Chapter 3
The church table was a slab of reclaimed teak that had once been the deck of a fishing trawler—Anchor's grandfather's boat, salvaged before the bank took what was left.
Now it sat in the center of the converted office at Salt Blood's compound, scarred and salt-stained, surrounded by men who'd traded the water for the road but never forgot where they came from.
Anchor took his seat at the head. Hurricane dropped into the chair at his right, Trawler at his left. Compass, Riptide, and Breaker filled out the rest, along with a handful of other brothers who'd answered the call for a morning meeting.
"Church is in session." Anchor rapped his knuckles on the table once. "Compass. Talk to me about these loan shark rumors."
Compass leaned forward, sharp green eyes serious beneath his perpetual squint. He'd spent the last twenty-four hours digging, and Anchor could tell from his expression that he hadn't liked what he'd found.
"It's worse than rumors, Prez. The operation's been running in tidewater for about fifteen years, but they've pushed hard into our territory over the last six months.
" He spread a hand-drawn map across the table—tributaries, roads, the Harborview waterfront marked in red.
"Three businesses I can confirm. A bait shop on Miller's Creek, a boat repair place near the old cannery, and a restaurant on the waterfront.
All of them squeezed for debts they can't pay. "
"Who's running it?"
"Name's Martin Wilcox. Keeps his hands clean, lets his muscle do the dirty work. Got about sixteen guys on his payroll—collectors, enforcers, the works." Compass tapped the map. "He's been operating out near Chesapeake for years, but now he's moving into Harborview. Our backyard."
Hurricane cracked his knuckles, that cold anticipation already flickering in his eyes. "So some loan shark thinks he can squeeze our people. That what I'm hearing?"
"That's what you're hearing." Compass glanced at Anchor. "Word is he put a bar owner in the hospital last month. Collapsed lung, broken ribs. The guy's still in a medically induced coma."
Silence around the table. The brothers exchanged looks—the kind that meant violence was coming, and everyone was ready for it.
"What about the cops?" Breaker asked. "They just letting this happen?"
"Wilcox has connections. Money in the right pockets." Compass shrugged. "Local law looks the other way. Has for years."
Anchor absorbed the information, turning it over the way he used to turn over charts and weather reports. Fifteen years of operation meant Wilcox was smart, careful, and used to winning. The push into Harborview meant he was expanding—hungry for more territory, more victims, more control.
This wasn't just a predator hunting in Salt Blood country. This was an invasion.
"Who's his muscle?" Anchor asked. "Anybody we know?"
"His main enforcer's a guy named Dale Renner. Big bastard, prison record, likes hurting people." Compass pulled out a creased photo—a mugshot, by the look of it. Face like a bulldog, mean eyes, the kind of man who'd break bones and sleep fine afterward. "He's the one who put the bar owner down."
Anchor studied the photo, memorizing the face. "And the others?"
"Still digging. But Renner's the one you'll see first. He handles the personal visits."
Hurricane leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. "So we find this Renner, we put him in the ground, we send Wilcox a message. Problem solved."
"Not that simple." Anchor set the photo down. "Wilcox has been doing this for fifteen years. He's survived because he's patient and smart. We go in loud, we don't know what we're hitting."
"So we dig first," Trawler rumbled. His voice was deep enough to feel in your chest. "Find out how deep this goes. Then we bury them."
Anchor nodded. "Hurricane, you're on intel. I want to know everything about Wilcox—his operation, his people, his weak points. Compass keeps mapping the territory, figures out who else he's squeezing. We don't move until we know what we're dealing with."
"And if he moves first?" Riptide asked.
"Then we hit back twice as hard." Anchor looked around the table, meeting each man's eyes. "This is our territory. Our people. Some outside bastard thinks he can come in here and hurt them, he's about to learn what happens when you hunt in Salt Blood waters."
Murmurs of agreement. Fists on the table. The brothers were with him—they always were. That's what he'd built here. Loyalty that ran deeper than blood.
"Anything else?"
Heads shook. Church was done.
"Good. Meeting adjourned." Anchor pushed back from the table. "Hurricane, with me. Everyone else, back to business."
The brothers filed out, conversations picking up as they scattered toward the garage, the bar, the gravel lot where their bikes waited in the morning sun. Hurricane lingered, falling into step beside Anchor as he headed for the back door.
"You're worried."
"I'm cautious." Anchor grabbed his jacket from the hook by the door. "There's a difference."
"Fifteen years is a long time. Guy like that doesn't stay in business that long by being stupid." Hurricane followed him outside, where the smell of salt marsh and motor oil hung heavy in the humid air. "You think he knows about us?"
"He's moving into Harborview. If he doesn't know about us yet, he will soon." Anchor swung onto his bike, feeling the familiar weight settle beneath him. "I'm heading to The Blue Claw for lunch. Been meaning to check on the place anyway."
Hurricane raised an eyebrow. "The seafood shack? Thought old man Bernhard died a while back."
"Two years ago. His daughter runs it now." Anchor kicked the engine to life, letting the rumble fill the silence. "Frank Bernhard was one of the good ones. Never looked down on watermen who traded boats for bikes. I owe his memory a visit now and then."
"Want company?"
"Nah. Just lunch." He pulled on his gloves, settled his sunglasses in place. "Keep digging on Wilcox. I want a full picture by tomorrow."
Hurricane nodded and stepped back. Anchor pulled out of the compound lot, the bike's engine thundering as he hit the coastal highway.
The ride to The Blue Claw took fifteen minutes—past the old cannery, across the low bridge over Miller's Creek, down the waterfront road where faded signs advertised bait and fresh crabs and boat tours that nobody took anymore.
The restaurant sat at the end of the strip, a weathered building with blue shutters and hand-painted signs promising the best seafood in Harborview.