Chapter Three
Church convened at nine sharp.
Lockjaw stood at the foot of the table, watching his brothers file into the chapel with the particular energy that said everyone knew something was happening.
Word traveled fast in the compound—his bike parked at a woman's cabin overnight, the phone call to Tundra at dawn, the request for an emergency session before the morning coffee had finished brewing.
Permafrost took his seat at the head of the table, cold blue eyes scanning the room with the patient assessment of a man who'd learned to read situations in mine shafts where a wrong call meant cave-ins.
Ice settled to his right, Tundra to his left.
Ironside leaned against the wall with arms crossed, and Coldstart dropped into his usual chair still wiping grease from his hands.
"Talk," Permafrost said.
No preamble. No small talk. That was Erik Lindgren—fourth-generation miner who'd founded this club when the iron ranges closed and his town died around him. Words cost energy, and energy was survival.
"Gordon Pruitt." Lockjaw kept his voice level. "Runs the fishing lodge on Vermillion. High-end packages, floatplane access, discrete clientele."
"We know about Pruitt." Ice's voice carried the careful neutrality of a man who'd spent fifteen years reading ice conditions and knew when surfaces were deceptive. "Card games in the basement. Wealthy idiots losing money to each other. Not our concern."
"It is now."
Lockjaw laid out the situation—the guide whose routes crossed Pruitt's access points, the escalating damage, the destroyed canoes, the fresh boot prints in her yard. He kept it brief, factual, letting the details speak for themselves.
But he couldn't keep the edge out of his voice when he described the pike holes through her equipment.
Tundra noticed. Of course he did—the VP missed nothing, mountain warfare training layered over Finnish sisu until the man was practically a human threat detector.
"This guide," Tundra said slowly. "She's the one Coldstart fixed the truck for?"
"Tamsin Rowe. Runs solo expeditions in the Boundary Waters. Built her business from nothing after a bad marriage." Lockjaw's jaw clenched. "She's been paddling those routes for four years. Pruitt's people approached her a year ago, tried to pay her off. When she refused, they got aggressive."
"How aggressive?"
"Two men cornered her at a boat launch. She put a paddle through one guy's knee and outran the other."
Ironside made a sound that might have been approval. The massive Swede didn't speak often, but his expressions said plenty.
"And now?" Permafrost's voice was flat, waiting.
"Now they've escalated from intimidation to destruction.
Twelve thousand dollars in equipment gutted in her yard while we were twenty minutes behind her on the road.
" Lockjaw let that sink in. "They knew her schedule.
They're watching her property. And they ran when they heard my bike, which means they're not ready for direct confrontation—yet. "
"What's the ask?"
Lockjaw met Permafrost's eyes.
"Pruitt's been running his operation through our territory for years.
Using access points on water we consider club-friendly.
Moving money, moving clients, moving problems—all without permission, tribute, or acknowledgment.
" He paused. "Now his people are threatening a woman openly, destroying property in daylight, acting like this land belongs to them instead of us. "
Silence settled over the table.
The Savages had built their reputation on protecting the Iron Range—the communities abandoned when mines closed, the people who had nowhere else to turn when law stopped reaching this far north.
They weren't heroes. They were outlaws who'd carved out territory through violence and held it through reputation.
But reputation only worked if people believed it.
And Pruitt's people were acting like the Savages didn't exist.
"He's right." Ice spoke first, which was unusual. The road captain typically held his opinions until the vote. "We let this slide, word gets out that you can operate in our territory without consequences. That's bad for business."
"It's worse than bad for business." Tundra's voice was harder now. "It's an invitation. Every two-bit operation between here and Duluth starts thinking they can set up shop without asking permission."
"The woman." Permafrost's gaze hadn't left Lockjaw's face. "She's not club. Not family. Not connected to us in any way."
"She is now."
The words came out before Lockjaw could stop them. Harder than he'd intended. More possessive than the situation warranted.
Tundra's eyebrows rose slightly.
Ironside's expression shifted into something that looked almost like amusement.
Lockjaw didn't back down.
"She's guiding routes that border our territory.
Her business depends on water we consider ours.
And she's got more spine than half the men who've tried to prospect for this club.
" He held Permafrost's stare. "Pruitt wants her gone because she's a witness to his operation.
If we let him push her out, we're telling everyone that witnesses in our territory don't get protection. "
"And if we don't let him push her out?"
"Then we remind him whose land he's been operating on. And we make sure he understands the cost of forgetting."
More silence.
Then Coldstart spoke up, his voice carrying the practical edge of a man who solved problems with wrenches and welding torches.
"I fixed her truck. Saw the damage up close." He shook his head. "That wasn't random vandalism. Sugar in the gas tank, crowbar through the windshield, seats slashed in a pattern that says someone was sending a message. Whoever did it knew what they were doing."
"Professional," Tundra said.
"Professional enough. Pruitt's got muscle—lodge staff who double as enforcers, Duluth hires for the serious work.
" Coldstart's eyes found Lockjaw's. "If he's escalating from property damage to direct threats, that means he's moving toward a permanent solution.
The kind that ends with a tragic boating accident. "
"That's not going to happen."
Lockjaw's voice came out flat. Final. The kind of tone that left no room for argument.
Every brother at the table looked at him.
He didn't care.
Tamsin Rowe had built something from nothing, the same way he'd built himself after walking away from the repo life.
She'd survived a bad marriage, earned a reputation through work that would break most people, and refused to bend when criminals told her to move.
She was alone, outgunned, and facing an enemy who could make her disappear without anyone noticing.
That wasn't going to happen.
Not while he was breathing.
"You want this." Permafrost's voice was quiet. Assessing. "The job of reminding Pruitt who owns this territory."
"I do."
"Why?"
A hundred answers ran through Lockjaw's mind. Territory. Reputation. The practical calculation that letting Pruitt operate unchecked was bad for club business.
But that wasn't why his jaw was clenched so tight his teeth ached.
That wasn't why he'd spent the night on her porch with his hand on his phone, ready to call in brothers at the first sign of trouble.
That wasn't why the image of her destroyed canoes made him want to find Pruitt's people and show them what professional damage really looked like.
"Because someone should," he said finally. "And I'm volunteering."
Permafrost studied him for a long moment.
Then he nodded, decision made.
"Pruitt's been using our territory without acknowledgment.
His people are threatening a woman on club-friendly water.
That ends." The president's voice carried the weight of a verdict being delivered.
"Lockjaw, you're point on this. Find out how deep his operation runs, how many men he's got, and what it'll take to make him understand his mistake. "
"And the woman?"
"She's under our protection now. Make sure she knows it." Permafrost's cold eyes held his. "And make sure Pruitt knows it too."
"Understood."
"Brothers." Permafrost looked around the table. "We're reminding Gordon Pruitt whose land he's been operating on. Any objections?"
Silence.
Then Tundra smiled—a thin, dangerous expression that didn't reach his eyes.
"Been a while since we had a reminder to deliver. I was getting bored."
"Ironside, you're backup if things escalate. Ice, I want routes mapped—every access point Pruitt's people use, every road between here and his lodge." Permafrost stood, signaling the end of church. "Lockjaw earned this job. Let's make sure he has what he needs to finish it."
The brothers rose, conversations breaking out as they filtered toward the door. Lockjaw stayed where he was, feeling the weight of what he'd just taken on settle into his shoulders.
Coldstart paused beside him on the way out.
"You know what you're doing?" The mechanic's voice was low, meant only for him.
"No."
"Good." Coldstart clapped him on the shoulder. "The ones who think they know are the ones who get killed. Stay sharp, brother."
He left, and Lockjaw stood alone in the chapel, staring at the table where decisions got made and lives got shaped.
He'd come to church expecting to report a problem.
He was leaving with a mission, a woman under his protection, and the growing certainty that whatever was building between him and Tamsin Rowe was going to change everything.
Permafrost's verdict echoed in his mind.
Pruitt has forgotten whose land he's operating on.
And Lockjaw just earned the job of reminding him.
He headed for the door, already calculating his next move.
The guide was waiting at her cabin with destroyed canoes and a rifle she knew how to use.
Time to tell her she wasn't alone anymore.