Page 48 of Tater
Ren had come out quietly behind him, hair tied back, eyes still dark with sleep. She looked at the box, then at Tater.
“They know,” she said.
Eagle frowned. “Know what?”
“That Shadow’s dead,” she murmured. “And they think we took something that was theirs.”
Tater set the box down on the porch rail, jaw tight. “Maybe we did.”
Ren crossed her arms; eyes fixed on the horizon. “The Hades Hellhounds won’t take this lying down. Shadow was their deal with the devil, and now they’ve got a hole to fill.”
Eagle swore under his breath. “So, what—you think they’re comin’ for us?”
“No,” Ren said. “They’re comin’ for everyone. They’ll want to make a point.”
Tater looked at her then—really looked. “You think they’ll bring the war here?”
She met his eyes, steady. “It’s not just them. Someone’s gotta be funding them. Pushing from above. Shadow didn’t have the brains to pull half of this off alone.”
The air around them went still again, that pre-storm quiet that everyone in the club had learned to recognize.
Brick cleared his throat. “Then what’s the play, Prez?”
Tater turned toward the yard, scanning the rows of bikes, the men who’d lived through last night because of luck and loyalty. He could already feel the weight settling across his shoulders again.
“Same as it’s always been,” he said. “We keep the family tight. We find who’s callin’ the shots behind the Hounds. And we end it before they bring the fight to our door.”
Ren’s voice was soft beside him. “And if they already have?”
He looked down at her, the morning light catching the faint gold under her skin. “Then we burn it out, darlin.’ All the way to the roots.”
She nodded once. “Together.”
He smiled, grim and sure. “Always.”
The sound of engines started somewhere down the road—far off but growing.
The peace was already ending.
The rumble down the road faded, leaving the air thick with nerves. Tater stood on the porch another minute, staring at the box—the burned Hades Hellhounds patch, the single .45 shell glinting like a promise.
Then he straightened, voice sharp and low.
“Eagle. Brick. Get everyone inside. Church. Now.”
No hesitation. The Bastards moved.
Within minutes, the clubhouse filled—boots on wood, chairs scraping across the floor, the heavy sound of patched men settling into their seats. The church table, scarred and stained from years of blood and business, stood at the center. The Royal Bastards patch hung above it, dark against the morning light.
Ren stood to Tater’s right. Not behind. Not apart.
His old lady. His equal.
Eagle dropped the box on the table. “They left that at the gate. No note, no tracks past the fence.”
Tater looked around the table, meeting every eye. “You all know what it means.”
Brick grunted. “Hades Hellhounds declaring war.”
