Page 20 of Sacrifice
"How much time?"
"Three weeks, minimum. And that's pushing it."
Three weeks of exposure. Three weeks of Los Coyotes getting closer. Three weeks of every woman connected to the club being a potential target.
Including Saga.
"I'll need inventory numbers, but I can personally start helping move product," Doran says, standing. "And we should start moving it by Monday."
"Emil will coordinate," Rio decides. "He's got the head for logistics."
Great. More shit on my plate when all I want to do is track down Saga and finish what we started.
But I nod, accepting the responsibility. That's what being part of the club means—duty first, personal shit second.
Even when the personal shit is a stubborn woman who makes me want to throw duty out the fucking window.
"Monday," I confirm. "I'll have counts and packaging ready."
Doran leaves with another round of handshakes, and we finish our drinks in relative silence.
The weight of Los Coyotes hangs over the table like smoke.
"We need to tell the others," Magnus says finally. "Get everyone on alert."
"Kirkjatomorrow," Rio agrees. "Full table."
"And the women?" Tor asks. "Do we tell them?"
"We have to at some point," I say, thinking of Saga out there alone, no idea she might have a target on her back. "They need to know to be careful."
"Your girl's not gonna like being told to be careful," Rio observes. "Saw how well she took you interrupting her date."
"She's not my girl," I say automatically.
Three skeptical faces stare back at me.
"Okay, she's not my girlyet," I amend. "And she'll like being dead even less than being careful."
"Fair point." Rio stands, throwing money on the table. "Let's head back. I need to check on Dasha and the girls."
We leave through the back, habit making us check the alley before stepping out.
It’s clear, but that doesn't mean shit with scouts around.
They're trained to be invisible until they strike.
The ride back to the clubhouse is short, but my mind's already spinning through everything we discussed.
Security rotations, product inventory, distribution schedules.
And underneath it all, one thought on repeat: how the fuck do I protect a woman who won't let me near her?
Bubba's is packed when we pull up, bikes lined deep in the lot.
Friday night always brings a crowd, plus the weather's perfect—late April weather warm enough for skin, cool enough to ride.
Music pounds from inside, bass heavy enough to feel in your chest.
