Chapter 7
CHAPTER
SEVEN
Booker
I push my chair away from the desk and let out a sigh as I sever the connection with Vixen.
My plan to touch base with Slayer last night didn't pan out because he and Jersey had taken Boston and Carolina out of town to see her grandmother. Standing up, I pull together the files and presentation materials I spent all night painstakingly compiling to provide him with a visual summary of what’s been happening.
I’m not sure if Rip has kept him updated on everything, but if he hasn’t, Slayer is in for the surprise of his life.
Thanks to Vixen’s sheer bravery, we finally have Jerome cornered—right where we want him.
She wasn't obligated to contact us, provide warnings, or keep us updated on their movements, yet she chose to do so anyway. By stepping up for our club, she’s knowingly placed her own life and that of her boy in grave danger.
In my opinion, the best way we can thank her is by making sure she and Kolter make it out and are able to move on with their lives free of the evil asshole who’s kept her hostage for all of these years.
I stomp down the stairs and step into the main room, the clubhouse feeling strange in its silence. I tilt my head, straining to hear a single sound, but the place is empty. It’s eerily deserted for this time of day. “Huh?” I grunt, my brows pulling together as I head toward Slayer’s office.
He and Rip keep offices here at the clubhouse and at the mortuary, and I really don't want to hike over to the graveyard so my hope is that he’s here and not over there doing paperwork.
Walking through that place always gives me the creeps, and unlike the rest of the guys, I hate being around those headstones.
Besides, I'm lugging a laptop and a thick stack of files, so I'm not exactly in the mood for a long trek across the field.
Reaching his home base office, I give a mental fist bump when I see light spilling out from under the door. I knock and wait for his permission to enter. “It’s open!” he barks from inside.
“Hey, you got a minute?” I ask, my boots scuffing on the floorboards as I step inside the office.
Slayer barely looks up from the mountain of ledgers spread across his desk.
He just grunts, a sound that could mean anything, so I take it as a yes and push the door shut behind me.
“I've got the update on Jerome,” I add, dropping the files onto the edge of his desk with a thud that finally grabs his full attention.
He leans back in his chair, rubbing his eyes like he hasn't slept in days. “It better be worth the interruption,” he growls.
“I wouldn’t bother you if it wasn’t,” I supply.
“Alright. Get on with it, Rip’s left me with a mountain of work,” he orders. I spread the papers in front of him, and tell him everything I know, including the fact that there’s going to be a raid on the clubhouse at some point today.
“Rip already filled me in on the plan,” he says, leaning closer to scan the papers I laid out on his desk.
He taps the edge of the stack, his expression unreadable.
“We aren't telling the guys what's coming. Icer and Indiana already swept every room earlier. They scrubbed anything that might look bad to a badge.” I lean against the desk, watching him process the information.
“So we just wait?” I ask. He lets out a weary breath, rubbing his tired eyes. “We let it play out. The men need to look shocked. If they act like they're ready for trouble, it ruins the charade. They have to seem just as blindsided as anyone else.”
“That’s a solid plan,” I say, nodding slowly in agreement. The weight of it settles between us. “It keeps us clean, provided the boys can keep their cool when the law kicks the doors down.”
Slayer sighs, a low rumble in his chest as he stares at the files. “They’ll play the part. They don't know the specifics, just that we're tightening the ship. That’s enough to keep them honest for now.”
“And if someone slips up?” I ask, pressing him a little. I need to be sure.
He looks up, his eyes hard and focused. “Then we handle it. But they won't. I trust them to keep their heads down when it matters.” He shifts his gaze back to the papers, his jaw tight. “Go get some rest. You look like hell, and you're going to need your wits about you once the show starts.”
“Fine,” I mutter, turning toward the door. “I'm out.”
“Good. Don't go making yourself scarce just yet,” he adds, his voice dropping an octave. “I might need you to run point later.”
“Understood,” I reply. “I'll be close by.” As I go to step out of his office, I slap my palm across my forehead. “Slayer, did Rip fill you in about Vixen and what role she’s playing in Jerome’s take down?”
Slayer pauses, his hand hovering over the stack of files. He looks up, his expression unreadable, though a shadow of curiosity flickers in his eyes. He pushes his chair back with a slow, deliberate scrape.
“Rip mentioned a wild card,” Slayer says, his voice dropping as he leans forward. “But he didn’t give me a name. Just that there’s someone on the inside leaking data.”
I nod, crossing my arms over my chest. I need him to understand the gravity of this.
“Her name’s Kendall. But she first introduced herself to me with her screen name, Vixen.
She’s the one feeding us the intel. Without her, we’re blind.
But she’s not just some asset. She’s in deep, and Jerome’s got a leash on her that’s tightening by the second. ”
Slayer’s jaw tightens. He clearly doesn’t like the idea of relying on someone we haven’t vetted ourselves, but the results speak for themselves. “And she’s clean? You’re certain she’s not playing us?”
“If she was playing us, she wouldn’t have warned us about the raid,” I explain, keeping my tone level. “She’s burning her bridges with Jerome to help us. If she’s lying, we’re all dead anyway. I trust her.”
He studies my face, looking for any sign of hesitation.
When he finds none, he finally nods once.
“Then we protect her. If she’s the key to taking Jerome down, we make sure she survives the fallout.
But keep this between us for now. The guys don’t need to know the specifics until we’re ready to move. ”
“Got it,” I say, already backing toward the door. “I’m keeping my eyes on her feed. If she drops a signal, we’re ready.”
“I hope that doesn't happen until Rip and the guys get back from saying their farewells to Pokey,” Slayer states. He reaches up and grips the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “This entire situation is giving me a hell of a headache.”
I watch him, seeing the tension radiating off his shoulders. “We can delay,” I propose, though I know how risky that is. Although at this point, I’m not sure what we could hold off on because most of what’s happening around us is out of our hands.
He shakes his head, his dark eyes meeting mine.
“No. The clock is ticking, and we don't have the luxury of waiting on timing. If Jerome moves, we move.” He drops his hand, a sharp look settling over his features.
“Just make sure the men stay sharp. We can't afford any slip-ups while they're grieving.”
“I'll watch them,” I promise, feeling the weight of his trust.
He nods, his focus shifting back to the paperwork. “Good. Get out of here before I change my mind and pile more work on you.”
The overwhelming exhaustion hits me with the force of a hammer the moment I drop onto the worn leather sofa that’s tucked into the corner of my office.
I only mean to close my eyes for a second or two.
The room spins, blurring at the edges as my head sinks into the cushion.
My pulse slows, finally fighting against the frantic pace I've kept all day.
Before I can even register the shift, the darkness drags me under.
I don't mean to lose time. I just need a quick reset, but the sheer weariness wins the fight, pulling me deep and dreamless slumber while the clubhouse hums with quiet anticipation around me.
A noise coming from the other side of the door wakes me, and I quickly jump to my feet.
A low hum builds in the room as the security system kicks into high gear, the red light on the perimeter alarm pulsing against the dark wall.
I lunge for the desk, fingers flying across the keys to bring the feed up.
The screens flicker to life, and I’m greeted by a nightmare in grayscale.
The yard is swarming. Headlights cut through the gloom like knives while tactical teams move in a synchronized crawl toward the entrance.
“Dammit,” I snarl, the word catching in my dry throat.
“They aren’t waiting for the cover of night.
It’s raid time,” I mumble to myself as I step out of the room, grab my jacket from the chair and shove the door open, nearly colliding with Ozzie, who’s already sprinting toward the main stairwell with his sidearm drawn.
“Raid?” he shouts, not even breaking his stride.
“Everywhere,” I confirm, my voice tight. “They’re hitting us hard. Gather the men and have them convene in the main room. Do as you're told, follow their instructions so nobody gets hurt. Pass that along as you grab each of the brothers.”
I don’t waste another breath. I’m on his heels, taking the stairs two at a time while the clubhouse erupts into chaos below.
The front entrance doesn't just open. It disintegrates.
Splinters of heavy oak shower the foyer like shrapnel as a flashbang detonates.
The sound is a physical blow that rattles my skull and paints the room in a blinding, ghostly white.
I hit the landing and skid to a halt, shielding my eyes until the spots clear.
Tactical teams flood the room like a dark, angry tide. They move with aggressive, terrifying precision, shouting commands that bounce off the walls.
“Get on the ground! Hands where we can see them!” an agent screams. He shoves his rifle barrel into LoneStar’s ribs. I see him stiffen. His knuckles go white, but he forces his hands up and away from his body. He doesn't fight. He doesn't even flinch.
“Stay down!” I yell, my voice cutting through the ringing in my ears. “Nobody moves. Do exactly what they say.”
Ozzie is already in the center of the room with his palms raised. The agents are twitchy, their fingers dancing on triggers. The air smells like ozone and fear. It is a hair-trigger moment where a single wrong breath could start a bloodbath. “We aren't fighting!” Ozzie bellows at the lead agent.
“Everyone stay on the floor!” Slayer orders as he’s escorted from his office by two SWAT team members, their guns steadily pointed at him as he’s brought over next to us.
One by one, the brothers sink to their knees.
It goes against every fiber of their being to stay down, but they swallow their pride.
They keep their hands visible, fingers splayed on the hardwood.
Their jaws are set tight enough to crack teeth.
Silence fills the room, heavy and suffocating, interrupted only by the rhythmic thud of heavy combat boots circling them.
A man in full gear stalks past me, his weapon leveled at my head. He sneers, his face hidden behind a dark visor. “Keep those hands where I can see them,” he barks, nudging my shoulder with the barrel of his rifle.
“We aren't causing trouble,” I say, my voice steady despite the adrenaline spiking in my system.
“Save it,” he growls.
Around the room, tactical teams operate with ruthless efficiency.
They flip tables, tear down posters, and rip open cabinets.
Nothing is sacred. They want something, and they're going to tear the entire clubhouse to the studs to find it.
Out of all the brothers gathered in this room, Shade is the one who worries me the most, so I close my eyes and pray he manages to find some patience.
Like Icer, he tends to react before thinking things through.
I don't want his hotheadedness to get the better of him, forcing me to go and bail him out of jail.