Page 45 of Nomad: Violent Devotion

He laughs, and the sound loosens something in my chest.

****

The main room is buzzing when we emerge.

Brothers cluster around tables, voices low and urgent. Maps are spread across the bar, weighted down with beer bottles and ammunition. The energy is tight, coiled, the kind that precedes violence.

Savage stands at the center, arms folded, listening to a stocky brother I don’t recognize. Saint flanks his right, vice president patch gleaming, while Crimson leans against the wall near the door, cleaning his rifle with methodical precision.

Walker steers me to a chair near the back. “Stay here. I’ll be back.”

“Like hell.”

“Poppy.” His voice drops. “This is club business.”

“I am club business.” I meet his glare without backing down. “Samuel is my father. I know his patterns, his routes, his safe houses. You need me in that conversation.”

Walker stares at me for a long beat. Then he exhales through his nose and jerks his head toward the bar. “Fine. But keep your mouth shut until I say otherwise.”

“Deal.”

We approach the bar, and Savage looks up. His eyes flick from Walker to me, then back.

“She stays,” Walker says before Savage can object. “She knows Tyrant’s operation better than anyone in this room.”

Savage’s jaw works. He looks at me for a long moment, then steps aside.

“Talk,” he says.

And I do.

I tell them everything. The routes. The caches. The corrupt sheriff in Yerrington who looks the other way for a cut. The cartel contacts, the timing of the shipments, the weak spots in Samuel’s security where his arrogance leaves gaps wide enough to drive a truck through. I lay it all out like dissecting a corpse, clinical and thorough, betraying every secret my father ever trusted me with.

The room is silent when I finish.

Savage studies the map, one finger tracing the route I described. “You’re sure about the timing?”

“Positive. Samuel runs on a schedule. Has for years. He thinks predictability is a strength because no one’s been stupid enough to test it.”

“Until now,” Saint mutters.

“Until now,” I agree.

Savage looks up. “We hit them during the next shipment. Hit them hard. No survivors, no messages, no warnings. We end this.”

Walker’s hand settles on the back of my neck. Warm. Grounding. “What about Tyrant?”

Savage’s expression doesn’t change. “Tyrant is mine.”

I open my mouth to argue, that Samuel is mine to end, but Walker’s fingers tighten. A warning. I bite my tongue so hard I taste copper.

“His daughter gets the first shot,” Savage says, and my mouth snaps shut. He meets my eyes. “If she can take it.”

“She can,” Walker answers for me.

I meet Savage’s gaze and hold it. “I can.”

The president nods once. “Then we plan. Meeting reconvenes at fourteen hundred. Everyone knows their role by sundown.”