The president of the Portland Reapers’ chapter stepped forward, crossing his arms as he looked across the room.

“The Jacks have been holding strong in the south,” he said. “We’ve caught a few cartel runners in the Portland area, but so far as I know they aren’t making it up into Washington anymore. La Grande’s stood firm, covering the central corridor. Much as I hate to admit it, the Jacks have been solid. Not a hell of a lot to report. Hunter, you got anything to add?”

Em’s old man stepped forward. I studied him thoughtfully, trying to decide if I hated him any less these days. I’d gotten over Em a while ago—hadn’t thought about her much at all on the inside. You’d think that would smooth the way with me and Hunter, but it didn’t—I’d still happily cut his throat, just on general principle. Arrogant asshole.

He stared right at me, eyes hard.

“Gotta thank those who served time for us all,” he said, offering me a small, mocking salute. Cocksucker. “We all know the cartel will recover and come after us again at some point, but for now they’re mostly staying south of the Oregon state line. Northern Cali’s a little harder—we’re not in control, but they aren’t, either. At some point we’ll probably have to make a tough decision about whether we want to keep fighting for the territory. That’s for the club to decide, and right now we’re holding off making any solid plans. Our allies down south are being infiltrated. Not sure we can trust them long-term.”

Puck and I shared a look—we’d seen plenty of that in prison. Our “allies” were useless.

“Painter, you want to share what you told me about your time inside?” Pic asked, apparently reading my mind. I nodded, pausing to consider before I spoke.

“Well, you all know we had allied club brothers with us,” I said. “A few Longnecks, Bay Brotherhood, and one guy with the Nighthawk Raiders. Longnecks are shit, sorry to say. Couldn’t trust ’em inside, and now that I’ve visited one of their chapters I’d say that runs true for the whole fuckin’ club. The Brotherhood seemed solid but they’re having a rough time holding their own. The Nighthawks guy was interesting . . .”

Puck and I shared a quick glance as I paused, trying to think of the best way to explain Pipes, our jailhouse contact.

“Puck, you want to jump in here?” I asked.

“Sure,” he said. “Pipes was on his own and we bonded up pretty fast, given the history between our clubs. He was in for a weapons charge, too. But here’s the interesting part—we all know they’ve been bringing in product through the Canadian border for a while, right? Well get this . . . According to Pipes, their pipeline’s choking out on the Canada side.”

Picnic and Boonie weren’t surprised by this, but Hunter obviously was. Interesting—Pic hadn’t briefed him ahead of time. Guess the Hayes family wasn’t one big happy. Not a huge surprise—I had all kinds of reasons for disliking the guy, but they were nothing compared to Pic’s. So far as I could tell, Christ himself wouldn’t be good enough for Reese Hayes’s daughters, at least not in his eyes.

Rance, the president of the Reapers’ chapter in Bellingham, stepped up. He already knew what Puck and I had to say, of course. We’d told Pic and Boonie all about it, and I knew Reese had been in touch with Rance afterward, seeing as his chapter was the closest to Hallies Falls, where the Nighthawks were located. Now I was curious to hear his take on the situation.

“We’ve heard rumors,” he said. “I’ve suspected something was up for a while now. They’ve been short on their payments, product has gone missing, that kind of thing. They blamed it on some local cops gone bad—cost of doing business—but it never rang true. Now we’ve got a better idea of what’s going on. Tell ’em the rest, Painter.”

“So, there’s a new player up in British Columbia,” I continued. “They call themselves a club, but Pipes says they’re just a bunch of tweakers who bought themselves bikes and threw on some patches—not a real brotherhood at all. Kinda like that shit that went down in Quebec, you know? Now they’re fighting with the Nighthawk Raiders for control of the cross-border traffic. He’s worried the whole club will go down, lose their patches entirely.”

“Why didn’t they come to us themselves?” Hunter asked, frowning. “Seems like the kind of thing you’d want to discuss direct, but we haven’t heard jack shit from them.”

“Pipes thinks their president—Marsh—has thrown in with the BC guys,” I explained. “Not only is he bringing in new brothers who are loyal to him, he’s cutting the older brothers out of the loop. They haven’t been voting on shit, and no officer elections, either. Pipes says he tried to call Marsh out. Got his ass kicked and then they sacrificed him on a run. He isn’t talking to the cops, but he’s reaching out to us for help. Desperate for it. Knows that if the club falls, he’ll lose his protection inside.”

“Bad situation,” Boonie murmured. “Thoughts, anyone?”

“We should go check it out,” said Bolt, the Coeur d’Alene vice president. The man was Picnic’s age, and they’d been friends their whole lives. If it wasn’t for Bolt I wouldn’t even be here—I’d met him when I was nineteen years old, fresh in my first prison term and scared shitless. He’d taken pity on me, teaching me how to stay alive and covering my ass when I needed it. I’d had a bike before I went in, but I’d never known shit about MC culture. By the time I’d gotten out two years later, I was ready for the Reapers. Bolt had pulled some strings and the next thing I knew, I was staying at the Armory, doing odd jobs, and earning my way into the club.

Best damned thing that ever happened to me, no fuckin’ question.

“I’ll go,” Gage announced, stepping up quietly. I wasn’t surprised—until last year, Gage had been our sergeant at arms, and he never backed down from anything. He’d been running The Line for the past two years and I knew he was restless. “Go in quiet, get a feel for how things are going. Maybe just a couple of us?”

“Thoughts?” Pic asked, looking to the other presidents.

“Seems solid to me,” Boonie said. “No need to tip them off—if it’s nothing, they’ll never know we questioned them, and if we have to take action, I don’t want them tipped off ahead of time.”

Rance nodded. “You got anyone in mind to take with you, Gage? They know most of the Bellingham brothers, so we can’t be much use to you.”

Gage looked to me, eyes speculative. “How about you, Painter? You’ve heard about the situation firsthand, and you’ve been out of circulation for a while. Less likely they’ll recognize you. I know you’re on parole, but I think we’ve got that covered.”

“Sure,” I said, mentally rearranging my week. I had shifts at the body shop, but seeing as Pic was the boss, that wasn’t an issue.

“Great, let’s talk after we finish here,” he replied.

“Moving on, let’s discuss the situation near Whitefish,” Pic said. I only listened to him with one ear, thinking through every conversation I’d ever had with Pipes in prison, wondering if I’d missed anything along the way.

“You want help?” Puck asked, his voice a whisper. “Know you’re going in quiet, but it never hurts to have backup.”

I liked the idea—felt natural to have Puck at my back. “Let me talk to Gage. See what he thinks.”

•   •   •

An hour later we’d finished all our business. There wasn’t a ton—this weekend was more of a social event than anything else. I caught Gage’s eye on the way out, and he waved me over.

“Puck’s offered to come with us,” I told him. “We’re tight, and it probably wouldn’t hurt to have someone from the Bastards along for the ride.”

Gage frowned.

“I’d rather not. I know he’s a good kid, but if we bring in a second club that complicates things. We take one of the Bastards with us, then the Jacks will want one of theirs along and suddenly there’s ten of us hitting town. Right now it’s contained in our territory and I’d like to keep it that way.”