7. Viper
VIPER
Stryker has been talking for twelve straight minutes.
Not that anyone interrupts him when he gets like this.
The conference room upstairs above the garage already smells like cigarette smoke, coffee gone cold, and too many grown men stuck in one space too long.
Papers are spread across the scarred wood table between Alpha and Beta Team—shipping manifests, route maps, photos from the transport hit outside Vegas three nights ago.
One of the pages still has dried blood smeared across the corner where someone handled it before they got stitched up downstairs.
Stryker plants both hands against the table and stares at all of us like he’s personally daring someone else to create another problem for him today.
“They knew the fucking route before the transport even crossed county lines,” he says flatly. “Again.”
Nobody answers immediately because there isn’t much left to say.
We all already know.
The cartel keeps getting bolder. The Bratva keeps throwing money behind anything that weakens us.
The Vegas families are scrambling after Vincenzo’s death and trying to reclaim whatever influence they lost after Isabella disappeared with Team D.
Every time we close one leak another one opens somewhere else.
Across the table, Maddox leans back in his chair with his arms folded over his chest while Reyes scrolls through something on his phone beside him.
Bishop sits quiet, as usual, pale gray eyes fixed on one of the photographs spread across the table while he taps his fingers once against the arm of his chair.
Stryker points toward the route map hard enough the paper slides.
“They hit us fifteen miles outside Vegas. Fifteen. Which means either somebody’s talking, or somebody’s inside systems they shouldn’t fucking be inside.”
“That narrows it down to literally everyone we deal with,” Reyes says dryly.
Stryker ignores him completely. “Two men in the hospital. Shipment gone. One civilian dead because cartel idiots decided spraying automatic fire into traffic was worth proving a point.”
That part shifts the room slightly quieter.
The civilian deaths always hit differently.
Not because any of us pretend we’re good men. We stopped lying to ourselves about that years ago. But there’s still a difference between violence with purpose and terrorizing random people trying to live their lives.
The cartel stopped caring about that distinction months ago.
I lean back farther in my chair and let Stryker keep going while my attention drifts toward the window overlooking the garage below. Axel is down there somewhere, buried inside another engine, probably pretending the world doesn’t exist beyond whatever machine he’s working on.
Honestly, I envy him a little.
Stryker’s voice cuts sharply across the room again. “We cannot keep bleeding money and men every time something moves near Vegas.”
“We need another ally,” Bishop says from where he’s standing near the wall. “Or we stop moving product near Vegas entirely.”
“We stop moving near Vegas and we hand territory over without a fight,” Maddox replies immediately. “That’s stupid.”
“It’s also expensive getting shot every fucking week,” Reyes mutters.
Nobody argues with that either.
The room settles into the kind of silence that means everyone’s exhausted enough to stop pretending there’s an easy answer sitting somewhere waiting to be found. We’ve spent months plugging holes faster than new ones appear, and somehow we’re still losing ground inch by inch.
Publicly the Savage Wolves look stronger than we ever have. Privately we’re stretched thin enough that everyone feels it.
Membership keeps growing because desperate men always gravitate toward power, especially young ones looking for somewhere to belong. The prospects keep showing up. Some loyal. Some useful. Some dangerous in ways even they don’t fully understand yet.
But growth creates problems too.
More people means more weak points. More eyes watching us. More chances for information to leak somewhere it shouldn’t.
Stryker scrubs one hand across his mouth before looking toward Bishop. “Anything from Miami?”
Bishop shakes his head once. “Calder says the Coyotes are getting hit too. Mostly cyberattacks. Financial disruption. Somebody keeps testing their security systems.”
“Bratva?” Blade asks quietly from beside me.
“Probably.”
Probably. That word’s become the foundation of our entire fucking existence lately.
Probably Bratva.
Probably cartel.
Probably Vegas remnants.
Probably another setup.
Probably another attack coming.
Probably going to lose my fucking mind if something doesn’t stabilize soon.
I glance toward Blade beside me. Calm, as always, elbows resting against his knees while he listens without interrupting. Most people mistake quiet for softness, until they watch him put someone back together after violence tears through them.
Or watch him create the violence himself when necessary.
Stryker starts pacing now, which means he’s genuinely reaching the edge of his patience. “We’ve spent six years building this into something stable, and now every direction we turn somebody’s trying to burn it down.”
That finally drags my attention back fully, because underneath the irritation, there’s something else sitting in his voice today.
Exhaustion.
Not physical. Styker can push through physical forever.
This is the heavier kind.
The kind that comes from carrying too much responsibility for too long, while pretending the weight doesn’t exist.
Lena’s probably waiting for him right now.
He picks her up from school most afternoons himself when he can manage it. Doesn’t matter how chaotic things get around here. Doesn’t matter how many bodies pile up or how many deals go sideways. That kid remains the one thing he protects from every piece of ugliness he possibly can.
The irony would probably make him homicidal if I pointed it out.
Before anyone else can speak again, my phone buzzes against the table beside my hand.
Normally I ignore interruptions during meetings like this.
Today, I glance down automatically, because the notification banner shows the WhatsApp account tied to Axel’s mechanic side business.
Unknown Number.
The message in a gist indicates that the texter needs emergency assistance ASAP. Car broken down on interstate near Black Rock exit.
I almost put the phone back down immediately.
Axel hates roadside calls. Hates dealing with strangers even more. The entire reason I manage the business side for him is that he’d rather crawl beneath a transmission than speak to customers himself.
Thirty percent cut for answering messages and handling people is honestly highway robbery on my part, but Axel would rather pay me than socialize.
My thumb hovers over the screen anyway. Something uncomfortable catches low in my chest suddenly. Instinct maybe. Curiosity. I open the message fully. The number has a New York area code.
Weird.
Most people passing through Black Rock aren’t coming from New York. Before I can think too hard about why I care, I type back quickly.
Need photos. Engine and all sides of the vehicle.
Across the room, Stryker keeps talking, voice sharper again now, while Bishop and Maddox argue quietly over routes near Vegas. I tune most of it out automatically while waiting for the response.
Three dots appear almost immediately. Then the first image loads. Engine compartment. Older SUV. Nothing special. Definitely not worth Axel’s time.
I start typing Call AAA when four more photos come through in rapid succession.
Side. Side. Rear. Front.
I swipe through quickly without really looking. My attention already halfway back toward the meeting until something in the second photo catches abruptly enough that my hand physically stops moving.
My stomach drops so fast it almost feels physical. I zoom in instantly. The image grain shifts slightly under my fingers while the reflection sharpens just enough.
A blonde woman comes into focus standing beside the SUV wearing a dark winter sweater with her phone in one hand, profile turned slightly. But that form and profile are too familiar, despite the fact that I had only seen it once six years ago.
Familiar enough that every thought in my head simply stops.
No. There’s no fucking way.
For six years, I’ve replayed fragments of her face from memory, because that’s all we ever had left after the fire those fuckers set to cover their tracks.
Six years of dead ends with Nora. Six years of tracking trafficked women across state lines hoping eventually one of them would lead back to her. Six years of wondering if she burned alive inside that house after we lost her in the smoke.
And now she’s standing in the reflection of a goddamn roadside assistance photo like she never disappeared at all.
“No fucking way,” I say out loud.
The room goes silent immediately.
Stryker looks up first, irritation already written across his face. “You got something funny to share?”
I stand before I fully realize I’m moving. Every muscle in my body suddenly feels too tight. Too alert. The photo shakes slightly in my grip while I zoom farther in even though I already know exactly what I’m looking at.
Reyes glances between me and Stryker. “Uh. You okay over there, amigo?”
I barely hear him. Because it’s her. Older now obviously. Harder around the eyes maybe. Tired in ways she wasn’t six years ago. But it’s her. Alive. My pulse pounds hard enough now that I can feel it behind my ribs while I look toward Beta Team.
“Get out.”
The room stills.
Stryker frowns immediately. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” I say sharply, more authority in my voice than I usually bother using with them. “Meeting’s over. Out.”
That gets everyone’s attention because I don’t pull rank often.
Something in my expression must finally register because the entire room shifts at once.
Confused looks pass between them, but nobody argues again.
Maddox pushes up from his chair first, while Bishop studies me carefully from across the table.
He notices things faster than most people.
Especially when it comes to us.
“What happened?” he asks quietly.
“Later.”
Bishop’s eyes narrow slightly before he nods once and stands. The rest of Beta Team follows behind him toward the door. The door shuts behind them a second later.
Silence crashes down immediately after.
Stryker looks about three seconds away from snapping my neck for interrupting his meeting, while Blade watches me carefully from beside the table.
“What?” Stryker says flatly.
I don’t answer. I just cross the room toward them and hold the phone out. For half a second neither of them understands what they’re looking at.
Then Stryker takes the phone from my hand so abruptly he nearly drops it. His eyes lock onto the zoomed reflection, and something dangerous flashes across his face so quickly, most people would miss it.
Not me though. I’ve spent ten years reading him.
“Where did you get this?” he asks quietly. Quiet on Stryker is worse than yelling.
“Roadside assistance request through Axel’s business line.”
Blade stands immediately now, reaching for the phone. “That was just now?”
“Yup.”
Stryker zooms farther into the reflection, like maybe if he stares hard enough she’ll suddenly materialize in front of him. His entire posture changes all at once, controlled in appearance but sharp underneath.
Alive. Every one of us is thinking it.
For a second nobody speaks. Six years collapses strangely in silence.
I still remember the last time we saw her clearly. Smoke everywhere. Sprinklers running overhead. Screaming downstairs while half the estate burned around us. Stryker trying to force a path through collapsing hallways while Blade dragged two unconscious women outside through the back gardens.
And her gone.
Just gone.
We searched bodies afterward. Hospitals. Shelters. Missing persons reports. Underground networks Bishop hacked illegally for months afterward. Every woman we pulled out of those auction circles got questioned eventually.
Nobody knew where she went.
Nobody even knew her real last name.
“Where is she?” Blade asks.
“Interstate near Black Rock exit. Her SUV broke down.”
Stryker is already moving toward the door before I finish speaking.
Blade grabs his phone immediately while following behind Stryker. “I’m calling Axel.”
Stryker doesn’t slow down. “Get him away from there if he already left.”
“He wouldn’t go without talking to Viper first.”
“Good.”
I grab my cut off the chair automatically and follow them into the hallway, while Blade puts the phone to his ear and talks quietly to Axel.
The entire clubhouse downstairs hums with late afternoon noise around us—music from the garage, prospects arguing near the kitchen, somebody laughing too loudly somewhere near the bar.
Normal life continuing while mine just split clean down the middle.
Blade hangs up with Axel and informs us, “He’s further away. He’s going to meet us there.”
“Viper send him the pin location.” Stryker says, but doesn’t even glance back while shoving through the front doors of the clubhouse hard enough they slam against the wall behind him.
I nod despite the fact that that he doesn’t see me and pull out my phone as we make our way to the outdoor garage that holds the larger vehicles we share amongst the club.
Cold desert air slams into us outside, while Stryker heads straight for his SUV parked beside the garage. I can feel my heartbeat everywhere now, too fast and uneven beneath my ribs in a way I genuinely can’t remember experiencing before.
We climb inside the SUV fast, doors slamming shut while Stryker starts the engine hard enough that it growls beneath us. Gravel sprays behind the tires the second he throws the SUV into reverse.
I pull my phone back out automatically and reopen the photos again.
Still there.
Still her.
I zoom farther toward the reflection this time. Blonde hair longer now. Face thinner maybe. Coat too cheap for someone who looks that tired.
Then something else catches my attention. The backseat. There’s a child car seat visible through the rear window, but no child visible in any of the pictures. My stomach twists unexpectedly.
Maybe it isn’t hers.
Could belong to anyone. Still.
Blade notices the direction of my attention almost immediately. “What?”
I turn the phone slightly toward him without answering. His eyes shift toward the car seat.
“What?” Stryker asks next and I hold it closer for him to see and drive.
Nobody speaks again until Streker presses harder on the gas and whispers under his breath, “Hurry the fuck up. We’ve got roadside assistance to give.”