Epilogue #5
"They thought you were easy." Still held her gaze, and something in his chest shifted at what he saw there—not defeat, but fury. Banked and burning. "They were wrong."
Maggie's chin came up. "Damn right they were."
Still pulled a card from his cut and slid it across the counter. Just a number, no name. "Anyone comes back, anyone even looks at you wrong, you call that number. Day or night. Doesn't matter."
She looked at the card, then at him. "Why?"
"Because nobody marks women on Ridgerunner territory." The words came out harder than he intended, something possessive underneath that he didn't bother to hide. "And because you make the best brisket in four counties."
Her mouth twitched, almost a smile. "Five counties."
"I said maybe five." He stood, tossing a twenty on the counter. "Lock your doors tonight. Don't go anywhere alone until you hear from me."
"Still—"
"I'll handle it."
He was out the door before she could argue, the screen banging shut behind him. The ride back to the compound was a blur of curves and blind corners, his mind running scenarios while his blood ran hot.
Someone was going to bleed for that burn.
Church convened at eight, the chapel room thick with leather and cigarette smoke and the particular tension that came before violence.
Still stood at the head of the table, officers arrayed around him in order of rank. Limestone to his right, solid as the bluffs. Cottonmouth to his left, cold eyes already calculating. Current, Proof, Tailwater, Spillway—every man who wore officer patches, waiting for their president to speak.
"We've got a problem," Still said. "And it's about to become everyone's problem."
He laid it out clean. The land scheme. The forged documents. The property owners along the 54 corridor being pressured to sell. And then he told them about Maggie Reeves—the barbecue joint, the two men, the cigarette burn on her arm.
Cottonmouth's expression didn't change, but his hand dropped to his knife. "They marked her."
"Like property." Still let that sit in the air. "On Ridgerunner territory. Three days ago."
"While we were handling Hendricks," Limestone said. His jaw was tight. "These the same people?"
"Different operation. Bigger. Someone's moving on the corridor, and they don't care who they hurt doing it.
" Still looked around the table, meeting each man's eyes.
"This isn't just about one woman and a barbecue joint.
If they're working the whole corridor, every business we protect is a target.
Every family that's been here for generations. "
Spillway leaned forward, forearms braced on the table. "You know who's behind it?"
"Not yet. But I'm going to find out." Still's hands were flat on the wood, steady as bedrock. "The question is whether the club backs me when I do."
Current shook his head. "That's not a question, brother. Someone burned a woman on our territory. That's an answer."
"It's going to get bloody," Still said. "These aren't tweakers or small-time hustlers. They've got money, muscle, and a system. Taking them down means bodies."
Cottonmouth smiled, and it wasn't friendly. "I've been bored."
"We don't know how deep this goes," Proof said, ever practical. "Could be a handful of guys. Could be a whole organization."
"Then we find out." Still straightened, feeling the weight of the patch on his back. "I'm calling for a vote. Full club resources on this. Protection for Maggie Reeves and any other property owner who needs it. And when we find the men who put that burn on her arm—" He let the sentence hang.
"We handle it the Ozark way," Limestone finished.
Still nodded. "All in favor."
Seven hands went up without hesitation.
"Unanimous." Still looked around the table at his brothers—men who'd ride through hell on his word, who'd kill and die for the patch they wore.
"Spillway, I need everything you can dig up on land deals along the corridor.
Proof, put together a kit—we're going to be moving fast when we find these bastards.
Current, map every property between here and the lake that might be a target. "
"What about the woman?" Cottonmouth asked.
Still's jaw tightened. "She's mine to protect."
Nobody questioned it. Nobody even blinked.
"Church is closed." Still slammed his palm on the table. "Let's get to work."
The brothers filed out, already moving with purpose. Limestone hung back, waiting until the room was empty.
"Yours to protect?" The VP's voice was mild, but his eyes were knowing. "That's an interesting choice of words."
"She's on Ridgerunner territory."
"So's the gas station on Route 7. You didn't call church over them."
Still didn't answer. Didn't have an answer—at least not one he was ready to say out loud.
Limestone clapped him on the shoulder. "Just don't let it make you stupid, brother. Whatever this is."
He walked out, leaving Still alone in the chapel with smoke curling toward the ceiling and the image of white gauze wrapped around a woman's arm burning behind his eyes.
Someone was going to pay for that.
Starting tomorrow.