Chapter 3
Church was sacred ground.
Tornado sat at the head, the gavel his grandfather had carved from mesquite wood resting beside his right hand.
His officers filled the chairs around him—Shadow to his immediate left, Diesel across the table, Rascal by the door.
Hatchet had spread a county map across the wood, red circles marking the locations that mattered.
"Talk to me," Tornado said.
"Same play?"
"Same play. Show up with muscle, make threats, offer to 'protect' the property for a monthly fee. Anyone who says no gets a warning." Shadow's jaw tightened. "The gas station owner's wife ended up in the hospital. Broken arm. They said she fell."
Diesel swore under his breath.
"And Jolene Prescott was just the latest," Tornado said.
"Latest and loudest. Word is Renteria's pissed about last night. His boys came back with their tails between their legs, and the woman they were supposed to scare put a shotgun round over their heads." Shadow's grin was sharp as a blade. "He's not going to let that slide."
Tornado's hands curled into fists beneath the table. He thought about Jolene standing on that porch, red hair wild, finger on the trigger. The way her voice had stayed steady even when her hands shook.
She'd made herself a target. And Renteria was exactly the kind of man who'd make her pay for it.
"Hatchet," he said. "What do we know about the product?"
Hatchet pushed his reading glasses up his nose—the only man in the room who'd admit to needing them.
"Meth. High quality, consistent supply. Based on the volume Shadow's contacts have reported, it's coming from a border lab with cartel connections.
Delgado's not cooking this himself—he's just the distribution network. "
"Moving it how?"
"Abandoned truck stops." Hatchet tapped the map, pointing to three circled locations.
"These are all stops we used to protect back in the day.
Independent haulers, mom-and-pop operations.
They dried up when the interstates killed the traffic, but the buildings are still there.
Delgado's using them as stash points and transfer stations. "
"On our road," Rascal said quietly. His pale eyes hadn't left the map. "Moving poison through our territory."
"On our road," Tornado confirmed. "While we weren't paying attention."
The silence that followed was heavy. Tornado felt it like a weight on his chest—the knowledge that this had been happening under their noses. That people on their stretch had been getting hurt while the club looked the other way.
His father's voice echoed in his memory. The road is sacred. We ride it, we protect it, we own it.
He'd let the old man down. Let the club down. Let the people who counted on them down.
Not anymore.
"Here's what we know," Tornado said, his voice cutting through the quiet.
"Victor Delgado is running a meth pipeline through our corridor.
He's got an enforcer named Marco Renteria doing his dirty work—intimidation, property destruction, whatever it takes to clear his path.
He's targeting small businesses because they're easy marks, and he's expanding because nobody's pushed back. "
He stood, planting his hands on the table.
"That ends tonight."
Shadow nodded slowly. "What's the play?"
"We shut him down. Not negotiation, not warnings—we hit his local operations hard enough that he understands this stretch belongs to us. He wants to run product, he can find another road."
"And Renteria?" Diesel asked.
"Renteria's the tip of the spear. We cut off the tip, Delgado loses his ability to threaten anyone on our stretch." Tornado looked around the table, meeting each man's eyes in turn. "I'm calling for a vote. All in favor of shutting down Delgado's pipeline by force?"
Shadow's hand went up first. Then Diesel's. Rascal's. Hatchet's.
Unanimous.
"Then it's decided." Tornado picked up the gavel, felt the weight of it in his palm. His grandfather had held this same wood. His father too, though he'd held it poorly—let the club slide into debt and disrepair before the bottle finally took him.
Tornado had spent the last eight years rebuilding what his father had broken. He wasn't about to let some cartel middleman tear it down again.
"Shadow, Striker—I want you on Renteria's crew. Find out where they're holed up, how many men he's got, what their patterns look like. Don't engage yet. Just eyes and ears."
Shadow nodded. "Consider it done."
"Diesel, get word to our contacts along the stretch. Anyone who's been approached by Delgado's people, I want to know about it. Names, dates, what they were threatened with. We're building a picture."
"On it."
"Hatchet, I need an inventory of what we've got in the armory. If this goes hot, I want to know we're ready."
Hatchet was already making notes. "I'll have a full count by morning."
"And Rascal." Tornado turned to the Sergeant at Arms. "You stay on the Dusty Rose. Jolene Prescott is the one who stood up to them publicly. That makes her the biggest target."
"Understood." Rascal's voice was flat, professional. "She's got backbone, that one. Gave me hell about paying for my coffee."
"Sounds about right."
The brothers chuckled, and some of the tension in the room eased. But Tornado's mind was already elsewhere—already on the highway, already heading west toward a neon sign and a woman with a shotgun.
"We're done here," he said. "Church is closed. Everyone knows their assignments. Questions?"
Silence.
"Then move."
The brothers filed out, the heavy door swinging shut behind them one by one. Shadow lingered, waiting until they were alone.
"You're riding back to the café," he said. It wasn't a question.
"Rascal's got it covered."
"Rascal's good. But you're going anyway."
Tornado didn't answer. He didn't need to. Shadow had been reading him for twenty years—since they'd met in McAlester, since Shadow had prospected out the day his parole ended, since they'd ridden side by side through everything the road could throw at them.
"She's got under your skin," Shadow said.
"She's a target. She needs protection."
"She's got protection. What she's got under your skin is something else." Shadow's grin was knowing, almost gentle. "I've seen you stare down cartel guns without blinking. But that woman on the porch with the shotgun—that's the first time I've seen you look twice."
"You're imagining things."
"I'm observing things. There's a difference." Shadow clapped him on the shoulder. "Go check on your café owner. I'll have Renteria's location by morning."
He was gone before Tornado could respond.
The chapel fell silent. Just Tornado and the empty chairs and the map with its red circles marking all the places they'd failed to protect.
He thought about his father. About the debts and the drinking and the slow collapse that had left the club bleeding members and respect. About the promise he'd made standing over the old man's grave—that he'd do better. Be better. Hold what was left together.
He thought about Jolene.
The way she'd stood her ground when four men circled her café. The way she'd laid out her demands like she was the one in control. The fire in her eyes when she'd told him she didn't trust easy.
Trust is earned.
He'd said that. And he'd meant it.
But somewhere between last night and this morning, something had shifted. She wasn't just a business owner on his stretch anymore. She wasn't just a target who needed protection.
She was something else. Something he didn't have a name for yet.
Tornado grabbed his keys and headed for the door.
The highway was dark and empty, the Mother Road stretching west toward a pink neon sign and a woman who didn't know how to quit. He opened the throttle and let the engine roar, the wind tearing at his cut as he rode.
Shadow was right. She'd gotten under his skin.
And Tornado had a feeling she was going to stay there.