Chapter Three
Spade
It wasn’t often we held Church without every patched member present, but all things considered, we were operating this one with a skeleton crew.
Moving with deliberate precision Atilla gathered the evidence spread across the table.
The room fell silent. Brothers shifted in their seats, tension thick enough to cut.
I kept my face blank, waiting. When Atilla finally looked up, his eyes were cold steel, decision made.
The verdict was coming, and every man in the room knew it would change everything.
“The evidence is compelling.” Atilla’s voice filled the room without raising above a conversational tone. Decades of authority behind it. “We have a problem.”
Stinger slammed his fist on the table. “We can’t trust her! This whole thing reeks.”
“Shut up.” Atilla didn’t even look at him. His focus remained on the papers, then shifted to me. “Spade. She stays with you. Under guard. Protected and watched. Twenty-four seven.”
I nodded once. No questions needed.
“You believe this shit?” General pushed away from the table, chair scraping across the floor. “Some random Horsemen bitch walks in with paperwork, and we’re supposed to --”
“Yes.” Atilla cut him off. “We are. Because these dates match our failed runs. Every time.” He tapped the folder with one finger. “You got a better explanation for how they knew about the Colombian meet? That was Church business only.” Church business was sacred. Patched members only.
“Could be coincidence,” Tinker offered, but his voice lacked conviction.
“This many times?” Lila spoke for the first time, her voice steady despite being surrounded by hostile men. “That’s one hell of a statistical anomaly.”
Wildcard’s hand drifted toward his waistband. “You don’t speak unless spoken to.”
I caught his eye, shook my head slightly. He backed down, but his face stayed dark with anger.
Atilla stood, signaling the meeting’s end. “Spade has point on this. Full authority. Anyone who gets in his way answers to me.” He fixed each brother with a hard stare. “Until we know who’s clean and who isn’t, information stays compartmentalized. Need to know only.”
The implications hung heavy. Trust -- our foundation -- had just been officially suspended.
“Move her now,” Atilla told me. “Take the back exit. Fewer eyes.”
I rose, gesturing for Lila to follow. She gathered her remaining papers, clutching the folder against her chest like armor. Smart. In this room, information was her only protection.
The brothers parted as we moved toward the door, their faces a study in conflicting emotions. Suspicion. Anger. Unease. Each one wondering if they were under scrutiny. Each one wondering who among them couldn’t be trusted.
“Keys.” I held my hand out to Wildcard, who’d driven her car into the compound.
He slapped them into my palm with unnecessary force. “Watch your back,” he muttered, low enough that only I could hear.
Warning? Or threat? Hard to tell. I filed it away for later analysis.
The back hallway was empty, dim emergency lights casting long shadows. Lila kept pace beside me, not behind. Her gaze scanned everything -- exit signs, security cameras, door locks. Cataloging. Memorizing. I noticed but didn’t comment.
“Where are we going?” she asked as we stepped into the cool night air.
“My place. On the compound.”
My Harley waited in its usual spot, glossy black paint catching moonlight. I handed her a helmet from the saddlebag, watching as she adjusted it with practiced hands. Not her first time on a bike, then.
“Hold tight,” I instructed, swinging my leg over the seat. “And keep that folder secure.”
She slid on behind me, zipped her precious evidence into her jacket, then put her arms around my waist. Her grip was firm but not desperate. The engine roared to life beneath us, vibrating through my bones the way it always did. Familiar. Grounding.
We pulled away from the clubhouse, headlight cutting through darkness. The compound spread before us -- twenty acres of Savage Raptors territory. My home for twenty years. Now potentially compromised.
I took the long route deliberately, giving her the tour she hadn’t asked for.
Security checkpoint at the main gate -- two armed brothers nodding as we passed.
Motion sensors along the perimeter fence, red lights blinking in sequence.
Camera poles at strategic intersections, covering approach angles and blind spots.
The garage where we kept our vehicles -- always guarded, always locked.
In my side mirror, I watched her head turn, taking in each detail. Not casual observation. Assessment. She was mapping our security, finding the gaps. Professional habit or something more?
Brothers stopped to watch us pass, hands resting casually near weapons. Word had spread already. The Horsemen’s accountant. The potential trap. The security risk. Comments followed in our wake.
“Who’s the bitch?”
“President’s orders.”
“Fucking VP’s gone soft.”
I ignored them. Petty bullshit wasn’t my concern. Finding our leak was.
We passed the shop where club business happened away from prying eyes. The mess hall where brothers ate together. The row of cabins where Prospects lived during initiation. All the while, her grip remained steady, her body angled to see everything we passed.
My house sat apart from the others -- VP privilege and personal preference. Single story, secure, isolated. I cut the engine in the driveway, silence rushing in to fill the void.
“This is it?” she asked, removing the helmet.
“Home, sweet home.” I swung off the bike, taking the helmet from her hands. “For both of us now.”
She stood, pulled the folder out of her jacket, and clutching it tightly against her chest. Never letting go of it. Smart woman.
The security light above my porch caught her face at an angle. In the harsh white glow, the bruise looked worse than before -- blue-black center fading to sickly yellow at the edges. The kind of hit meant to hurt, not just intimidate.
“How did you get into the compound in the first place?” I asked.
“I threatened to rip off the Prospect’s balls if he didn’t let me through.”
I stared her down, knowing that hadn’t been enough to get her through the gate.
She sighed. “I told him I had intel his President would want and that the club was in jeopardy. Then I leaned out the window a little, giving him a glimpse down my shirt. It’s amazing how many doors open when you show a guy your boobs.”
Well, fuck. She had a point. Most men wouldn’t see her as a threat. And our Prospects did tend to think with their dicks. Especially the younger ones.
“They really did try to kill you,” I said, not a question.
Her gaze met mine, unflinching. “Yes. And they’ll try again when they realize what I took.”
“Good thing you’ve got the Savage Raptors watching your back now.” I unlocked my front door, punching in the security code.
“Is it?” She stepped past me into the house. “Guess that depends on which one is selling you out.”
I couldn’t argue with that logic. We both knew the enemy could already be inside these walls. Could be any face we passed tonight. Could be someone I’d called brother for years.
The thought sat like acid in my gut as I closed and locked the door behind us.
* * *
I flipped the lights on, illuminating a space most brothers had never seen.
My private domain. Minimal. Ordered. Everything in its proper place.
The living room held exactly what I needed -- leather couch, single armchair, TV mounted on the wall.
No photos, no clutter, no distractions. I watched Lila take it all in, her gaze methodically scanning the room.
Looking for exits. Checking for threats. Professional habit, same as mine.
“Kitchen’s there.” I nodded toward the right. “Bedroom’s down the hall, past my office.”
“Bedroom?” One eyebrow raised slightly.
“Spare bedroom,” I clarified. “For you.”
I led her past the kitchen -- stainless steel appliances, clean countertops, everything organized with the precision four years in the Army had taught me.
Nothing left out. Nothing out of place. My life ran on order and control.
It was how I’d survived twenty years in a world where most men didn’t make it to ten.
She followed silently, still clutching her folder. Her footsteps matched mine almost exactly -- heel to toe, controlled weight distribution. Not the walk of someone unfamiliar with danger.
“Here.” I pushed open the second door on the left. “Home, sweet home.”
The spare room was sparse. Double bed, dresser, nightstand with a lamp. Cream walls, navy comforter. Clean lines. No personal touches.
“Bathroom’s across the hall,” I said, stepping back to give her space. “We’ll share it.”
She entered the room, immediately moving to the window. Checked the lock. Assessed the drop to the ground. Noted the motion sensor in the upper corner. All without a word.
“That’s not how you get out.” I moved to the bedroom door, pointing to the keypad mounted beside it. “Biometric lock. Programmed to my fingerprint. From inside, you just press this button.”
I demonstrated, the door clicking open. “From outside, only I can open it.”
“So, I’m a prisoner.” Not a question. Not even an accusation. Just stating facts.
“Protected,” I countered. “The Horsemen want you dead. This keeps you alive.”
“And under control.” Her gaze met mine. Direct. Unflinching.
“That too.” No point lying. She’d see through it.
I moved to the small closet, pulling out a fresh towel. “Cameras in all hallways. Motion sensors on every window. Alarm system active 24/7. Don’t try to leave.”
She took the towel, our fingers brushing briefly. The contact sent an unexpected jolt through my hand. She felt it too -- I caught the slight widening of her eyes, the momentary tension in her shoulders before she deliberately relaxed them.
We both stepped back, restoring the neutral space between us.