Jake accepted the drawing, his hands not entirely steady. In the midst of violence and tactical planning, Emma’s innocent gratitude reminded him of what they were really fighting for.
“Emma,” Jake said gently, “how would you and your mama feel about staying with some new friends for a while? People who are very good at keeping families safe.”
Emma looked to her mother. Maria studied Jake’s face. “As long as we stay together,” Maria said finally. “Whatever happens, Emma and I stay together.”
“Always,” Jake promised. “That’s not negotiable.”
Jake’s phone rang at 3 a.m. It was Tommy “Steele” Rodriguez, president of the Iron Wolves MC from Oakland. “Reaper, we got a problem,” Steele said. “Word’s out that the Serpientes put a bounty on your club. Hundred thousand for your head, fifty for each of your lieutenants.”
Jake felt ice form in his stomach. A bounty that size would attract professional operators from three states away. “How solid is this intel?”
“Solid enough that I’m calling you at three in the morning. They’re also offering territory deals to any club that helps them take you down. Some of the smaller charters are considering it.”
The Serpientes were trying to turn the entire biker community against them. “I need to ask you straight,” Jake said. “Where do the Iron Wolves stand?”
Steele was quiet. “You saved my nephew’s life two years ago. Iron Wolves don’t forget debts. But you need allies, Reaper, and you need them fast.”
Within six hours, Jake’s clubhouse had become a war council. Representatives from five motorcycle clubs sat around the tables: the Iron Wolves, the Desert Rats, the Thunderdogs, and even the Wild Cards, a rival club. Each club president wore the distinctive rings that marked their leadership.
Jake laid out the situation. “The way I see it, the Serpientes are trying to eliminate us first. Then they’ll come for the rest of you. They’re offering territory now, but outfits like this don’t share power long term.”
Marcus “Diesel” Thompson from the Desert Rats leaned forward. “How many soldiers can they field?”
Ghost consulted his notes. “Conservative estimate: sixty to eighty active fighters in the area, with backup available. They’ve got military-grade weapons and comms.”
“And us?” asked Jennifer “Phoenix” Martinez from the Wild Cards, the only female club president in the room.
“Combined strength of maybe forty experienced fighters,” Jake admitted. “But we know this territory, we have community support, and we’re fighting for our homes.”
The silence was heavy. Each president was weighing the risks.
Tommy Steele broke it first. “Iron Wolves are in. Better to fight them now while we have help.”
Phoenix nodded slowly. “Wild Cards too. I’ve got daughters who go to school in this city. I’m not letting these scum turn our neighborhoods into war zones.”
One by one, the other presidents voiced their commitment.
“All right then,” Jake said. “We’re looking at coordinated warfare. This isn’t about territory anymore. This is about survival.”
Diesel pulled out a map. “What’s our strategy?”
Jake smiled. “We hit them everywhere at once. Make them choose between protecting their operations and hunting us. Force them to fight on our terms.”
“Simultaneous strikes on their key locations?” Phoenix asked.
“Exactly. But first, we make sure Maria Martinez and her daughter are somewhere the cartel can never reach them.” Jake pulled out his own ring, bearing the Devil’s Canyon Death’s Head, and placed it on the table with the others. “This ends when the Serpientes are gone, or we are. No middle ground, no surrender.”
The assembled presidents nodded in grim agreement…
