6. HAWK
HAWK
The main meeting room sits at the back of The Den, behind a thick steel door that keeps the outside world at bay.
Inside, the space is all dark wood, dim lighting, and the scents of old leather and whiskey.
The long, heavy table at the center has been here longer than most of us—thick, scarred, carved with initials and cigarette burns from a hundred late-night meetings.
The walls are lined with framed photos of past and present members, patches displayed like trophies, and shelves stacked with paperwork, ledgers, and shit no one wants to touch unless absolutely necessary.
A large whiteboard sits to the side, covered in scribbled notes, upcoming shipments, club business, and a map of California pinned with various red markers.
I lean back in my chair, boots kicked up onto the table, watching the rest of the guys settle in.
To my left, Ryder sits with his arms crossed, scowling like the room itself just pissed him off. To my right, CJ, our president, leans forward, forearms braced on the table, his expression locked in that tight, unreadable look that usually means he’s about to rip someone a new one.
Around the table, the other officers settle in—Mack (who runs our Long Beach bar), Deeks (handles Sacramento), Tito (oversees Fresno), and Warren (deals with the Oakland chapter). Each of them older, seasoned, men who’ve seen more shit than they care to admit.
The room is tense. And it’s not just because of the usual business bullshit.
CJ exhales hard, dragging a hand down his face. “Alright. Let’s get to it. Who wants to start?”
Mack, the oldest of the group—late fifties, grizzled as hell—leans forward, his silver beard catching in the low light. “We’ve had three back-to-back raids in the past month. Long Beach got hit last Wednesday. Nothing major, but enough to cause problems.”
CJ nods, eyes flicking to Deeks.
“Same shit up in Sacramento,” Deeks grumbles. “Cops came in like they had a damn search warrant from God, tore through everything, and left without finding a damn thing.”
CJ’s jaw clenches. “And Oakland?”
Warren exhales through his nose. “Had a visit last night. Health inspectors this time.”
A low murmur passes through the room. That’s new.
Ryder grunts, rubbing a hand over his buzzed head. “They’re coming at us from different angles now.”
“Means someone’s pulling strings.” My voice is calm, but inside, my blood boils. This isn’t just bad luck.
CJ nods slowly, his fingers tapping against the table. “Yeah.” His gaze darkens. “And we all know who the fuck that someone is.”
No one has to say it. Right there, on the big-screen TV mounted above the bar, Jake goddamn Hollingbow’s smug face stares down at us like he owns the whole damn world. The news ticker scrolls beneath him, bold and damning:
Tech Billionaire to Aspiring Senator: Hollingbow’s Crime and Drug Initiative.
My teeth grind. The bar quiets slightly, heads turning toward the screen as the mute broadcast rolls on.
Jake’s standing at some fancy-ass podium, probably in some overpriced hotel, shaking hands with exactly the kind of corrupt assholes who play his games.
Behind him, big red banners scream out his latest bullshit slogan about “cleaning up crime in California.”
“What a fucking joke,” I mutter.
Mack scoffs, crossing his arms as he stares at the screen. “Think he’s talking about us?”
Deeks snorts. “Please. The bastard’s been trying to paint us as the villain for years. Now he’s just doing it with a smile for the cameras.”
CJ’s watching, his jaw taut, his fingers tapping against the table in a slow, measured rhythm.
Ryder grunts, shaking his head. “This is what we’re up against.”
I watch as Jake gestures dramatically, his mouth moving, a perfectly rehearsed speech rolling out of his lying mouth. The subtitles flash along the bottom of the screen:
“For too long, crime has run unchecked in this state. Gangs, drug runners, violent criminals—they’ve been given free rein. And I say, no more.”
The camera pans to the audience, all clean-cut, rich assholes eating it up.
“With my Crime and Drug Initiative, we will cut down on illegal operations, shut down known criminal establishments, and hold these so-called organizations accountable for their misdeeds.”
I almost throw my beer bottle at the screen. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I growl.
Tito lets out a humorless chuckle, shaking his head. “That son of a bitch is standing up there, acting like we’re the problem.”
I scowl. “Meanwhile, he’s the dirtiest fucker in the room.”
CJ hasn’t said a word. He’s still watching, eyes locked on Jake, a slow, deadly calculation in his expression.
Ryder leans back against the bar, arms crossed. “So what’s the play, Prez? You still thinking we hold off?”
CJ exhales, rubbing a hand down his face.
“For now. But this?” He nods toward the screen.
“This isn’t just about taking us down. He’s building something.
The more he puts us in the spotlight, the easier it’ll be for him to make a move.
We need to be ready. He’s trying to make us bleed.
Squeeze us out. Shut us down before we figure out whatever the fuck his endgame is. ”
“We should hit back,” Mack mutters. “Send a message.”
CJ shakes his head. “Not yet.”
I arch a brow. “We waiting on a goddamn invitation?”
CJ’s gaze flicks to me, sharp as a blade. “No. We’re waiting until we have more than just suspicions. I’m not giving that asshole an actual reason to shut us down.”
Ryder nods. “We keep our shit clean. Keep the heat off until we figure out our next move.”
I grunt, pushing a hand through my hair. I get it. CJ’s careful. It’s what makes him a good president. But me? I’m itching to do something.
I hate playing defense.
CJ exhales, then looks around the table. “Any more hits, I want to know about them immediately. Keep eyes on your bars. Keep your people in check.” He pauses, then adds, voice low, “We don’t let Hollingbow win.”
A slow murmur of agreement rolls through the room.
My fingers tap on the table, my mind elsewhere. I should be thinking about the raids, about strategy, about how we handle this without letting the 12 Devils take a hit.
But my thoughts? They keep drifting back to a certain blonde with kind eyes and a mouth that made me want to ruin her.
It still doesn’t sit right—how someone like her is connected to someone like him.
I don’t keep up with the news as much as I should, but after CJ practically spat her name out like it burned his tongue, I did some digging.
A quick search pulled up more than I expected—articles, interviews, event appearances, photos of her standing next to her father at charity galas.
Always poised, always polished. The perfect political daughter.
She looked untouchable. And yet… she wasn’t.
Because the girl I met wasn’t some uptight, trust-fund brat.
She was something else entirely.
And for some reason, despite knowing exactly who she is, despite knowing she’s someone I should stay the fuck away from…
I can’t seem to forget about her.
The way she felt against me in that room. The way she tasted when I had my mouth on her.
The way she looked at me when I told her she wasn’t just a good girl.
I drag a hand through my hair, trying to push those thoughts back, but it’s no use.
Because I already made a decision. I’m meeting her later.
And I have no goddamn clue how CJ’s gonna take it when he finds out.
Because he will.
And I doubt he’s gonna be real thrilled about it.
A familiar twitch ripples through my left arm, a dull ache pulsing just under the skin. I rub at my shoulder absently, trying to knead out the tension, but I already know it won’t do shit. The pain isn’t real—not anymore. It’s just phantom memory, a reminder of something long buried.
But with Jake’s smug fucking face still flashing across the TV, I don’t have to dig far to find it.
Cold air. Russian soil. The weight of my rifle digging into my shoulder as I lined up my shot.
“Move fast. Get in, get out. No casualties unless necessary.”
It should’ve been clean. It was supposed to be clean.
But nothing ever goes according to plan.
“Hawk, take the left flank. Cover CJ and Ryder when they breach.”
I remember the tension in my muscles, my finger steady on the trigger as I kept my sights locked on the shadows moving in the distance.
Then the crack of a sniper round split the night.
And I remember?—
The force slamming into my shoulder.
The sharp, blinding pain.
The way I gritted my teeth, kept my position, still laid down fire, still did my goddamn job while blood soaked through my gear. Because that’s what we did. We pushed through. We survived.
Not all of us, though.
My fingers dig harder into my shoulder as I shove the memories back down.
“Alright,” CJ says, rubbing the back of his neck, exhaustion creeping into his tone. “Let’s talk holidays.”
I straighten in my chair, my focus shifting. This is my lane.
Every year, the 12 Devils MC throws a Thanksgiving and Christmas party.
Not just for the club but for the families, women, kids, and anyone else who calls this place home.
It’s one of the rare times we all come together without business or bullshit getting in the way.
Just food, drinks, and a reason to breathe.
“Same plan as last year?” I ask, already running logistics in my head.
CJ nods. “Mostly. Bigger venue if we can get one. I want it secure. With the way shit’s been heating up, I don’t need some cop raid ruining a night with our families.”
I grunt in agreement. “I’ll handle it.”
CJ stands. “I think we’ve covered everything for today. Meeting adjourned.”
Chairs scrape against the floor as the guys get up, muttering to each other, already making calls and planning next steps.
I get up, too, but before I can make it to the door, CJ’s voice stops me.
“Hawk. Ryder.”
I turn to see CJ still seated, arms crossed, jaw tight.
I already know what this is about. I exchange a glance with Ryder before walking back to the table.