Page 13 of Always My Fate

“Fuckin’ assholes,” Blackie snarled quietly. “All right. Listen close. You keep eyes on ’em but do not engage unless they force your hand. Double your watches, pull in any prospects you got, and send me coordinates and photos if you can get ’em clean. I’ll get Oaky and a couple others mobilized by morning if the conflict heats up. We ain’t lettin’ those bastards crawl back into our territory.”

Razor grunted agreement. “You want us to loop in Horse too?”

“Yeah. Tell him to stay tight on the ranch but be ready. And Razor? Need you to hear me. This stays quiet for now. Last thing I need is my old lady worryin’ herself sick while she’s carryin’ my kid. We handle this smart. Club first, but I got family here that don’t need me disappearin’ in the middle of the night.”

“Understood, Prez. We got your back.”

Blackie ended the call and dragged a hand down his face, still pacing. The pull was strong—the need to ride, to protect what the club had built. But so was the draw towards the bedroom, getting lost in Peaches’ warm curves and the life they were building inside her.

He stood there a long moment, weighing blood and brotherhood against love and legacy. Then he made the call that felt right in his gut.

Tomorrow. He’d handle it at first light. He would brainstorm with Oaky and Rook, lay out a plan to send in support, and tighten the lines but stay close to home unless it went to hell. Peaches and the kids his priority tonight.

“My family is my sanity, and my brothers are my fortress,” he whispered to the empty hallway, the words heavy with everything they meant. He turned back to the bedroom, already planning the moves he’d make before dawn. The club would survive another night.

But he’d be damned if he let anything touch his family.

Chapter Seven

Blackie sat in the small office off the garage, door cracked so he could hear if any of the kids stirred. The sun was barely up, but sleep had been a lost cause after that border call. Peaches was still resting, so he’d sent a quick text, received a response immediately, and then slipped out early for a mug of coffee strong enough to wake the dead.

He fired up the secure laptop Myron had rigged for him years back, the one that supposedly couldn’t be traced by any fed or rival. The screen flickered to life, and within seconds Myron’s face appeared—sharp eyes behind his glasses, neat beard, the quiet confidence of a man who could dig up dirt on God himself if you gave him five minutes.

“Blackie,” Myron greeted, voice calm and clipped as always. “I read your message. You mentioned you needed a deeper dive on the MDMC leftovers. Thanks for calling, because it’s bound to be complex and I figured we should talk direct.”

“Appreciate it, brother,” Blackie rumbled, leaning forwards. Even though Myron rode with the Rebel Wayfarers, every decent president in the network knew to contact him when shit got technical. The man was a goddamn wizard. “What do you know? Those border assmunches got me twitchy after a call last night.”

Myron’s fingers flew across a keyboard off-screen, and several windows popped up on Blackie’s end. There were a few grainy photos, screenshots of maps, and snippets of chatter already transformed from voice to text. “It’s not random. I’ve been monitoring transmissions across a few networks. MDMC didn’t crawl off and die after what went down at Belle. They’re regrouping. Smaller crews, trying to stay under the radar, but they’re probing weak points along the routes between Laredo and your territory. I believe they’re testing supply lines, maybe looking for new alliances with some meth-head crews that hate losing territory to the Riders.”

Blackie’s fist slammed on the desk hard enough to make the coffee mug jump. “Motherfuckers. I knew those asses wouldn’t stay buried. How solid is this?”

“Eighty. A strong eighty percent. I’ve got intercepts and financial traces showing money moving through shell accounts tied to known MDMC associates. One name keeps popping—some mid-level asshole named Ruiz who survived the Belle mess. He was in the group of those assholes that were escorted out of the territory, headed back East. The relocation didn’t stick. He’s got a hard-on for payback, specifically targeting the new chapters. Horse’s ranch is on their radar for sure, but they’re sniffing around Longview support routes too.”

“Damn it.” Blackie shoved up from the chair and started pacing, the video camera tracking his movement. He clenched his jaw so tight it ached. “We just got that Belle chapter standin’ on its own two feet. Glenna’s still healin’, Horse is buildin’ somethin’ real there. I ain’t lettin’ these worthless bums burn it down again. What do you need from me to shut this down?”

Myron stayed cool, but his eyes sharpened. “Send me any fresh security footage from the ranch or your border contacts. I’ll run facial rec and cross-reference. In the meantime, I’d recommend tightening watches but not going full offensive yet—they’re still disorganized. Strike too early, and they’ll scatter. Give me forty-eight hours, and I’ll have actionable targets.”

Blackie stopped pacing, staring hard at the screen. Pride in Horse mixed with raw fury at the threat to everything he’d paid for with sweat and blood. “You do that. And Myron—tell Mason or whoever’s runnin’ things up there I owe you one. Again. I’ll make you an offer. If you ever get tired of diggin’ through digital shit for straight clubs, you got a place here. Heard you found a good man to keep you steady these days.”

A faint smile tugged at Myron’s mouth—the closest he ever got to a grin on these calls. “Appreciate it. Stay safe, Blackie. I’ll ping you the second I have more.”

The call ended, and Blackie stood there, chest tight with the weight of it all. Another son on the way, little Daniel kicking around in Lottie’s belly, and these bastards wanted to keep dragging blood into their lives.

“Over my dead fuckin’ body,” he growled to the empty room. He would give Myron the time he asked for, but the second those targets lined up, the Freed Riders would ride.

No mercy for ghosts who refused to stay dead.

***

The clubhouse smelled like stale beer, cigarette smoke, and fresh blood.

Blackie stood in the center of the main area in the clubhouse, knuckles split and aching, staring down at the piece of shit who’d just tried to challenge his claim to the gavel. The man, some loudmouth patch who’d ridden in from a dying support club, groaned on the floor, clutching his broken nose.

“You think ’cause the old Prez ate a bullet, this chair’s up for grabs?” Blackie’s voice was a low, dangerous growl. “You got balls, I’ll give you that. But balls without brains gets you dead.”

It had been six brutal months since he’d taken the president’s patch. The Freed Riders were still fracturing—old guard fighting new blood, money running thin, rivals circling like vultures. Every damn day was a war. Half the brothers didn’t believe a man who’d spent years away from the life could hold the club together. The others were waiting for him to fail.

Duane, their SAA, stepped forwards with a bloody rag and tossed it to Blackie. “Prez...you want me to finish him?”