Chapter 5
CHAPTER
FIVE
Booker
A live video feed presents a massive security liability for both of us, serving as a flashing beacon on a network we know Jerome actively has his people scrub.
Because of the emotional fallout from our last conversation and her abrupt exit, I had anticipated a standard text, a digital breadcrumb, or perhaps a raspy audio warning.
Instead, when I finally click through, my breath catches in my throat as the feed connects in total silence, but rather than her bruised face filling the screen, the camera angle is skewed, peering out from a partially obscured slot near the base of her terminal desk.
It is a hidden viewpoint directed straight into the dim, claustrophobic expanse of her workspace.
My analytical mind immediately starts racing to calculate the imminent danger she has put herself in just to open this window.
That confusion settles heavily in my chest as an intense weight of anticipation, right up until the low, gravelly timbre of a voice I have learned to despise cuts through the ambient hum of my server room.
That is, until I hear the conversation unfolding between Jerome and the head of the syndicate.
The audio comes through perfectly. She must've installed custom drivers on her station.
I catch every stutter in Jerome's voice.
His usual swagger vanishes, leaving only raw tension behind.
I even hear him pacing against the concrete.
His steps sound frantic. My knuckles turn white as I grip the desk and listen to him argue.
“I’m working on it!” Jerome snaps, his voice tight.
On the other end of the line, the syndicate leader’s voice cuts in—a smooth, detached cold front.
“We don't need promises, Jerome. We need the breakdown. Everything that woman gave the authorities. We need every name, every date, every location she might have compromised. Our operations are stalled, and we’re holding you responsible for the betrayal. This is your mess to fix, not ours.”
“Nobody has betrayed you, Lester. We all know what would happen to us and our family if we did,” Jerome’s voice crackles through the speaker, the usual oily confidence replaced by a frenzied edge.
“Do we, Jerome?” Lester’s voice is like a shard of ice, smooth and dangerous.
“Because from where I’m sitting, your little technical experts have been exceptionally busy.
The authorities are knocking on doors we spent a decade keeping locked.
My shipments are being seized at the border, and three of my best associates are currently being fitted for orange jumpsuits.
This isn’t a leak, it’s a flood, and the source is sitting right in your backyard.
Loyalty is a fairy tale you tell yourself to sleep at night, Jerome.
But let’s play your game. If they’re loyal, then why is the trail leading straight back to your servers?
My people track the IP signatures. They don’t lie. ”
Jerome’s breath hitches. “It’s a frame job. Somebody is spoofing my access codes. I am telling you, Kendall and Branson are locked down. I hold her son and his entire family.”
“Then keep a tighter leash,” Lester snaps. “Because if I lose another shipment, I’m not coming for them. I’m coming for you. And trust me, you don’t want to be the reason my pockets get light.”
I watch the waveform on my monitor spike as Jerome slams his fist down again. The sound vibrates through my headset, a dull thud that echoes the rhythm of my own heart.
“I’ll find the leak,” Jerome spits out, his voice cracking. “I’ll tear the system apart until I find the ghost in the machine.”
“You have until sunrise,” Lester says. “Fix this, or you’re the next one we write off.”
The line goes dead, leaving a hollow static that burns in my ears.
I lean back, my chair groaning under the shift in weight.
He’s running scared, and for the first time, I see the cracks in his armor.
He isn’t the untouchable god he wants everyone to believe he is.
He’s a man drowning, and he’s clawing at anything nearby to keep his head above water.
My fingers hover over the keyboard. I’ve got him on the hook, but now I have to decide how hard to yank.
While I contemplate my next move, I listen as Jerome gives Vixen, whom I now know is Kendall thanks to the conversation between the two monsters, her next directive. I’m not sure if she’s aware she tied me into her system and not just the single window or not, but I’m taking advantage of it.
Through the hidden lens, I watch Jerome hover over her, barking orders.
He wants a live link into the courthouse for the hearing.
He’s obsessed with getting eyes in that room.
Kendall doesn't blink. She rattles off some excuse about courtroom security and restricted access. She tells him any digital intrusion would set off sirens and bring the marshals down on them. The guy is a total moron. He thinks because he hurt her yesterday, he’s got her under his thumb.
He stands there smug and satisfied, totally convinced he’s shattered her will.
It makes my gut churn. Once he finally storms out, the deadbolt snaps shut behind him.
Kendall doesn't hesitate. She’s back at the console in a flash, signaling Branson.
They get to work immediately, splicing together old audio clips to build a fake courtroom stream.
It’s a desperate, messy con job, but they’re layering it with enough intel to fool a dipshit like Jerome.
With each word she speaks and types, the wall I’ve built around my trust begins to crumble.
I was determined to keep her at arm’s length, but the brutal evidence of Jerome’s rage on her face makes it impossible to see her as an adversary.
She isn't just surviving—she is actively fighting back, risking her life and her son’s safety to give us an edge.
My typical analytical detachment has vanished, replaced by a fierce, protective urgency that overrides all caution.
Witnessing her resilience, especially as she and Branson weave an intricate digital trap right under the asshole’s nose, has transformed her from a potential liability into a priority.
If I step back now, I would leave her exposed to a man who won't hesitate to finish what he started.
The mission has shifted—instead of just safeguarding the compound, we are tearing Jerome's empire down to the bedrock to pull Kendall and her boy out of the wreckage before the system crashes.
Branson uses their online connection to reveal the location of the hostages—the exact family members being used to coerce compliance from both of them, which is the only reason I am aware of the crisis he faces.
Continuing to stream directly through her network and turning her own eyes and ears against her is something I should probably feel guilty about.
But the deeper my insights, the more effectively I can protect my club, Kendall and her son, along with Branson and his relatives.
It’s a win-lose situation I’m in, but it’s better to ask for forgiveness than permission during times such as this.
I need to reach out to Riptide immediately to brief him on this morning's discoveries.
He, Indiana, and Icer are about to head out with their old ladies to attend Pokey's farewell service, so time is short.
To ensure I don't miss any details of their ongoing planning, I've set my program to record the stream so I can review it thoroughly at a later time.
I step out into the hallway and hear the door click shut as the bolt engages, protecting our digital command center from outside intruders.
Locking my office door before leaving is a habit.
It is not that I suspect my brothers of tampering with my equipment, but rather because the information stored here is incredibly sensitive and private.
Our entire established architecture could be compromised by a single unauthorized keystroke from an oblivious brother, especially since the decryption protocols on my console are tied directly to this local terminal while Kendall and Branson actively manipulate the network from within.
Jogging through the main room and out to the front of the clubhouse, I see the guys packing the SUV for the women. “Rip,” I shout, rushing to him. “Need to tell you about a conversation I was privy to thanks to Vixen.”
Rip stops, his hand resting on the back of the SUV.
He doesn't look annoyed, just focused. Indiana drops a heavy gear bag into the trunk with a thud and turns to face me.
Icer leans his shoulder against the quarter panel, his arms crossed over his chest, his icy blue eyes, that are eerie as fuck at times, already reading the tension in my face.
“Make it quick, Book,” Rip says, his voice low and steady. “We're burning daylight.”
I don't waste time. “I had a live feed of Jerome talking to a guy named Lester. The syndicate head. Jerome is shaking, Rip. He's genuinely terrified.”
Indiana narrows his eyes. “Terrified of what? He's supposed to be king of that little sandbox.”
“Not anymore,” I say, my pulse speeding up just remembering the fear in Jerome's voice.
“Lester is squeezing him. Jerome's operations are collapsing, and shipments are being seized.
Lester told him he has until sunrise to find the leak or he's dead. Jerome is desperate enough to burn everything down to save his own skin.”
Icer shifts, his stance tightening. “If he's running scared, he's going to make mistakes. Big ones.”
“Exactly,” I agree, looking from Icer to Rip. “He's hunting for a ghost, and he's ready to tear his own house apart to find it. He thinks there's a traitor in his inner circle, but he has no idea how deep it goes.”
Rip nods, a decisive motion. He stares at the horizon for a second, calculating the threat. “So the clock is ticking on him. If he’s got until sunrise, he’s going to move hard and fast tonight.”
“He's already doing it,” I add. “He's obsessing over the courthouse, and he's demanding surveillance everywhere. He's spreading his resources thin.”
Indiana scoffs, a dark grin ghosting across his face. “Let him scramble. If he's focused on the courthouse, he's taking his eyes off us. That's the opening we need.”
“He's not just looking at the courthouse,” I warn them. “He's paranoid. He's ready to kill anyone he suspects. Vixen is in the line of fire.”
Icer steps away from the SUV, his eyes cold and hard. “We don't leave people behind, Book. Not if they're on our side. What's the plan?”
Rip looks at me, waiting. “You're the tech guy. You've got the pulse on this. What does he do next?”
I mull that over and decide. “He’s still going to let the raid on the clubhouse take place, that’s a foregone conclusion. But if he thinks Patrick’s mom is a threat, and with Patrick being a guest of ours, he’s gonna go one of two ways.”
Rip leans forward, his expression grave. “Give it to me straight. What are the plays?”
I trace a line in the dust on the SUVs trunk lid.
“First, he goes for a scorched earth approach. He realizes the councilwoman is the real leverage and he tries to take her out of play entirely. That means a hit squad at the courthouse. Option two, he creates a situation where we have to show our hand.”
Icer spits on the ground. “He thinks he is playing chess with us. He forgets we are the ones who flip the board.”
Indiana cracks his knuckles. “If he wants a fight, we give him one. But I agree with Book. We can’t let him corner the councilwoman. If she goes down, we lose our biggest leverage against the town administration.”
Rip shakes his head, his face a mask of cold finality.
“Patrick, Jerome, the syndicate, they can all tear each other apart for all I care. I don’t give a damn about the councilwoman or the mess Jerome is stirring up with her.
Burying our brother in West Texas is our only priority today, and we are hitting the road now to leave this town in the rearview.
Whatever happens while we’re gone is entirely up to you, Book.
Slayer is staying behind, so use him and y’all come up with an alternative game plan. We’re out.”
I realized Pokey’s passing had deeply affected Rip, but the extent of his grief only becomes clear when he practically dismisses me, acting like this is an inconvenience instead of something that could come back and bite us in the ass if we’re not careful.
Turning away after nodding my goodbyes, I formulate a fresh strategy—track down Slayer, brief him on the situation, and collaborate on a distraction for Jerome.
We need a plan to keep him occupied so he doesn't investigate his inner circle and discover their betrayal.
I’ve come up with what should be the ideal diversion, though executing it will require Slayer’s assistance.
Delivering a severed piece of Patrick straight to his doorstep ought to achieve the desired outcome.
Given that they gouged out one of Sphinx’s eyes when his cover was blown and turned him against the brotherhood with threats against his sister, retaliation feels entirely justified.