As the morning progressed, Emma began to relax in the strange environment. She colored in a coloring book that Snake had produced from somewhere, ate bacon and eggs prepared by Doc, and listened to stories that the bikers told with increasing enthusiasm. But it was when Jake sat down beside her with the picture book that something special happened.
His voice, usually commanding and harsh, became gentle as he read about the brave knight’s adventures. “The knight knew that sometimes protecting people meant facing scary monsters,” Jake read. “But he wasn’t afraid, because he knew that good was stronger than evil and love was stronger than hate.”
Emma leaned against Jake’s side, her small body relaxing completely for the first time in days. “Jake,” she said quietly, “are you going to face the monsters who took my mama?”
Jake looked down at her upturned face, seeing trust and hope in her eyes that he hadn’t encountered in decades. The weight of responsibility settled on his shoulders like armor. “Yes, Emma,” he said, his voice carrying the conviction of a sacred vow. “I’m going to bring your mama home.”
Hammer and Ghost returned to the clubhouse with grim faces and evidence that painted a picture darker than anyone had imagined. Jake listened in silence as they described the scene, the photographs, and the radio chatter that confirmed Emma and her mother were marked for elimination.
“Serpientes,” Jake said, rolling the name around his mouth like a curse. “I’ve been hearing rumors about them for months. They’re not local muscle. This is big-league money and organization.”
Ghost spread the photographs on the table, careful to keep them away from Emma’s line of sight. The images told a story of systematic, professional operators who eliminated witnesses with cold efficiency.
“This guy,” Hammer pointed to the man with gold teeth, “he’s the one Emma described. Name’s Eduardo ‘El Oro’ Mendez. Word on the street is he’s the organization’s cleanup specialist.”
Jake studied the photo of the cop’s fate. The victim appeared to be Detective Ray Morrison. No relation, despite the shared surname, who had been reported missing three weeks earlier. His department had claimed he was working undercover, but the photo revealed a different truth.
“How deep does this go?” Jake asked.
“Deep enough that bringing this to the police is a bad idea,” Ghost replied. “We don’t know who else is compromised, and even the clean cops won’t be able to protect witnesses against this kind of retaliation.”
Angel approached the table, having settled Emma with her coloring books on the far side of the room. “What about federal agents? FBI? DEA?”
“Takes time to make those connections,” Hammer said. “Time we might not have.”
As if summoned by their conversation, the police scanner crackled to life with another transmission in Spanish. Ghost translated what he could catch. References to the clubhouse. Descriptions of motorcycles, and most chilling of all, orders to “retrieve the package” before it could cause more problems.
“They know she’s here,” Jake said quietly.
The implications hit everyone simultaneously. The Serpientes had resources that extended beyond street-level operations. They had surveillance capabilities, informants in law enforcement, and the kind of organizational structure that could coordinate complex actions across the city.
“We need to move her,” Angel said immediately.
“Where?” Jake asked. “They’ve got reach we don’t fully understand yet. Safe houses are only safe until they’re not.”
Doc, who had been listening from behind the bar, cleared his throat. “My clinic,” he offered. “It’s in neutral territory, and I’ve got medical equipment that could help if she gets hurt. Plus, it’s the last place they’d expect to find her.”
Jake considered this. Doc’s clinic served everyone in the neighborhood without questions. Dealers, addicts, working girls, and the occasional honest citizen who couldn’t afford real medical care. It was a sanctuary of sorts, protected by the unwritten rule that trouble at medical facilities brought heat nobody wanted.
“Not good enough,” Ghost said, examining one of the photos more closely. “Look at this,” he pointed to a detail in the background of one photo, a pair of brass knuckles with an intricate Aztec design lying on the ground beside the victim. The metalwork was distinctive.
“I’ve seen those before,” Hammer said grimly. “They belong to Carlos ‘El Jefe’ Vasquez. He’s not just muscle, he’s a regional commander. If he’s personally involved in this clean-up, they’re not going to stop until they find Emma and her mother.”
Jake felt the familiar cold calculation that had kept him alive through decades of trouble. This wasn’t going to be solved by hiding or running. The Serpientes had made it personal the moment they decided to hunt a six-year-old child.
“How many men does Vasquez typically travel with?” Jake asked.
“A dozen, maybe fifteen. Professional operators, not street dealers playing tough. And they know someone’s got her. They might not know it’s us specifically, but they’ll figure it out soon enough.”
Jake walked over to the window and looked out at the street. It was quiet now, but that wouldn’t last. Soon there would be cars driving slowly past, strangers asking questions in local bars. Pressure applied to anyone who might have information about a missing child.
“Then we don’t wait for them to come to us,” Jake said, his voice carrying the authority that had made him a leader among dangerous men. “We take the fight to them first.”
Hammer and Ghost exchanged glances. They’d been expecting this moment since they’d discovered the photographs. Jake Morrison didn’t run from fights, and he sure as hell didn’t let threats against children go unanswered.
“What are you thinking?” Angel asked, though her expression suggested she already knew the answer.
Jake turned back to the room, his face set in the hard lines that his enemies had learned to fear. “I’m thinking it’s time the Serpientes learned what happens when they threaten family.”
That evening, Jake retreated to his office and locked the door behind him. From the bottom drawer of his desk, he pulled out a small metal box that hadn’t been opened in fifteen years. Inside, wrapped in faded tissue paper, were two dog tags on a broken chain. The metal was tarnished with age, but the stamped letters were still clear: Morrison, William J., U.S. Army, Vietnam, 1968-1970.
His father’s tags. The only thing Jake had left from the man who’d died when Jake was twelve. Killed not by enemy fire, but by a drunk driver on a rainy Tuesday. Bill Morrison had been a decorated sergeant who’d earned his stripes in the Mekong Delta, leading reconnaissance missions that required equal parts courage and cunning.
Jake had never told the club about his father’s military service, or about the tactical knowledge he’d absorbed during late-night conversations before his father’s death. The Army had tried to recruit Jake after high school, but by then he’d already chosen a different path. But the lessons remained. How to plan an operation, how to gather intelligence, how to strike hard and fast while minimizing risk to your own people.
Now, facing an enemy with military-grade organization and resources, those lessons became invaluable. Jake spread a map of the city across his desk, and began marking known Serpientes locations based on the intelligence Hammer and Ghost had gathered. Three suspected safe houses, two processing labs, one legitimate business—an auto-repair shop that probably served as a front.
The knock on his door interrupted his planning. “Come in,” he called, quickly sliding the dog tags back into their box.
Ghost entered, followed by Hammer and Doc. Behind them came four other club members: Snake Williams, Bulldog McKenzie, Jimmy Wrench, and Roadkill Roberts. The core of the Devil’s Canyon fighting force, men who’d proven themselves in countless street battles.
“We’ve been talking,” Ghost said without preamble. “This isn’t going to be like our usual territorial disputes. These aren’t local dealers we can intimidate. This is a real conflict against professional operators.”
Jake nodded. “I know. That’s why we need to approach it like soldiers, not just bikers.”
The statement drew surprised looks from several club members. Jake Morrison was known for his tactical thinking, but he’d never spoken in explicitly military terms before. “You got something in mind?” Hammer asked.
Jake turned the map so they could all see it. “We hit them simultaneously at multiple locations. Create chaos, gather intelligence, and most importantly, send a message that Emma is under our protection.”
“How many men can we field?” Doc asked.
“Including prospects and hangarounds, maybe twenty. But I don’t want to risk everyone on this. We keep it to the core members, people who know how to follow orders and won’t panic under pressure.”
Snake Williams studied the map. “This auto shop, it’s in neutral territory. Hitting it brings less heat than going after their safe houses.”
“It’s also where they’re most likely to have records,” Jake added. “Financial information, contact lists, maybe even details about where they’re holding Maria Martinez.”..
