The brothers quickly filled the room, tension leaking from their pores as they stared at me, in fear. They should. I was ’bout ready to tear someone a new ass**le. I smelled a rat. A rat in my own f**kin’ brotherhood. My old man would be turning in his stone-cold grave. No one turns coat on a brother. Well, no one who wants to live a long and pain-free life.

I smiled to myself as the brothers almost pissed themselves watching me. The one thing that stops people ripping on you for being a mute pu**y is being a cold-blooded killer with fists of iron. Funny how no one openly says a damn thing ’bout choking on vocab when one smack in the mouth can paralyze from the neck down.

Ky shut the door, which signaled that all of the Hangmen were present. I grabbed another swig of bourbon and sat at top seat, gavel in hand. My VP was to my right, eyes tight as he studied my rigid face, waiting for me to begin.

I pulled my favorite KM2000 German Bundeswehr knife from my boot and stabbed it into the wood of the table before me, the blade cutting through the thick oak like flesh.

Eyes widened around me.

Point made.

I sat back and signed Ky to start translation.

If someone knows what the f**k went on tonight, they’d better start talking… Now.

No talking and no meeting of eyes. I felt a tick of annoyance in my jaw.

Elbows on the table, I further signed, That deal’d been on the table for four months. Drop off, transport—the whole f**kin’ nine yards. Every minute detail was planned to perfection. Then we get to location, hauling truckloads of gear, only to be told we’d been undercut by some other supplier, someone trading on our turf. Commi bastards! Question is… Ky sat back in his seat, watching my hands move furiously the more irate I became. Who’s stealing our business? More important, how the f**k did they know ’ bout the deal? That info’s been locked down tight.

Taking advantage of Ky’s pause in breath, I picked up my knife, pointing it along every brother at the table, meeting them eye to eye, before placing the blade between my teeth, signing, Fifty crates of AK47s, ten crates of M82A1 sniper rifles, and ten crates of top-grade semiautomatics—all now without a buyer. The Colombians ain’t gonna take that shit back. So this is what’s gonna happen, Ky said with rising anger, waiting for me to finish.

Licking along the tip of the blade, I smelled the sick stench of betrayal in the room. Intimidation always flushed out a rat. I was a shittin’ goddamn expert in intimidation—my old man taught me well. I ain’t got a soundproofed shed out back for carpentry, that’s for f**kin’ sure.

I slowly slid the sharp blade back into the table before me, then signed, We’re gonna find a new buyer soon as… so our friends the ATF don’t come a’knockin’. Then we find out who dared f**k with this club. My—Styx’s—suspicions are firmly on the Diablos, but right now anyone’s a goddamn possibility. Fuck knows our enemy list is as long as f**kin’ Pennsylvania Avenue.

Ky cleared his throat. “Am I okay to speak freely, Prez?”

A sharp nod gave him permission.

“I know you got beef with the Diablos, brother. Hell, I want ’em gone to Hades as much as you, but they’re into snow. Never known ’em to trade guns. Just sayin’. My opinion, it don’t smell like Mexican to me.”

He had a point. Mexicans ’round this part of Texas shifted for the cartel—narcs through and through. Traded easily ’cross the border.

Cracking my knuckles while in thought, the leather from my cut creaked at the movement. Suddenly, I launched the KM2000 across the room. I watched as it slipped like butter into the back wall, right into the center of the club patch.

Flicking my chin at Ky, he watched me sign and translated. Who else could be a possibility? We good with the Austin Crew?

Viking—Secretary, mid-thirties, red hair, pale skin, long red beard, f**kin’ giant of a man—nodded his head. “We’re good. Pay good coin to cross their turf. No beef with ’em.”

“Irish?” Ky asked.

“Laying low after the drug bust. Tommy O’Keefe shipped back to the Emerald Isle. Six brothers doing time,” drawled Tank—Treasurer, ex-white power, built, thirty-one, inked to all hell. He ran his hand along the prison shank scar on his closely shaved head.

I blew a long, drawn-out breath, took one huge swig of my liquor, and signed, Any idea who’ll want the guns? Ky shared my question.

AK—Sergeant-at-Arms, high-tower, long brown hair, goatee, late twenties, could hit any mark perfect, ex-marine sniper—lifted his chin.

“Got a contact within the Chechens. They may be interested. They’re at war with the Reds. Could be perfect revenge. We tell ’em what the Russians are packing. They’ll wanna match it. We supply it, sends a message to the red f**kers never to undercut us again.”

I nodded, a sliver of relief settling in my bones.

Set it up, I ordered in ASL, and the brothers all around the table seemed to relax.

Flame—crazy faux-hawked motherfucker, twenty-five, orange flame tattoos up his neck, with scars and piercings covering half his body—got to his feet, snarling, pacing the room, slapping his arms one after the other. He’d spent most of his life in and out of the nut house, total anger issues, then got out and went killing scum for kicks. Some real messed-up shit. Couple’a years later, he found us. We recruited him. He helped us in the Mexican war, proved a hundred percent club loyalty. We patched him in. Now we let him loose on those who deserve a completely f**ked-up way to die. Crazy bastard gets real inventive.