Chapter 16

Chapter 16
Grayson
"Baby, I'll be back later, okay?" I whisper, pressing a kiss to her forehead.
"Mm-hm." Ashley burrows deeper into her pillow, her lips twitching faintly like even asleep she knows I'm still here. 
She looks at peace. Soft. Content. That glow that only comes after hours of tearing each other apart and piecing ourselves back together. We spent the day making up the only way we know how—skin on skin, nothing left but heat.
It almost makes me stay. Almost.
But War's call won't leave my head. The moment I saw the missed call at four a.m., I knew. 
Shit's moving, and it's worse than I thought.
I just called him back. He's got a name. A thread to pull.
So I sent a message out to my brothers: Church. One hour. No excuses.
We can't sit on this. 
This is our window, our edge.
And I'll be damned if we don't use it.
The ride to the clubhouse is nothing but static—plans, angles, a dozen ways this can go wrong and the one way it has to end right. Catch the bastard. Shut it down before it spreads.
I roll into the lot on my bike, engine snarling before I kill it. The place is already packed—cars and motorcycles lined like soldiers waiting for orders. War's ride stands out, his muscle posted close by. 
Good. He showed. 
Everyone's here. Ready to move.
I swing off and plant my boots on the pavement, the morning air biting cold as I head across the lot. Every step winds me tighter, the weight of what we're stepping into pressing heavy on my chest. 
The barn doors groan open and noise rushes out—voices bouncing off the rafters, thick with tension.
Eyes track me the second I step inside. Conversations drop low, then die off altogether. The kind of silence that's heavy, loaded, waiting for a spark to set it off. 
Niko's already at the head table, gavel in hand, face carved from stone. King's posted against the wall like he's daring someone to breathe wrong. Mason stands beside him, arms folded, eyes cutting across the room with that steady calculation of his. War lingers near the back, calm on the surface, but his presence alone feels like a loaded gun.
The rest of my brothers fill the rows, leather cuts catching the dim light, tension buzzing off them like live wires.
They look ready for blood—but I know half of it's just because I yanked their asses out of bed before dawn. 
Lazy fuckers always get cranky when church starts early. 
I don't waste time. No point in dragging this out.
"Brothers, appreciate you all showing up on short notice," I say, my voice carrying across the barn.
"I'm ready to take my ass back to bed," Jagger grumbles from the front row. "What's going on, Prez?"
"Shit, I was just balls deep in some pussy. My ol' lady's waiting," Elliot adds, drawing a few laughs from the back.
Dave shakes his head, his tone harder. "Why the hell's the Serpents' president here? That's never a good sign."
I let the noise run its course, then fade. My eyes sweep the room—every face, every twitch. Half of them look like they'd trade their patch for a pillow right now. The other half? They're wide awake, waiting for orders.
What I'm about to say will light a goddamn fuse under every last one of them.
"President War's here because some shit just landed in our backyard," I announce. "In the last month, ten girls—ages three to seven—have gone missing out of Moonshadow Creek. We've got every reason to believe this is the start of a trafficking ring."
The weight drops hard. No one moves. No smart-ass remarks. Just silence stretched tight, anger simmering under the surface, waiting for someone to give it direction.
I can feel it building—heat sliding across the rafters, brothers shifting in their seats, jaws tightening, fists clenching. Every man in this room has a daughter, a sister, a woman who means the world to him. 
This cuts deeper than club politics. It's personal.
And I need them focused, not reckless. 
"The fuck are you talkin' about?" King growls, low and dangerous, like the words are already hunting for a throat to slice. 
Mason's hand lands on his shoulder like an anchor. King doesn't shake it off, but the tension rolling off him could choke a man.
Shit. I should've told them to bring Alyssa. She's the only one who can reach him when he's like this—the only one who can cut through the storm before it breaks loose.
But dragging her into a meeting about girls being trafficked? No. I won't risk triggering her again. She's carrying enough. My job is to keep that darkness away from her, not shove her back into it. 
So since they're all fucking each other now, Niko and Mason better learn fast how to hold King the way she does. If he blows, they need to be the ones to control him before he rips the barn apart.
And they'd better be ready—right now.
The room's so quiet I can hear King's teeth grind. His eyes cut to me, sharp enough to draw blood. 
"How long have you known about this shit, Prez? How long have you been sittin' on it?"
I can feel the panic under his rage—raw, jagged. He's not just pissed. He's thinking about our past. About cages in basements and the nightmares we've tried to bury. About Alyssa. His daughters. All the ways history has a habit of repeating itself.
And I get it. That's why I waited. 
We needed a name first. Something solid. Otherwise it's just smoke and ghosts—and ghosts don't bleed. 
I hold his stare, voice steady. "I didn't bring this to church until we had a target. Now we do."
Niko shifts forward, sitting straighter, eyes hard as flint. Controlled fury coils in him, quiet but lethal—the opposite of King. His rage burns cold, waits for the perfect strike.
"Gray, you know what this kind of shit stirs up for us." His jaw flexes, eyes narrowing. "For Alyssa. So who is this motherfucker... and where can we find him?"
The question cuts clean through the barn. Every head snaps to me.
Right on cue, War pushes off the wall. His voice rolls out calm, almost lazy—but the steel in it scrapes every nerve raw.
"Name came from one of my junkies," he says. "Caught a glimpse of the exchange. Kids shuffled between SUVs. Cash hit the hood. And we've got a dirty politician's name. Senator Grant Alder."
The name detonates like a grenade.
"Where the fuck do these sick bastards keep crawling out from?" someone snarls from the back.
"He's been in office for years," another spits. "Knew there was somethin' off about that smug prick."
"Shit—what politician ain't a corrupt pervert these days?"
Murmurs ripple like aftershocks, edged with fury. Boots scrape against the floor. 
"Many of us got little girls at home," a brother says, voice tight, anger knotted under the words. "If this shit's in our backyard, we ought to handle it fast."
The barn answers like thunder—a low, dangerous agreement. 
This is what I wanted: brothers awake, blood boiling hot. But heat without direction burns us. Chaos doesn't win wars. Discipline does. 
I slice through the noise. "Sit the fuck down and listen. We've got a name, a lead, and that gives us a shot to bury this sick son of a bitch before he can buy another kid. Cut off the tail, you get closer to the head."
Silence snaps into a place. The weight of it settles. This is rotten, ugly—everything we stand against.
"My men swept the alley last night," War cuts in. "Found nada. We're hitting it again tonight—longer. Harder."
I nod once.
Persistence beats luck.
"This stays quiet," I say, my tone brooking no argument. "We tighten the perimeter, not lock the town down. Spook these sick fucks and the trail goes cold."
"We start soft. Curfews where they're needed. If you've got kids, keep them inside and don't take your eyes off 'em. Spread the word quietly. If anyone spots suspicious cars or faces hanging around a park or school, call my line. I'll send someone to check it out."
I point, naming men like I'm laying out chess pieces. "Mason—pull every feed outside you can: traffic cams, business cams, doorbells. Somebody had to see something. Joker, Jagger—patrol the riverbanks. If they're moving kids, they'll use water or darkness. Don't let it be an escape route."
I turn to my VP. "Niko—Alder's calendar is priority. Campaign events, donor lists, any property tied to him. Find drivers, contractors, security teams. If there's a thread, pull it—quietly."
He nods, cold and methodical, already sketching routes in his head.
"War—when your runners sweep Marlow again, they need to start asking around. If nobody talks, bring 'em to King. He'll carve the truth out of 'em."
War rolls his shoulders, a grin tugging like he knows he's about to light a fuse. "Don't worry. We'll break 'em. And if we don't? Logan's been itchin' for some fun. King might have some competition before the night's over."
King's glare sears for a beat, but he says nothing. That look alone keeps War's mouth from getting too loud.
He's a shit-starter, always has been, but even he knows when not to poke the bear.
This one won't just bite—it'll tear his fucking head off.
"Phones on airplane mode," I continue, voice flat and final as I turn back to the room. "Move in teams. No lone wolves. No solo ops. If anyone leaks so much as a whisper, you're dead. Understood?"
A hard chorus answers, "Understood, Prez."
Anger honed into purpose. Exactly what I needed.
"This won't be quick—weeks, maybe months—but we start now."
All that matters is saving as many lives as we can.
No more talk. I nod once, and the barn moves: boots thud, guns snap into holsters, bikes roar awake. 
Before I get to work, I pull out my phone and fire off a text.
Me: Gonna be busy all day. Pack a bag. Want you to stay at my place. 
With this poison seeping into my town, I'm drawing a line around what's mine.
My brothers will keep my sister safe.
And Ashley? I'll guard my woman with everything I've got—blood, bone, and a bullet for anyone who so much as thinks about touching her.