Page 42 of Heresy
"I do," I cut him off. "We are going to leak the route, the time, everything. We are going to let the Santos hit that shipment. Wewill let them take it. We will let them 'win.' We will let them think they have broken us."
The silence in the room is now absolute, a thick blanket of disbelief. I have just proposed sacrificing a multi-million dollar deal and, more importantly, betraying the trust of a dangerous ally in the Bratva.
"But the shipment," I say, my voice now a blade of ice, "will be a Trojan Horse. Every weapon in every crate will have a tracker, smaller than a grain of rice. When the Santos deliver our guns to their master, they will lead us right to Cain's real front door. Not to some puppet clubhouse, but to the hidden base of operations he's been building for years."
I look around the table at my stunned brothers. "I am not interested in cutting the head off a snake like Judas Santos. I want to find the man who holds the leash. I am willing to burn down a part of our own house to smoke him out."
I have just made the riskiest gamble of my life, a strategy of sacrificial ruthlessness that shocks my own inner circle to its core. It is a direct application of a ghost's philosophy, a decree to burn it all down to build something new from the ashes.
The heavy oakdoor of the church room clicks shut as the last brother files out, leaving the three of us—the crown, the council, and the sword—alone in the heavy silence. The air is thick with the weight of the gamble I’ve just declared.
Rook is the first to speak, his voice a low rumble. "This is a hell of a risk, Hex. You're betting the entire club on the idea that our traitor is stupid enough to walk into this trap."
"He's not stupid," I counter, my gaze hard. "He's arrogant. He thinks we're blind. He thinks the leak is clean." My eyessweep between my two most trusted brothers. "And he's right about one thing. The leak isn't at this table. It's not a patched brother. I'd stake my life on it."
Zero, who has been a silent shadow by the door, takes a step forward. His dead eyes are fixed on me, his voice a flat sheet of ice. "Then it's the girl."
I don't flinch, but the air grows colder.
"She's the only new variable," Zero continues, his logic as sharp and clean as a blade. "She's Bratva-connected. Cain could be making a play with them through her. She could have a hidden comms device, a way of listening we haven't found. The risk is too high. The plan to burn Cain is good, but we eliminate our internal threat first. Let me handle it. Now."
He is offering me the clean solution, the one he always offers. An erasure. A body in the Gowanus Canal that asks no questions. And a month ago, I would have agreed.
I raise a hand, a quiet, final gesture that stops him cold.
"No," I say, my voice absolute. "Impossible. She's been in a concrete box under constant surveillance. No contact. No electronics. Her security is absolute becauseImade it absolute. She is a ghost in this house. She is a splinter in my head. But she is not the leak."
I let the certainty of my words settle. I am now, for reasons that are purely tactical, her staunchest defender. The irony is a bitter taste in my mouth.
"The leak isn't our biggest threat or our newest complication," I say, the pieces clicking into place with a sudden, horrible clarity. "It's someone we're not watching. Someone who can move through this clubhouse without suspicion. Someone who hears everything because nobody ever thinks to look at them." I look from Rook to Zero.
"It's a prospect."
The realization lands on them both like a physical blow. The thought that one of the eager, terrified kids trying to earn our patch is a traitor is a deeper violation than any external enemy.
"Get Glitch," I command, my voice now a low, deadly weapon. "Tell him to drop everything he's doing on the Santos. I want a full digital and financial deep-dive on every prospect we have. I want to know who they talk to, who they owe money to, who they're fucking. I want to see their ghosts."
I lean forward, my voice dropping to a near whisper, a promise of the violence to come.
"Find me the rat."
Rook and Zero give a single,sharp nod. Their unease about my larger plan is now overshadowed by this new, more immediate mission. They leave the church room, their purpose now clear and deadly, the gears of the internal hunt beginning to turn.
I remain at the head of the table, alone in the heavy silence. The rage is still there, but it's now channeled into a cold, terrifying purpose. The hunt for the traitor is a clean problem, a logical puzzle.
A few minutes later, the door opens again. Rook and Zero re-enter, and between them is Glitch. He's a wiry, nervous creature who seems more comfortable with machines than with men, his eyes magnified behind thick glasses, his cut still looking awkwardly new on his thin frame.
I remember when we recruited him two years ago. He was some IT drone from a downtown firm, a weekend warrior who thought joining an MC would get him a cool patch and some stories to tell. Little did he know he was about to become one ofthe most vital, and most trapped, assets in a multi-million-dollar criminal enterprise. He’s seen too much now. He knows he’ll never leave.
Glitch pulls a chair up to the scarred oak table, his movements quick and anxious. He places his laptop down, the sleek, modern machine a stark contrast to the ancient, brutal wood. He flips it open, and the screen casts a cold, blue glow on his face.
"We have a rat," I say, my voice flat. "And he's a prospect. I want a full digital and financial deep-dive on every one of them. Now."
Glitch just nods, his fingers already flying across the keyboard with a speed that is inhuman. The only sounds in the room are the soft, frantic clicking of the keys and the low hum of the machine as our digital ghost hunter begins his work. Rook and Zero remain standing, silent sentinels at my shoulders.
The hunt for the traitor has begun. And in this room, I watch the digital ghosts of my own men flicker across the screen, searching for the one who has betrayed us all.
NINETEEN
