Page 70 of Priest

“Or they’re bein’ used as cover,” Ghost adds quietly.

I lean back, the chair creaking under me. “Next run was supposed to take us through Fallen Harbor, cut north into Briar Hollow, and drop with Thorn Crown.”

Ink shakes his head once. “Not if Fallen Angels are sniffin’ around Dead Man’s Hand. Too many variables.”

“We don’t run blind,” I say. “We cancel.”

No one argues. That’s the thing about this table when it’s working right. Men can disagree. They can push back. They can make me defend a call until the room either bends or I do. But once the danger is clear, no one wastes time pretending pride is a strategy.

Graves’s jaw works once before he speaks. “That leaves us with the bigger issue. Someone’s talking, or someone’s listening where they shouldn’t.”

Silence settles across the table, thick and mean.

The door creaks open a moment later, and Ghost slips inside without ceremony, jacket still on like he hasn’t stopped moving since the last time he slept. He disconnects the call, pockets his phone, and takes his seat with his eyes already tracking the room.

“Might be time to rattle the cage,” he says, tapping two fingers against the table.

Rook glances at him. “How?”

“Fake tips.” Ghost looks at me now, waiting.

I don’t answer right away. I let him finish.

“We seed different versions,” he continues. “Different routes. Different timing. Different payout structures. Each piece sounds real enough to carry, but none of it puts product or brothers on the road.”

Ink leans in. “Compartmentalized.”

“Exactly,” Ghost says. “Each version goes to a different circle. Not people close to officers necessarily. Adjacent people. The kind who hear things because they’re always near the room, but never supposed to be inside it.”

Graves smiles slowly. “Whoever repeats the lie tells us who’s leaking.”

“And who they’re leaking to,” Rook adds.

I nod once. “We don’t move product. We don’t put boots on the ground. We move information.”

Ink’s mouth twitches. “Digital chatter too. Burner numbers. Dead drops that go nowhere. Watch who reacts.”

“Dead Man’s Hand won’t sit on intel,” Graves says. “They’re sloppy when they think they’ve got an advantage.”

“And Fallen Angels?” I ask.

Ghost shrugs. “If they bite, we learn something. If they don’t, that tells us something too.”

I look around the table, taking each man in again. This part matters. Not because I don’t trust them, but because I do. Trust has to be handled clean, or it curdles into carelessness.

“This stays quiet,” I say. “No bravado. No warnings. We let the lie breathe.”

“And if the rat realizes it’s a trap?” someone asks.

I stand, and the room settles with me. “Then they panic. Panic makes mistakes.”

The approval that moves through the room isn’t loud. It doesn’t need to be. It’s in the shift of shoulders, the sharpened focus, the way every man at this table understands the hunt has finally changed shape.

“Ghost and Ink build the threads,” I finish. “Rook decides who hears what. Graves, keep your people tight. No chatter.” I pause, eyes sweeping the room. “We don’t need to know who’s betraying us yet. We just need them to think they’re getting away with it.”

Church breaks slow, men filing out in low voices, purpose settling back into the bones of the place. Ink falls into step beside me before we reach the door.

“You think Fallen Angels flipped?” he asks quietly.