Page 141 of Reckless

“We move faster,” Sin says, the decision already made before anyone has the chance to argue it. “The meeting happens this week.” His eyes settle on me. “Get Slate on the line now.”

I already have my phone in my hand and dial the Montana Defiance president.

The call rings twice. “Ghost, what the hell are you callin’ me for?” Slate’s voice is deeper than I remember. Gravel wrapped in a Montana drawl, every word unhurried in that way country men have when they don’t feel the need to fill silence just because it’s there.

“Need a minute, Pres.” A bottle cap pops somewhere on his end of the line.

“Sounds like ya already took one.” Despite everything sitting in front of us, the corner of my mouth almost moves.

“We’ve got movement.”

The humor disappears. “What kind?”

“The kind that’s about to become your problem too. I’m in Church with everyone here on my end.”

There’s a beat of silence. “All right, patch me in.”

A few seconds later, the television mounted on the Chapel wall flickers before settling on another clubhouse Chapel, hundreds of miles north in Montana.

The first thing I notice isn’t Slate.

It’s the timber.

Everything about the room looks heavier than ours, with rough-cut beams, wide-plank floors scarred by decades of boots, and a wood-burning stove glowing quietly in one corner despite the cool mountain evening outside.

Three brothers sit around the table with longneck beers already open, another couple leaning against the back wall with bottles hanging loose in their hands.

Nobody looks like they rushed to get there.

They just arrived.

Slate sits at the head of the table, one forearm resting across the scarred timber. His beard is dark and cut short, his flannel sleeves rolled high enough to show tattooed forearms disappearing beneath the cut.

He doesn’t look like a man trying to command the room.

He looks like a man who never has to.

He doesn’t look surprised to see half the Vegas chapter staring back at him either.

He tips the neck of his beer toward Sin. “Sin.”

“Slate.”

Neither wastes time asking how the other is doing.

Slate sets the bottle down. “All right.” His eyes settle on me. “Ghost said y’all got movement.”

I nod once and connect my laptop to the screen so both rooms can see it. “Started as a Vegas problem.”

Satellite images disappear, replaced by photographs of Sage’s apartment, the road outside the clubhouse, and the shell company records.

“Senator Calloway’s been leaning on one of our people for months… political pressure at first, then surveillance. Someone photographed my bike outside our clubhouse,” I say.

Slate’s expression doesn’t change, but he listens as I continue, “We went for a ride on a stretch of road outside Vegas. They had men waiting for us.” I bring up the vehicle photographs. “They tried to run us off the road. They were professional. The vehicles were clean with cloned plates… the plates led us here.” I switch to the shell company. “Private security outfit registered out of Montana.”

That gets the first reaction, not from Slate, but from one of the men leaning against the wall. I think his name is Quarry, and he is a hulk of a man.

He straightens.