Bear walked back out into the garage. Jax was wiping his hands on a grease rag, admiring his work on the gleaming Harley.
“All clean, boss,” Jax said, tossing the rag onto a workbench. “Ready for tonight. We riding out together?”
Bear looked at the man he had once called a brother. He saw the nervous twitch in Jax’s jaw. He saw the false loyalty in his eyes.
“Yeah,” Bear said, his voice terrifyingly calm. “We’re riding out. But before we do, we need to have a sit-down. Call the patched members. Everyone in the chapel. Five minutes.”
Jax hesitated, his smile faltering slightly. “Church? Right now? We gotta be on the road in two hours.”
“Five minutes,” Bear repeated softly, leaving absolutely no room for debate.
Bear turned his back on his vice president and walked back toward his office to get the helmet. It was time to show the Iron Hounds exactly who had been riding beside them.
Chapter 3: The Vote
The heavy oak doors of the club’s private meeting room—known as the Chapel—slammed shut with a sound like a gunshot.
Fifteen fully patched members of the Iron Hounds sat around a long, scarred wooden table, their expressions tight with curiosity. The sudden call for “Church” was rare. The atmosphere in the windowless room was suffocatingly tense, lit only by low-hanging industrial pendant lights.
Bear stood at the head of the table. To his right stood Jax, leaning casually against his leather-backed chair, trying desperately to project confidence. To Bear’s left, standing just inside the doorway with Tiny looming behind him, was Arthur. The homeless veteran looked painfully out of place among the heavily tattooed bikers, gripping the edges of his frayed jacket as if it were armor.
Bear let the silence drag out for ten excruciating seconds. The silence forced the men to settle, to focus, to feel the gravity of the room.
When the room was completely still, Bear reached under the table and pulled out the shattered black helmet.
He placed it in the dead center of the oak table.
Several members leaned forward, frowning at the cracked visor and the torn padding.
“Two hours ago,” Bear said, his voice echoing off the concrete walls, deep and resonant. “This man”—he gestured to Arthur—“grabbed my helmet off my bike. He tried to take it away. I nearly beat him to death in the street for it.”
The table remained silent. Bear’s eyes swept over his men, watching their faces.
“But he wasn't stealing it,” Bear continued. He reached into the torn foam and slowly pulled out the square plastic device. The black electrical tape and the blinking red light were now visible to every man in the room.
A heavy, dangerous shift rippled through the bikers. Chairs creaked as men leaned forward.
“It’s a federal wire,” Bear stated flatly, tossing it onto the wood where it clattered to a stop. “Voice activated. GPS tracked. Someone planted it last night so the feds could listen in on our real estate meeting tonight. Someone wanted me swept up in a RICO raid.”
Instantly, the room erupted. Men cursed, slamming fists onto the table.