Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
Geirolf
Three days.
It's been three fucking days since my world exploded in the clubhouse, since everyone found out about Astrid and me.
Three days of avoiding Fenrir's murderous glares and Emil's clenched fists.
Three days of feeling like a marked man in my own brotherhood.
I slam the wrench down on the workbench, frustration boiling over.
The Harley I'm working on doesn't deserve my anger, but it's either take it out on the bike or put my fist through a wall.
"You're gonna strip those bolts if you keep at it like that."
I don't turn around at Charm's voice.
The VP's wife has a way of appearing when you least expect it, like some kind of redheaded ninja.
"Just trying to get this done," I mutter, reaching for a different socket.
"Bullshit." She moves into my peripheral vision, leaning against the tool cabinet. "You're hiding."
"I'm working."
"In the garage. Alone. At seven in the morning." She crosses her arms. "When's the last time you were in the clubhouse for more than five minutes?"
I finally look at her.
Charm's got that expression women get when they know exactly what you're thinking and are just waiting for you to admit it.
"Your ol’ man wants to kill me," I say flatly. "Emil, too. Can't blame me for giving them space to cool off."
"They'll come around." She says it with such certainty, I almost believe her. "Fenrir always does, eventually."
"This is different."
"Is it?" She moves closer, lowering her voice. "You think you're the first man to fall for someone the club didn't approve of? Hell, I had my suspicions about you two for weeks."
That gets my attention. "You knew?"
"I suspected. The way you'd watch her when you thought no one was looking. How she'd light up when you walked into a room." A small smile plays on her lips. "Plus, she's been happier lately. More confident. That kind of change usually means a man."
"And you didn't say anything?"
"Wasn't my secret to tell." She shrugs. "Besides, I know what it's like to love someone everyone thinks might not be the best choice."
I set down the wrench, giving her my full attention now. "Didn’t those people understand after a while, back then?"
"Eventually. But there was plenty of pushback at first. I wasn’t ever in this sort of life. I had a regular job as a nanny, a college degree. Hell, I think even some of the brothers thought I'd try to change him, make him soft." She laughs at the memory. "As if anyone could make Fenrir soft."
"How'd you win them over?"
"I didn't try to. I just loved him, supported the club, and let time prove them wrong." Her expression grows serious. "The question is, are you willing to wait? To weather this storm until Fenrir sees what I already know?"
"Which is?"
"That you'd die for her. That you'd never hurt her. That maybe, just maybe, you're exactly what she needs."
Before I can respond, Tor appears in the doorway. "Geirolf. They need you in the basement. Now."
The basement, where Laken is.
Charm touches my arm as I pass. "Remember what I said. He'll come around."
I nod, but my mind's already shifting to whatever's waiting for me downstairs.
The basement access is through a hidden door in the storage room.
I descend the concrete steps, the temperature dropping with each level.
At the bottom, I find Runes, Fenrir, Emil, and Oskar surrounding Laken, who sits in a metal chair.
He looks like shit—face swollen, dried blood crusting his nose, one eye completely shut.
His hands are zip-tied to the chair arms, and I notice several fingernails are already missing.
"About fuckin’ time," Fenrir says without looking at me.
The hatred in his voice is thick enough to choke on.
"I was upstairs workin’ on a bike," I deadpan, taking my position in the circle.
Emil snorts in disgust but doesn't comment.
Oskar just watches me with those calculating eyes, always the wild card of the siblings.
"Our friend here's been reluctant to share," Runes says, his voice deceptively calm. "Thought maybe a fresh perspective might help."
I study Laken, noting the way he flinches when I move closer.
Good. He should be scared.
"What do we want to know?"
"The Patriot's plans," Fenrir says. "Shipment routes, safe houses, anything useful."
"I told you," Laken wheezes through split lips. "I don't know details. He doesn't trust anyone with the full picture."
"Bullshit." Emil steps forward, pliers in hand. "You were feeding him information for months. You know something ."
Laken's eyes go wide as Emil grabs his left hand. "Wait! Please! I?—"
The scream that follows echoes off the concrete walls as Emil grips a fingernail with the pliers and slowly pulls.
I've heard worse sounds in my life, but there's something about the high-pitched agony of it that sets teeth on edge.
The nail comes free with a wet pop, blood immediately welling up.
"That's seven," Oskar observes clinically. "Three to go."
"Feel like talking yet?" Emil asks, already positioning the pliers over the next finger.
"I can't!" Laken sobs. "He'll kill me!"
"We'll kill you in a slower, more painful way," I say, moving into his line of sight. "See, the thing about fingernails is they're just the beginning. We've got toenails, teeth, plenty of skin to peel. How do you think Astrid felt when you kept harassing her after she left you? When you put your hands on her in that parking lot?"
At Astrid's name, something shifts in Laken's eyes. "She was mine first," he spits. "Before you. Before any of this."
The rage that floods through me is instant.
I grab his throat, squeezing just enough to make breathing difficult. "She was never yours. You made her feel small, worthless. Made her doubt herself."
"Like you're any better?" he gasps. "Sneaking around, lying to everyone. At least I was honest about what I wanted."
Emil's fist connects with Laken's ribs before I can respond.
The crack of breaking bone is loud enough for us all to hear.
"Enough about my sister," Emil growls. "Talk about the Patriot or lose another nail."
Laken coughs, blood speckling his lips. "Warehouse," he finally gasps. "Off Highway 20. He's got product there. Weapons."
"Keep going," Runes urges him on.
"Big shipment coming through. End of the week. That's all I know, I swear."
Emil looks skeptical, pliers hovering over another finger. "That's convenient. How do we know you're not lying?"
"Because shit’s gonna blow up soon," Laken says, then laughs—a broken, unhinged sound. "All of it. The whole fucking thing's gonna blow."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Fenrir demands.
But Laken just keeps laughing, blood bubbling from his mouth.
Emil rips another nail free, but even that doesn't stop the hysteria.
"He's lost it," Oskar says. "Shock, probably."
"Or he knows something we don't," I counter, something in my gut telling me this is going to go to shit real fast.
Runes steps back, decision made. "Oskar, keep working on him. Get whatever else you can. Emil, Fenrir, Geirolf— kirkja in twenty minutes. We need to discuss this warehouse."
As we file out, leaving Laken to the tender mercies of the brothers, Fenrir finally looks at me directly.
"This doesn't change anything between us," he says coldly.
"Didn't expect it to."
"Good. Because if you hurt her—" I don’t even let him finish his sentence.
I look him right in the eyes. "The last fuckin’ thing I’ll ever do is hurt your daughter."
He studies me for a long moment, then nods curtly. "See that you don't."
Twenty minutes later, the chapel is full minus the prospects, Emil, and Oskar.
Everyone else is present, the table surrounded by brothers who've sworn their lives to this club.
"Brothers," Runes begins, commanding attention instantly. "We've got intel on one of Patriot’s warehouses. There’s a significant amount of weapons there, according to our source."
"Can we trust it?" Rati asks. "Could be a trap."
"Could be," Runes acknowledges. "But we can't ignore it either. If the Patriot’s men are stockpiling weapons that close to our territory..."
"We hit it," Kraken finishes. "Tonight."
Murmurs of agreement ripple around the table.
"Before we get into that, I want to make sure our families are here, where they’re safe," Fenrir adds. "With us going on this run, I want everyone at the clubhouse. Ivar, you're in charge of protection detail with the prospects."
Ivar nods. "Consider it done."
"How are we gonna go about this?" Dag asks, ever the treasurer, worried about heat on our businesses.
"We go quietly," Runes decides. "Small team, in and out. Myself, Tor, Kraken, Magnus, Fenrir, Emil, Geirolf." He pauses. "And Dag. Logi, Aesir, Vanir, and Rati, I want you all watching the place, making sure no one surprises us. Shoot anyone who does."
Tor speaks up. "What about Oskar?"
"He’s working on Laken," he informs them.
"Kirkja is adjourned." He slams the gavel down, "We ride in two hours."
As brothers file out, I won’t lie about the fact I’m relieved Oskar won’t be on this run.
I head out into the hallway, and Tor comes up beside me. "You good for this run?" he asks.
"Always."
"I mean it. If your head's not in the game?—"
"It is." I force my shoulders to relax. "Club shit is club shit, you know?"
"Good. Because this feels off to me. Laken giving up intel that easy, even under torture..."
"You think it's a trap?"
"I think we need to be ready for anything." He claps my shoulder. "Watch your six out there."
I spend the next hour preparing. Cleaning my weapons, checking gear, the same routine that always comes before we head out on a run.
My mind keeps drifting to Astrid—is she here at the clubhouse yet? Is she safe?
I text her:
Families are gathering at the clubhouse. You heading here?
Her response is quick:
Already here with Mom and Ingrid. Heard you boys are riding out.
I shoot her back a reply:
Just a quick run. Be back before you know it.
Three bubbles appear, and then another message:
Be careful.
I smile, appreciating how concerned she is:
Always am.
I can’t hold back the laugh:
Liar.
This woman is made for me:
See you when I get back. We need to talk.
Her reply is like lightning:
Yeah, we do. I love you.
The words on the screen make my chest tight:
Love you too, Princess.
I pocket the phone as Magnus appears. "Time to roll."
Outside, bikes are already rumbling.
I swing onto my bike, feeling that familiar settledness that comes before all hell breaks loose.
Runes leads us out, Fenrir beside him, the rest of us falling into formation.
The ride to Highway 20 takes forty minutes, the city fading away into an industrial wasteland.
Abandoned factories and empty lots—perfect place for Patriot to set up shop.
The warehouse sits back from the road, surrounded by chain link and razor wire.
Looks abandoned from the outside, but I notice fresh tire tracks in the dirt.
We kill the engines a quarter mile away, coasting the rest of the way.
No lights, no sounds—just shadows moving through darkness.
"Tor, Magnus, take the back," Runes whispers. "Emil, Geirolf, you're with me and Fenrir on the front. Kraken, find high ground and cover us."
Emil arches a brow, "You want me goin’ with you? I thought you wanted me staying back here."
Runes looks him right in the eye, "Did I fuckin’ stutter? I changed my mind. Sue me."
We split up, Emil and I flanking Fenrir as we approach the main entrance.
The lock's already been cut—recently, by the look of it.
Kraken breathes. "Trap?"
"Or someone beat us here," I respond.
Fenrir signals for silence, then eases the door open. The hinges don't make a sound—recently oiled.
Inside, the warehouse is dark except for emergency lighting casting everything in red.
Crates are stacked everywhere, some marked with Russian, or maybe Ukrainian, others with serial numbers.
"Weapons," Fenrir confirms, checking one crate. "Is it Russia or Ukraine?"
We move deeper, clearing each row one by one.
That's when we hear it—voices coming from the back office.
"...told you they'd come sniffing around," someone is saying. "Patriot wants the whole MC taken down."
"Not our problem," another voice responds. "We just move the product."
Fenrir signals us to hold position while he creeps closer.
I cover the left approach while Magnus takes the right.
For a moment, it feels like old times—like my personal life didn’t blow up three days ago.
The office door opens suddenly, light spilling out.
A man steps through, cigarette dangling from his lips.
He's got maybe two seconds to register our presence before Fenrir's on him, hand over his mouth, knife at his throat.
Fenrir hisses. "How many inside?"
The man's eyes go wide, but he holds up three fingers.
"Armed?"
A nod.
Fenrir looks at us, decision made. We go in hard and fast.
The door explodes inward under Magnus’ boot.
I'm the first one through, weapon up, catching the nearest target right in the chest.
He drops before he can draw.
Magnus takes the second, a clean headshot that paints the wall behind him.
The third man dives behind the desk, coming up with a shotgun.
I'm moving before I think, tackling Magnus sideways as buckshot tears through the air where his head was.
We hit the ground hard, scrambling for cover as the shooter pumps another round.
Fenrir flanks to our right, putting two in the guy's chest before he can fire again.
Silence falls, broken only by our harsh breathing.
"Clear," Tor's voice comes through the radio. "Back's secure."
"Office clear," Fenrir responds. "Three down."
Magnus stares at me, then laughs hard. "Thanks for not lettin’ the bastard shoot me!"
"Yeah, well, it was either save your ass or Rayna was gonna chop me up and put me in some stew." I extend my hand, hauling him to his feet.
Rati's voice crackles through the radio: "We got company! Multiple vehicles incoming, two minutes out!"
"Shit," Fenrir curses. "Grab what you can. We're leaving!"
I snatch papers from the desk and check the bodies for information.
Tor and Magnus are already taking some weapons, heading toward the doors.
Runes hollers, "Move, move, move!"
We burst from the warehouse as headlights appear on the horizon.
Our bikes roar to life, tearing across the dirt lot as the first shots ring out behind us.
The guys at the front shoot like hell, taking them down one by one.
"Split up!" Runes orders. "Meet back at the clubhouse!"
I peel off with Magnus, both of us taking side streets, weaving through industrial complexes.
Bullets spark off concrete as the Patriot’s men chase our asses, but our bikes are faster.
A car tries to cut us off at an intersection.
Magnus and I move as one—him going high, me going low, our bikes threading the gap with inches to spare.
Ten minutes of hard riding and we've lost them.
I follow Magnus down an alley, both of us killing engines to listen, see if we can figure out where these fuckers are.
There’s not a peep, just the tick of cooling metal and our own breathing.
Magnus waits a few moments and finally speaks up, "We can head back to the club now, I think we’re good."