Chapter 3
Church started at nine sharp, because Patriot didn't believe in wasting daylight.
The chapel occupied what used to be the brewmaster's office—heavy oak doors, no windows, walls thick enough to stop a bullet or a wire. The table in the center had been salvaged from a colonial-era courthouse, scarred and stained and solid as the brotherhood that gathered around it.
Six chairs filled. Coffee steaming. Cigarette smoke curling toward the ceiling fan that hadn't worked since Clinton was president.
Patriot sat at the head, Gunner on his right, Gallows on his left. Turnpike, Pounder, and Bayonet filled the remaining seats, leather cuts creaking as they settled in. No prospects allowed in church. No old ladies. No bullshit.
"Let's get through this," Patriot said. "I've got places to be."
Gunner snorted. "Hot date?"
"Territory check." Patriot didn't smile. "After what you told me last night, I want eyes on things personally."
The table went quiet. When the president said he was doing a personal sweep, it meant something had his attention. And when something had Patriot's attention, it usually ended bloody.
"Alright." Turnpike pulled a folded map from inside his cut—hand-marked, covered in notation that only made sense to him. "I've been tracking movement for the past two weeks. Victor Yellen's collectors are pushing past their usual boundaries."
He spread the map on the table, finger tracing lines that meant nothing to anyone but him.
"Here, here, and here. Three blocks deeper than they've operated in the eight years I've been watching.
Hardware store on Passyunk—owner's a guy named Grieco, been there forty years.
Bodega on Eighth—Korean family, the Kims, they've paid into neighborhood association but never needed protection until now.
And this one." His finger stopped on a corner lot.
"Bar called Malone's. Been there since the eighties. "
Something tightened in Patriot's chest at the name. He kept his face blank.
"What's Victor want with a bar?"
"Location, probably. Corner lot, good foot traffic, cash business.
Perfect front for laundering if you've got the right setup.
" Turnpike shrugged. "Or maybe he just wants to squeeze until they sell.
Man's got a pattern—target struggling businesses, manufacture debt, take ownership. Been doing it for twenty years."
"Piece of shit," Pounder muttered, cheerful as always. "Want me to blow something of his up? I've got some new compounds I've been meaning to test."
"Not yet." Patriot's voice carried the weight of a man who'd learned patience the hard way. "We don't move on Victor without knowing what we're moving on. He's survived this long because he's connected and careful. I'm not giving him a reason to scream to whoever's protecting him."
"So we just let him squeeze our territory?" Gunner's jaw was tight. "Those are our blocks, brother. People we're supposed to be protecting."
"Nobody's letting anything happen." Patriot met his VP's eyes until Gunner looked away.
"I'm saying we do this right. Gunner—I want you and Bayonet shadowing his collectors.
Every stop they make, every business they hit, every dollar they collect.
I want names, dates, amounts. Map his entire operation. "
Gunner's frustration shifted to something harder. Purpose. "Consider it done."
Bayonet nodded once, silent as always. His hand rested on the knife strapped to his thigh, thumb stroking the hilt like a lover's cheek.
"And when we've got the map?" Gallows asked. First words he'd spoken all meeting, voice like gravel in a blender.
"Then we decide how much of Victor Yellen needs to stop existing."
The table absorbed that. No objections. No questions. When Patriot talked about making problems disappear, the brotherhood trusted he knew what he was doing.
"What about the businesses already getting squeezed?" Turnpike asked. "Grieco looked scared when I drove past yesterday. Like a man counting down to something bad."
Patriot pushed back from the table. "That's where I'm headed now. Personal visits. Let them know they're not alone, feel out what Victor's already done." He paused, something shifting behind his eyes. "Starting with Malone's."
Gunner raised an eyebrow. "Any particular reason?"
Mikey, grinning across a scarred wooden table. Last good memory before everything went to shit.
"Used to drink there," Patriot said. "Long time ago. Want to see if it's still standing."
"Need backup?" Pounder was already half out of his chair, eager as a retriever scenting a hunt.
"For a bar visit?" Patriot almost smiled. "Think I can handle it. Stay close to your phones. If Victor's pushing this hard, he might be stupid enough to push back when we show interest."
"And if he does?" Gunner asked.
Patriot pulled on his leather gloves, flexing his fingers until the material creaked. "Then we stop being subtle."
The meeting broke with the scrape of chairs and the rumble of brothers ready to ride.
Patriot moved through the clubhouse toward the garage, nodding at the prospect working the bar, ignoring the old lady sweeping near the fireplace.
His mind was already three miles south, already walking through a door he hadn't opened in years.
Malone's Tap House.
He remembered the whiskey—cheap but honest. Remembered the owner, Patrick something, a big Irishman with a quick laugh and heavy hands who'd broken up fights without calling cops.
Remembered Mikey saying it was the only bar in South Philly where the regulars didn't look at you sideways for being young and broke and stupid.
That was before. Before the overdose. Before Patriot buried his brother and swore no more predators would chew up his neighborhood while he watched from a distance.
If Victor Yellen was squeezing Malone's, that meant Victor Yellen had made a mistake. The Sons of Liberty existed for exactly this moment—protecting people who couldn't protect themselves, drawing lines that predators couldn't cross.
No kings. No masters. Liberty or death.
And death for anyone who thought South Philly was theirs to bleed.
Patriot fired up his Harley and rolled out of the compound, chrome catching morning sun as he pointed the bike toward the blocks where his brother used to smile. Behind him, his brothers were gearing up, ready to shadow and map and wait for the word.
But first, he had a bar to visit.
And a debt to Mikey he'd never be able to repay.