Page 91 of Priest

“Short runs,” Ink replies immediately. “Tight. Controlled. Nothing worth taking. Nothing we can’t shut down fast. Just enough to make whoever’s listening think the paper bait turned real.”

Ghost picks it back up, rolling his shoulders like the decision is already half made. “One route at a time. No overlap. No room for confusion.”

Ink nods. “We start coastal. Let it breathe. Then shift the next thread.”

I sit with it for a moment, feeling the weight of the sequence settle into place. It isn’t reckless. It isn’t rushed. It’s deliberate in a way that makes my spine straighten.

“Staggered,” I say. “Each one isolated.”

“And before any of it moves,” Ghost continues, voice firm now, “only the circle that already heard that specific intel gets to know the run is happening. Nobody else hears a word. Prospects stay out. Hang-arounds stay out. Any brother who doesn’t need the piece doesn’t get the piece.”

Silence stretches across the table, full of men calculating the same odds in different ways. Graves looks ready to hit something and disciplined enough to wait for the right target. Rook is still as stone. Ledger’s fingers steeple briefly before dropping back to the table.

“If someone reacts,” Ledger says, “it’ll show.”

“And if they don’t,” Rook adds, “that tells us plenty too. Means whoever’s talking doesn’t know the whole board, or they’re scared to overplay their hand.”

Nomad nods once. “Eyes heavy. Muscle light. We watch more than we move.”

I look around the table at men who’ve bled together, buried together, and rebuilt together. Nobody here needs the stakes explained. They already understand what we’re risking and why.

“We agree?” I ask.

The nods come slow but solid.

“Set it,” I say.

Just like that, the plan stops being theory and starts being a clock.

Church breaks the way it always does, with men moving under purpose instead of noise. Outside, engines wait. I check the time as we head out.

“I’ve got an appointment,” I say. “Hospital.”

Nomad tips his head, some of the earlier lightness returning now that he has somewhere to put his worry. “We’ll go see Deacon. Figure he needs at least one pretty face after staring at yours.”

Ledger snorts. “He’s gonna ask why we waited so long.”

“He can take it up with the coma,” Ghost says dryly.

We’re halfway to the bikes when Sadie’s voice slips in behind us, light and almost casual, like she’s stepping into a conversation that already belongs to her.

“I heard Deacon woke up.”

I stop, less from surprise than from the way she says it. Information moves fast in this place. That part doesn’t bother me. The tone does. Like she’s been waiting for the opening.

When I turn, she’s already smiling. Practiced enough to look natural. One hand rests over the curve of her stomach, thumb stroking slow, familiar arcs, like she knows exactly what that image does to a room full of men raised around guilt, grief, and obligation.

“I was hopin’,” she continues, voice softening as she steps closer, “maybe I could come with you. Just for a bit. Visit him. Seems wrong to stay away, after everything.”

Nomad tilts his head, the easy flirt in him fading into something sharper. He studies her like he’s mapping rough terrain instead of looking at a woman.

“That’s interestin’,” he says mildly. “Didn’t realize you and Deacon were close enough for hospital visits.”

Sadie blinks, but it isn’t confusion. It’s recalculation.

“Well,” she says after a beat, letting out a small, breathy laugh like she finds the question almost sweet, “I wouldn’t say close exactly. It’s just… he’s important to Priest. And if someone matters to him, they matter to me too. That’s all.”

Nomad doesn’t smile. He shifts his weight, slow and deliberate, blocking her path without making a show of it. Past his shoulder, Ghost watches with that eerie stillness he gets when his mind starts filing details away.