Page 123 of Priest

She opened a rideshare app and requested the first car available, setting the pickup point a short walk down the county road so it wouldn’t ping too close to the compound. The wait time flashed back at her.

Seven minutes.

Seven minutes felt like a lifetime.

She wrapped her arms around herself and stood in the thin line of shadow at the edge of the road, every second pressing harder than the last. She had wanted to protect her family from this life. Instead, she had fed information into the wrong hands and called it strategy because the alternative was admitting what she was.

Not brave. Not noble. Not a mother making one impossible choice for her son.

Just a woman who wanted what she wanted and kept moving the line until she couldn’t see where it had started.

Headlights appeared in the distance.

Lena stepped forward when the car slowed, climbed into the back seat without explanation, and gave the driver the address for Echo Road in a voice steadier than she felt.

Behind her, the compound lights glowed against the sky, sealed and vigilant.

Ahead of her, the factory waited.

For the first time since she’d started convincing herself she was doing the right thing, Lena understood that there was no version of this that ended quietly.

40

Priest

The clubhouse didn’t explode after the recording ended.

It compressed.

The first wave had been noise. Wood splintering against drywall. Boots shifting. Men swearing low enough that it barely counted as language. That burned off fast, leaving something heavier behind. Focus settled through the room, low and sharp, pulling every breath tighter.

Joker had drawn blood.

Now we answered.

Archangel stood at the long table in the main room with a folded map spread beneath one hand and a black file dropped open beside it. The Fallen Angels cut sat dark against Saints hardwood, but he carried it like territory was a technicality, not a threat. He hadn’t come in loud. He hadn’t come in flanked by half his club, puffed up and looking for a reason to make the room bleed.

He’d come in calm.

That should’ve made him less dangerous.

It didn’t.

Until that moment, I hadn’t known whether the Fallen Angels’ distance from every club around them meant arrogance or discipline. They didn’t posture. They didn’t show up for joint rides. They didn’t ask permission, but they also didn’t take more road than they needed.

Archangel turned one page in the file with two fingers.

Now I understood.

It meant preparation.

“We’ve been tracking Dead Man’s Hand for months,” he said, eyes lifting to mine instead of scanning the room for reactions. “Not for territory. For trafficking and arms movement. They crossed into a lane we’re paid to clean.”

A quiet ripple moved through my officers.

Ledger’s brow furrowed. Ink shifted beside him, arms crossing tighter over his chest. Rook’s jaw ticked once, but he kept his mouth shut.

Paid.