The cramped back office smelled of stale cigar smoke, leather polish, and the metallic tang of old motor oil. Bear leaned forward in his steel chair, his massive forearms resting on his knees.
“Start from the beginning,” Bear commanded quietly.
Arthur took a shaky sip from the paper cup, his hands trembling so badly water splashed onto his frayed jacket.
“I sleep behind the corrugated tin out back, near the scrap heap,” Arthur began, his voice hoarse. “Nobody bothers me there. About three in the mornin', I heard a truck roll up. No headlights. Didn't sound like one of your bikes. It was a heavy diesel.”
Bear absorbed the detail. Jax drove a customized dually truck.
“I peeked through the gap in the fence,” Arthur continued. “It was the guy with the silver belt buckle. Your VP. He was with another man. Someone in a suit. They didn't look like they were from the neighborhood.”
Bear’s jaw tightened. “A suit.”
“Feds, maybe,” Arthur whispered, glancing nervously at the locked door. “Or cartel lawyers. I served in the 82nd Airborne back in the day. I know how government men carry themselves. This suit was all business. He handed your friend a little black box. Told him, ‘Just get it in the padding. It triggers on voice activation. We get the meet on tape, and you get the gavel next week.’”
The betrayal hit Bear like a sledgehammer to the ribs, but he forced his face to remain a mask of stone.
“Get the meet on tape,” Bear repeated softly.
Tonight was the sit-down with the Oakland syndicate. Bear had spent six months negotiating a massive real estate and logistics deal that would legitimize the Iron Hounds, turning their gritty operations into a fully lawful enterprise. He wanted out of the shadows. He wanted his men making clean money.
But Jax had hated the idea. Jax loved the outlaw life, the violence, the quick illicit cash. If Bear was arrested at the sit-down on a fabricated federal charge, Jax would immediately step up as president. He would kill the legitimate deal and plunge the club right back into the blood and the dirt.
“Your friend walked into the garage,” Arthur said, pointing a shaking finger at the desk. “I snuck around to the side window. I watched him take a razor blade to your helmet. He slid that little black box inside the cheek pad and taped it up. Then he put the helmet back on your handlebars like nothing happened.”
Bear stared at the cracked black shell sitting on his desk.
For twenty years, Jax had ridden at his right hand. They had bled for each other. Jax was the godfather to Bear’s daughter. The sheer venom required to wire a brother’s helmet and sell him to the feds was beyond anything Bear could comprehend.
But in this life, you couldn't act on grief. You couldn't even act on testimony from a homeless veteran. If Bear went out to the yard right now and beat Jax half to death, the club would fracture. Half the men would think Bear had gone crazy. Jax had loyalists. If Bear was going to take a patch off a sitting vice president, he needed irrefutable, undeniable proof.
“You’re a brave man for grabbing it, Arthur,” Bear said softly. “You saved my life. But if I don't prove this today, Jax will realize the wire is burned. He’ll panic and try to take me out before the sun goes down.”
Arthur nodded slowly. “What are you gonna do?”
Bear stood up. His massive frame seemed to fill the small room. He reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a small electronic scanner—a heavy, military-grade bug detector he used to sweep the clubhouse before major meetings.
He flipped the switch. The device immediately squealed as it pointed at the helmet. Bear tuned the frequency down until the squealing became a localized static hum.
“I’m going to find his leash,” Bear said grimly.