right.
He came in here like an executioner, put a gun to Pence’s head, and pulled the trigger before I could handle it my way. ”
“Your way?” Trigger’s laugh was sharp, bitter. “What the fuck was your way, Prez? Let him walk? Let him keep breathing after what he did to that girl? After he violated everything we stand for?”
“I don’t know!” Kansas slammed his fist on the table, the sound echoing through the room like a gunshot, rattling the empty beer bottles and making Trigger flinch.
“I don’t fucking know, okay? But it should’ve been my call.
Not Montana’s. Not the Federation’s. Mine.
This is Diamondback Country. My club. My fucking family. We do shit our way!”
Silence.
I watched Kansas and saw grief, guilt, and rage tearing at each other behind his eyes.
He was drowning in front of all of us and still trying to look like a man in command.
The weight of Pence’s death was grinding him down, and we all knew it.
But there was no time to mourn. The club was bleeding out, and if we didn’t cinch the wound now, we’d all go down with it.
“We’re vulnerable,” Whisper said, calm and measured in a way that made the words land harder.
“Without Federation backup, we’re exposed.
If the Cartel comes at us, or any other club that’s been waiting for an opening, we’re fucked.
” He paused and let that rot in the room.
“The second this gets out, they’ll smell blood.
They’ll know Pence is gone. They’ll know we’re fractured. And they’ll test us.”
“Then we fortify,” Widow said, slamming his palm down on the table. “Double the security. Arm up. Put prospects on rotation around the clock. Make it clear we’re not an easy target.”
“That’s not enough,” Trigger snapped, shaking his head. “We need allies. We need backup. We need someone who can reach out to the other charters, smooth things over with the Federation. We need—”
“We need a VP,” Blackjack interrupted, his voice cutting through the argument like a gunshot.
The room went dead still.
Kansas’ face went blank, all the emotion draining out of it. “What?”
“Pence is dead,” Blackjack said, his tone matter-of-fact, almost cold. “The VP seat is empty. We need to fill it. That’s how this works.”
Kansas’ eyes flashed with something dangerous. “Jesus Christ, Jack, the man’s not even cold yet.”
“And we’re sitting here with our dicks in our hands, waiting for someone to come finish us off,” Blackjack shot back, leaning forward. “We need leadership. We need structure. We need a fucking VP, Kansas. You know I’m right.”
Shadow leaned forward, nodding slowly. “He’s right. You can’t afford to wait. Every day that seat stays empty, you look weaker. You need someone in that seat now. Today.”
Kansas’ hands curled into fists on the tabletop.
His breathing was harsh, ragged, like every inhale scraped.
I could see him fighting himself—fighting the urge to tell us all to go to hell, to give Pence the dignity of time, to grieve before business swallowed the body.
But he was president. And the club always ate first.
“Fine,” he said finally, the word forced out through gritted teeth. “Nominations.”
“Monk.”
The word came from Whisper, as every head in the room turned toward me.
I didn’t move. Didn’t react. I kept my face blank and my body loose even though my pulse had already kicked into a harder rhythm. This was the moment I’d been dreading since Montana put a bullet through Pence’s head.
“Monk’s the sergeant at arms,” Whisper said, his gravelly voice steady as iron. “He’s level-headed. Strategic. Doesn’t let emotion steer the wheel. He’s been with this club through hell, raids, turf wars, and the massacre. He’s the logical choice.”
“Fuck that,” Trigger spat out immediately, his chair scraping against the floor as he leaned forward. “No offense, Monk, but you’re too quiet. Too in your own head. We need someone who’s gonna lead from the front, not sit back and calculate every goddamn move like it’s a chess game.”
“Like you?” Blackjack asked, his tone dry as desert sand.
Trigger’s eyes flashed dangerously, his jaw tightening. “Yeah. Like me. I’ve been with this club long enough. I’ve bled for it. I’ve killed for it. And I’m not afraid to make the hard calls when shit gets real.”
“You’re also a hothead,” Widow said, arms crossed over his chest. “You’d get us all killed in a week. Maybe less.”
“Fuck you, Widow.”
“Enough!” Kansas’ voice cracked across the room like a whip.
He stood at the head of the table, both hands planted flat on the scarred wood.
“This isn’t a goddamn popularity contest. We’re not voting on who has the biggest dick or who can yell the loudest. We’re choosing a VP—someone who can lead when I’m not around.
Someone the brothers trust with their lives. ”
“Then it’s Monk,” Angel said quietly from the corner.. “I trust Monk with my life. Always have.”
“I trust Trigger,” Ashe countered immediately, his voice louder, more insistent. “He’s got fire. He’s got guts. That’s what this club needs right now.”
The room erupted again, voices overlapping in a cacophony of arguments and accusations, brothers taking sides, the tension ratcheting higher and higher with each passing second. Fists pounded the table. Insults flew. Old grudges surfaced.
I sat there, silent, my mind racing at a hundred miles an hour.
And if the Marshals found out I’d risen to VP of an outlaw MC while still in WITSEC, they’d yank me out so fast my head would snap.
They’d strip me from everything I’d built here.
But if I didn’t take it and Trigger did, we’d be trading one kind of disaster for another.
Trigger was reckless—pure instinct, pure adrenaline, no brakes.
He’d steer the club straight into a war we weren’t built to survive.
“What about Vivi?”
The question came from Lips, and the room went quiet again.
Kansas’ face darkened. “What about her?”