Chapter Nine #2
Atilla absorbed this, his eyes never leaving the documents. “And General? Gopher? Their connection?”
“Misdirection.” I pulled out the final piece of evidence -- a phone record showing texts between Ripper and an unknown number discussing what information to plant about General.
“He deliberately created a trail for us to follow. Knew we’d investigate eventually, so he built a false narrative.
General’s movements, Gopher’s background connection to Aurora -- all manufactured.
He has access codes. Security protocols.
Rotation schedules.” I kept my voice level despite the implications. “If we hadn’t caught this --”
“But we did. You did.” Atilla cut me off, the decision already made in his mind.
He leaned back slightly, fingers steepled before him.
“Extraction details?” No question whether we would act.
Only how. When. This was the Atilla who’d led us through the bloodiest club war in Oklahoma history.
The man who’d ordered executions before and would do so again without hesitation when the club was threatened.
“He’s on duty now. Garage shift until 4 p.m.” I laid out the schedule I’d printed. “Routine parts pickup in the city after his shift ends. He’ll take Route 16, always does. Empty stretch near the county line. No witnesses. No cameras.”
“Team?”
“Myself. Knuckles. Ravager.” I’d selected them carefully -- seasoned brothers who could handle what needed to be done. Who understood club justice and the silence that followed.
“Location after?”
“The quarry. Close. Isolated. Secure. Deep water.”
Atilla nodded once, the details settled with the efficiency of men who’d had similar conversations before.
He reached for his burner phone -- not the one on his desk but a second kept in his drawer for club business that required distance, deniability.
“Tonight,” he said into the receiver after dialing. “Usual protocol.”
The call ended as abruptly as it had begun. No verification needed. No confirmation required. The machinery of club justice now in motion with those three simple words.
Atilla closed the portfolio, slid it back toward me. His gaze held mine, passing responsibility without need for further discussion. My role was clear. VP. Enforcer when required. Executioner when necessary.
“Clean,” he said. “Quick. He’s earned that much by wearing the colors, whatever else he’s done.”
I nodded, gathering the evidence that would never see official light. Never be presented in a courtroom. Never require a jury’s deliberation.
“The woman,” Atilla added as I reached the door. “Lila. How much does she know?”
I paused, remembering the way she looked, sleeping in my bed. The connection forged in darkness that complicated everything. “Nothing about Ripper. She was focused on General and Gopher.”
“Keep it that way for now.” His voice softened marginally. “She’s been useful, but this is family business.”
Family business. The euphemism we used for the darkest aspects of club life.
For the things we handled ourselves, quietly, permanently.
I nodded once more, left the office with the portfolio tucked under my arm.
The weight hadn’t diminished despite Atilla’s endorsement.
If anything, it had grown heavier. Ripper would die tonight.
By my hand. Because of my discovery. Justice and execution, bound together in the leather portfolio I carried like the most dangerous of weapons.
* * *
The clubhouse main room buzzed with afternoon routine -- brothers playing pool, Prospects running errands, the TV tuned to a basketball game nobody watched.
I moved through it like a ghost, seeing everything, touching nothing.
Twelve hours since discovering Ripper’s betrayal.
Eight since Atilla’s authorization. A little over three until extraction.
I kept my face impassive as I nodded to brothers at the bar, clapped shoulders in passing, maintained the fiction that today was like any other.
But select gazes caught mine -- Knuckles by the pool table, Ravager near the door -- and held for one beat too long.
They knew. Not what, exactly. But tonight would end in blood.
I made my way to the bar, ordered coffee I didn’t want from a Prospect who hurried to comply. The normality of the request was its own cover. Nothing unusual about the VP wanting coffee. Nothing to suggest that in a few hours I’d put a bullet in a brother’s head.
Knuckles finished his pool game, deliberately missing the final shot. Lost interest. Wandered over to stand beside me, his shoulder brushing mine. No words needed.
“Back room. Ten minutes,” I said, voice pitched for his ears only. He nodded once, moved away to collect his cut from the chair where he’d left it. Casual. Unhurried.
Professional.
Ravager received the same message as I passed him on my way to check the security monitors. Each step, each interaction choreographed to appear routine while setting pieces in motion. The skills developed over twenty years of club operations serving their darkest purpose.
I spotted her before she saw me -- Lila, sitting at a corner table with her laptop, fingers moving with that same analytical precision I’d come to respect.
To admire. Last night’s intimacy hung between us like an invisible thread, connecting us across the crowded room despite neither of us acknowledging it.
A Prospect stood at the bar nearby, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible. Watching her. Watching out for her. Though I was beginning to suspect she’d hold her own in almost any situation.
Her head lifted, eyes finding mine with uncomfortable accuracy. She’d been watching longer than I realized.
I looked away first. Deliberate. A message she’d understand even if she didn’t know why.
The security office was empty when I entered.
I checked the monitors showing various angles of the compound.
Camera three showed the garage where Ripper worked on a bike, oblivious to the judgment already passed.
The sight of him -- hands moving competently over engine parts, cigarette dangling from his lips -- sent a wave of cold anger through my chest. Eight years wearing our colors.
Eight years at our table. And he’d set us up for slaughter.
The back room filled silently over the next fifteen minutes.
Knuckles arrived first, then Ravager. Stray slipped in without being summoned -- Atilla’s addition to the team, I realized.
Four was better than three for tonight’s work.
Each man took a position around the room, none sitting. All waiting.
“Parts run tonight.” I kept my voice low despite the soundproofed walls. “Route 16. County line.”
No elaboration needed. No names spoken. No explicit mention of what we’d do after intercepting the “parts run.”
Ravager checked his sidearm with methodical care, ejecting the magazine, inspecting each round before reloading. Knuckles unpacked a black duffel bag containing zip ties, duct tape, plastic sheeting. Stray studied the map I’d laid out showing the extraction point, committing it to memory.
Each man preparing for execution in his own way. None questioning the necessity. All understanding that what happened tonight would never be discussed afterward. Club business. Family matter. Handled quietly.
The door opened without warning. Lila stood in the threshold, her expression controlled but eyes sharp with suspicion. The room froze, four sets of eyes locking onto her with predatory focus. “Need something?” My voice remained neutral. Professional.
She glanced from face to face, taking in the preparations with that analytical mind that missed nothing. “Just looking for you.”
“Meeting,” I replied, stepping toward her. Blocking her view of the map. Of the duffel bag. “Club business.”
She didn’t move, didn’t back down despite the palpable tension radiating from the four men prepared for violence. “Something’s happening.”
Not a question. A statement of fact. Her gaze held mine, searching for confirmation, for inclusion, for the trust our bodies had shared just hours ago in the darkness of my bedroom.
I moved closer, gently pushing her back through the doorway. Away from what she shouldn’t see. Couldn’t know. My hand closed around the door handle, ready to shut her out.
“Is it about Ripper?” she asked, her voice low enough that only I could hear.
My control slipped for a fraction of a second -- a slight widening of my eyes, a momentary pause in my breathing. Enough for her to catch. Enough to confirm. “How?” I kept my voice barely audible.
“The garage security logs. Access times don’t match reported hours. Financial transactions I was already tracking.” Her eyes never left mine. “I just hadn’t connected it to him until today.”
Of course, she’d found it. The same way she’d helped uncover General and Gopher’s apparent guilt. The same methodical analysis that had impressed me from the start.
“This isn’t your concern.” I maintained the professional distance despite the memory of her body pressed against mine just hours ago.
“You’re going to kill him.” Again, not a question. A statement of fact delivered with clinical precision.
I said nothing, which was answer enough.
“Let me help,” she said, surprising me.
I shook my head once. “Not your business. Not your burden.”
“He’s responsible for Marie’s death too.” Her voice hardened, the personal stake emerging from behind her professional facade. “That makes it my business.”
I found her wrist, my fingers encircling it gently but firmly. The same wrist I’d traced with my thumb in the heated darkness of my bedroom. Now a point of contact to reinforce boundaries, rather than dissolve them.
“Go back to your laptop,” I said quietly. “Pretend you saw nothing here.”
Her eyes flashed with something -- not fear, not anger, but a deeper frustration. “You don’t have to protect me.”
But I did. Not just from what would happen tonight, but from the memory of it afterward. From becoming an accomplice rather than just an analyst. From crossing the line that separated her world from mine. “I’ll find you later,” I said, releasing her.
She nodded and stepped back, accepting the boundary I’d drawn without further argument.
I watched her walk away, straight-backed and composed despite the rejection.
Despite being shut out of the justice she’d helped make possible.
The distance between us grew with each step she took across the main room -- physical space representing the deeper separation I’d just enforced.
When I closed the door, I locked it. Turned back to the three men waiting for instructions on how we’d execute a brother who’d betrayed everything we stood for. The weight of what was coming settled across my shoulders like a familiar burden.
By dawn, Ripper would be gone. Justice served.
Club protected. And Lila would remain untainted by the blood on my hands, even if that meant sacrificing whatever had started to grow between us in the darkness of my bedroom.
Some boundaries weren’t meant to be crossed.
Some burdens weren’t meant to be shared. Some sins belonged to me alone.
Tonight would be one of them.