Page 41 of Heresy
He snaps the burner phone shut, shoves it back into his jacket, and twists the throttle. The bike doesn't glide forward;it leaps, a raw, aggressive surge of power that throws me hard against his back. The fragile, dangerous connection we forged on the rooftop is gone, incinerated by the realities of his world.
We are no longer two players on a lonely precipice. We are the captor and the captive once more, hurtling back toward a fortress that is now officially at war.
EIGHTEEN
THE DEATH OF HOPE
HEX
The bike screams into the Serpent Cycle Works garage, a howl of rage and raw horsepower that echoes off the polished concrete. I kill the engine and swing my leg off before the machine has fully stopped, my boots hitting the floor with a hard, definitive thud.
The air in here is no longer clean with the scent of oil and money. It's thick with the metallic tang of gun solvent and the electric hum of controlled chaos. The calm, professional workshop from yesterday is gone, replaced by a war room. The wealthy clients are gone. The half-finished bikes on the hydraulic lifts are forgotten monuments to a time of peace that ended the moment I read the message on my burner phone.
Men are everywhere, their movements sharp, grim, and purposeful. No one is laughing. No one is working on custom paint jobs. They're stripping down rifles on the same tables where clients used to sign five-figure checks. They're loading magazines with a rhythmic, practiced efficiency, the softclick-clackof brass seating into place a counterpoint to the angry rock music blasting from a speaker. This is not panic. This is preparation.
There is no time for reflection. The message on the burner is a brand burned into my mind. It was a photo. One of my oldest, most trusted brothers, Preacher, executed in a Santos warehouse. The accompanying text was a simple, brutal declaration of war from a ghost I thought I'd buried.
Found your leak. He sends his regards.
Cain didn't just find the leak; he murdered a patched member of my club, a brother, and is now mocking me with the proof. My mind is a storm of pure, cold rage. The time for games, for psychological tests, for anything other than absolute annihilation, is over.
Vera is still on the back of the bike, her body stiff with a fear she is trying desperately to conceal. I don't look at her. She is a complication, a ghost from a different war that I don't have time for right now.
"Get her back to her cell," I snarl to the nearest prospect without turning my head. The command is a bark of pure, unfiltered fury.
I stalk past the men, past the weapons, my entire being focused on a single point. I shove through the heavy door that leads to the church room, my kingdom, my war table. Vengeance is no longer a strategic choice. It is a biological necessity.
I shovethrough the heavy oak door to the church room, the scent of stale whiskey and old secrets a familiar welcome. The room is already filled with the heavy silence of dread. My entire patched brotherhood lines the walls, a silent jury of leather and denim. At the massive oak table, Rook and Zero are already waiting, their faces carved from granite. They've seen the message. They know.
I stalk to the head of the table and slam the burner phone down on the scarred wood. The plastic clatters, a small, insignificant sound in the heavy quiet.
"He's not just testing us anymore," I snarl, my voice a low growl that cuts through the tension. "He's taking pieces off the board. He murdered Preacher and left him like trash for us to find."
Zero's hand is resting on the hilt of his Ka-Bar, his knuckles white. "This is not a message. This is an execution," he says, his voice a flat, cold sheet of ice. "The law is absolute. Blood for blood. We level their clubhouse. Tonight. I want every last Santo dead by sunrise, and I want Judas's head on a spike."
Several of the younger members murmur in agreement, their blood hot, their grief demanding a simple, violent release.
"And walk right into Cain's trap?" Rook counters, his voice a low rumble of pure strategy. He is shaken, his face pale, but his mind is already a chessboard. "This is what he wants, Zero. A public, bloody war. He wants us to kill a clubhouse full of puppet-show bikers so the Feds come down on us with everything they have. He wants us wiped off the map so he can pick up the pieces."
The arguments rage around me, fire and ice. Zero’s is the path of pure, hot vengeance that my own rage is screaming for. Rook’s is the path of cold, strategic patience. I hear them, but my mind is somewhere else. It’s on a cold, windswept rooftop, listening to the quiet, steady voice of a woman who understands ruins better than anyone I’ve ever met.
"You don't fix it. A thing that's rotting from the inside can't be repaired. You have to burn it down and build something new from the ashes."
I look at the faces of my men, at the raw grief and fury in their eyes. A simple "blood for blood" response, as satisfying as it would be, is playing the game by Cain's rules. I am the king ofthis broken kingdom. And to win this war, I have to change the rules entirely. I have to burn down the board itself.
I hold up a hand,a quiet, simple gesture that cuts through the rage in the room. The arguments die instantly. Every eye fixes on me, waiting. The air is thick with the expectation of a verdict. Fire or ice.
"No," I say, my voice a low, deadly calm that is more terrifying than any shout. I look at Rook. "You're right. A public street war is what Cain wants. It's a losing game." Then I turn my gaze to Zero. "But you're right, too. This requires fire. Preacher's blood demands it."
I lean forward, my hands flat on the scarred oak table. "We are not going to attack the Sin Santos. We are going to give them exactly what they want."
A ripple of confusion moves through the room. Rook and Zero exchange a look, their expressions a mixture of shock and concern.
"Cain thinks he has a leak inside this club," I continue, my voice dropping, pulling them all in. "He thinks he has an advantage. We are going to let him believe it. We are going to feed our traitor a piece of information so valuable he won't be able to resist running to his master."
I let the idea settle in the heavy silence. "Next week, we are scheduled to move a major arms shipment for the Bratva. High-value. Untraceable. It's the biggest deal we have on the books."
Rook’s eyes widen, understanding and horror dawning on his face. "Hex, you can't mean?—"
