Page 52 of Priest

I finally take my seat at the head of the table. The room goes quiet without me asking, and the silence lands in the empty space where Deacon should be.

I rest my palms flat on the wood. “Deacon should be sitting here.”

No one speaks.

“He’s not,” I continue, voice steady even though something sharp twists in my chest. “Because someone knew where we were going. Someone knew how many bikes. Someone knew the route well enough to set an ambush and walk away clean.”

A muscle jumps in Graves’s jaw. Nomad’s eyes darken. Ledger’s fingers go still near his notebook.

I let them feel it.

Dead Man’s Hand didn’t just hit a run. They put my VP in a hospital bed. My brother. The man closest to me in this club. The one person in this room who should be sitting at my right shoulder, looking at me like he already knows where my head is before I say a word.

This is business.

It’s also personal as hell.

“Dead Man’s Hand didn’t guess,” I say. “They didn’t get lucky.”

I lift my gaze, meeting each pair of eyes in turn.

“They were fed.”

The word lands heavy.

I don’t accuse. Not yet. Accusations make men stupid, and I need every man at this table sharp.

“I trust every man here,” I say. “That’s not blind loyalty. That’s earned.”

Graves nods once. Nomad shifts forward. Ink’s attention sharpens, not defensive and not offended, just interested in the way a blade might be interested in a throat.

“But trust doesn’t mean complacency,” I go on. “It doesn’t mean we skip hard questions when one of ours is bleeding because somebody opened a door for the enemy.”

I straighten. “There’s a rat. We’re going to dig it out.”

No one flinches.

Good.

“We do this clean. No accusations. No ego. We follow the trail, we verify everything, and when we know, when we’re certain, we end it.”

I pause long enough for the word to matter.

“Permanent.”

Rook’s mouth curves into something grim. Ledger exhales slowly. Ink nods once, already cataloging what needs to be checked.

“This club was built so men like Joker don’t get to decide what family looks like anymore,” I say, voice lower now. “I watched him teach his sons that women are disposable. That loyalty is fear. That power means taking whatever you want and burning what’s left.”

My hands curl against the table.

“I built Saints so we’d never become that.”

The room hums with agreement, not loud, not dramatic. Solid.

“We run businesses that stand in daylight. Garage. Ink. Bar. Red Mercy. We put money through doors people can walk into without being afraid of what’s behind them. The rest of what we do, the quiet work, exists because men like Joker still breathe. Because women aren’t currency here. Kids aren’t collateral. A patch doesn’t buy forgiveness for rot.”

Graves’s eyes hold mine. Rook’s jaw flexes once. On the screen, Ghost says nothing, which from him says plenty.