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The logic made sense, and I hated it. Hated that my need for immediate blood was being countered with reason and strategy. But forty years in this life had taught me that Saint’s approach was solid. Patient. Effective in the long run.

“How long?” I asked, the question coming out like gravel. “How long before Amelia and the boys are safe?”

Saint’s expression softened marginally. “Sooner than going in half-cocked and starting a war we might not win cleanly. The Minions have reach in three states, if not more. They’ve got cops on payroll. Judges. We hit them directly, we risk blowback.”

Before I could respond, Tempest slammed his fist onto the table, the impact sending an empty whiskey glass toppling. Our Sergeant-at-Arms had never been known for subtlety or patience. His face was flushed with anger, eyes burning as he leaned forward.

“Fuck diplomacy,” he growled, his voice vibrating with barely contained fury.

“They threatened one of our old ladies. We hit them now, hit them hard.” He looked around the table, challenging anyone to disagree.

“You think making nice with other clubs is gonna stop Piston? You think he gives a shit about territory lines or diplomatic pressure? He put his hands on Hammer’s woman. He threatened to kill her.”

Murmurs of agreement rippled around the table.

Younger patches leaned forward, hungry for action, for blood.

The older ones exchanged weighted glances, measuring options, calculating risks.

The division was visible even without words -- the hotheads eager to mount up and ride versus the strategists wanting a planned approach.

“I’m not saying we do nothing,” Saint clarified, his patience a testament to years of these debates.

“I’m saying we make sure when we strike, it’s final.

No half measures. No loose ends. Taking out Piston isn’t going to solve the issue of the Devil’s Minions.

If anything, it will only provoke them.”

“While we’re planning,” Tempest countered, “Piston’s out there licking his wounds, getting ready to make another move.

You think he’ll wait for us to form a strategic alliance?

Fuck that. We send a message. Tonight. His clubhouse, his businesses.

Anything we can locate, or other clubs can get their hands on. Burn them to the ground.”

The part of me that was just a man, just a husband protecting his wife, roared in agreement with Tempest. I wanted to feel the satisfying crunch of Piston’s bones under my fists again. Wanted to finish what I’d started in that parking lot.

But the other part of me -- the part that had spent time in prison, the part that now had two more boys looking to me for safety -- knew Saint’s approach had merit.

Fighting Piston one-on-one was one thing.

Taking on his entire club without backup was another.

The boys needed me alive and free more than they needed Piston dead quickly.

“Both approaches have good points and bad ones,” Prophet offered, breaking his usual silence. “We can move on multiple fronts. Diplomatic channels take time to establish. While Saint works those angles, we make sure Piston understands the immediate consequences of threatening one of ours.”

Warden nodded, his massive frame shifting as he leaned forward. “A show of force doesn’t mean all-out war. Just enough to make them think twice before trying anything else.”

The debate intensified, brothers talking over each other now, the chapel filled with the low rumble of aggressive suggestions, strategic concerns, and practical considerations.

I sat silent, absorbing their words, weighing options.

This wasn’t just about my pride or my rage anymore.

This was about Amelia’s safety. About Chase and Levi growing up without looking over their shoulders.

“Hammer,” Savior said, drawing my attention. “Your call. Your family that’s been threatened.”

The chapel fell silent, all eyes turning to me. The weight of their expectations, their brotherhood, pressed against my shoulders. They would follow whatever direction I chose. Would back my play, whether it was Saint’s measured approach or Tempest’s immediate retaliation.

I drew a deep breath, forcing the red haze of rage to clear enough for rational thought.

“Both,” I said finally. “We do both. Saint starts reaching out to allied clubs tonight. Sets the diplomatic wheels in motion.” I turned to Tempest. “And we send a message. Not the clubhouse -- too obvious, too expected. His businesses. His income. Hit him where it hurts while making it clear why we’re doing it. ”

A slow smile spread across Tempest’s face, eager and predatory. “Now you’re talking.”

“I’d already started digging,” Wire said. “I can handle crippling him financially. As for physical attacks, those will be harder. Everything he has in his name is in Florida, and I don’t think you want to leave long enough to handle that yourself.”

I grunted and knew he was right. Didn’t mean I had to like it.

“The response has to be proportional,” Saint cautioned. “We make a point without pushing them into a corner where they have nothing to lose.”

“He threatened to kill my wife,” I said, the words coming out like bullets. “He promised to take my boys. There’s nothing proportional about what I want to do to him.”

“And we’ll do it,” Savior assured me, his voice calm but carrying absolute conviction.

“But we’ll do it right. We’ll do it so it ends with him, not with a war that puts everyone at risk.

Sure, we’ve gone up against some heavy players in the past, but the Devil’s Minions aren’t like the others.

They have too many chapters and their reach is beyond what we can handle. ”

The tension in the room shifted subtly, brothers nodding in agreement, the divide between immediate action and strategic planning beginning to blur. It wasn’t either/or. It was both. A show of force now, coupled with a longer strategy to eliminate the threat permanently.

“So we’re agreed?” Savior asked, looking around the table.

The responses came in quick succession, brothers voicing support, some pounding the table in emphasis, others offering quiet but firm agreement. The path forward was taking shape, a compromise between blood and diplomacy, between immediate satisfaction and lasting security.

As the details of the plan began to emerge, I felt some of the savage tension in my chest ease slightly. The image of Piston’s hands on Amelia still burned behind my eyes.

Tempest caught my eye across the table, a silent question in his gaze. Are you with us? Are you satisfied with this ?

I nodded once, definitive. Piston would pay. Maybe not tonight, maybe not all at once, but he would pay. And when it was over, he would never threaten my family again.

Savior rose from his seat. He looked each of us in the eye, taking our measure, before laying out a plan that would change more than just Piston’s future.

“We’re not just running them out of Alabama,” he declared, his voice cutting through the last murmurs of disagreement. “We’re going to systematically push them north, state by state, until they have nowhere left to call home. Not down here.”

The chapel fell silent, brothers leaning forward as Savior continued, his calloused finger tracing a route across the map tacked to the wall beside our table. Something we’d added after the last few battles we’d faced.

“We coordinate with the Devil’s Boneyard to squeeze them from the south.

The Savage Knights and Southern Devils to block them from the west. We leave them only one direction to run -- north -- where they’ll hit the Crimson Skulls’ territory.

” A grim smile touched Savior’s lips. “And the Skulls have been looking for an excuse to thin the Minions’ ranks for years. ”

It was elegant in its brutality -- a strategic noose that would tighten slowly, deliberately, forcing Piston and his club into increasingly hostile territory.

Not the immediate bloodbath Tempest had wanted, but not the diplomatic dance Saint had suggested either.

Something more effective than either extreme.

“We start tonight,” Savior continued. “Tempest, reach out to our contacts in Florida. Set up a team to hit their distribution warehouse. No casualties if it can be helped but tell them to make sure nothing’s left standing.

Also, get that list of Piston’s properties from Wire.

Make sure those are lit up. Saint, reach out to every club we have a connection with down here, as well as out west. Oklahoma, California, Texas, Nevada… I want as wide a reach as we can get.”

Brothers around the table began nodding, fists pounding wood in approval.

The division that had threatened to fracture our response melted away, replaced by unified purpose.

This was why Savior had become President after Torch stepped down -- his ability to take competing approaches and forge them into something stronger than their parts.

“What about Piston specifically?” I asked, needing to know how the man who had threatened my family would be handled.

Savior’s eyes met mine, understanding the personal nature of my question. “He’ll be isolated. Cut off from club resources. And then, when he’s vulnerable, when he has nowhere to turn…” He left the sentence unfinished, but the implication was clear.

A slow, vicious satisfaction uncurled in my chest, replacing some of the burning rage. This was better than an immediate hit -- more thorough, more complete.

“And my family?” I pushed. “While this is happening?”

“Protected at all times,” Savior assured me.

“Rotating security details at your place, escorts for Amelia to and from work, surveillance on the boys’ school.

No one gets near them without going through us first. But after what they’ve been through, I also don’t want to put them on lockdown.

We just make sure they’re covered every time they leave the compound. ”

The last of my objections dissolved. This wasn’t just about vengeance anymore -- it was about ensuring Amelia and the boys could build a life without fear. A permanent solution rather than a temporary satisfaction.

“I’m calling Church adjourned,” Savior announced. “Prophet, Warden, coordinate security rotations for Hammer’s family. Tempest, in addition to setting up a team in Florida, make sure we have eyes on Piston at all times. Saint, my office -- we’ll start making calls.”

The chapel erupted into controlled chaos, brothers rising from their seats, breaking into smaller groups, assignments being handed out, burner phones appearing.

I remained seated, watching as my brothers mobilized to protect what was mine, a strange tightness forming in my throat.

Many times I’d been part of this chaos, willing to lay down my life for someone else’s family.

It felt different when we were protecting my wife and kids.

Forty plus years in this life, and still the loyalty, the absolute brotherhood, had the power to humble me.

These men would risk their freedom, their lives, for my family -- not just because they were my blood, but because I had claimed them.

Because I had brought them under the protection of the patch.

In our world, that meant something sacred, something unbreakable.

“Hammer,” Savior called from the doorway where he stood with Saint. “Need anything specific from the Boneyard?”

I considered the question, thinking of all Amelia had been through, of the fear that still lingered in her eyes.

“Information,” I said finally. “Everything they have on Piston’s operations, his weaknesses.

And…” I hesitated, then added, “Ask if they know about Amelia’s father.

She mentioned he was with another club. Might be worth reaching out.

From what I gathered, she never knew him.

Mom might have lied to her too, so could be a wild goose chase. ”

Savior nodded, understanding my logic without needing elaboration. More allies meant more protection. And if Amelia’s father was in the life, he had a right to know his daughter and grandsons were in danger -- and a right to stand with us against that threat.

The chapel emptied quickly, brothers moving with purpose toward their assignments.

I rose finally, crossing to the map on the wall where Savior had traced the planned extermination of the Devil’s Minions.

My weathered finger traced the same path, imagining Piston running like a rat in a maze, each exit blocked, each hiding place exposed.

The thought brought a grim satisfaction that settled like whiskey in my blood, warm and potent.

Behind me, chairs scraped as Prospects entered to clean the chapel; ashtrays emptied, whiskey glasses collected, the evidence of our meeting erased with practiced efficiency. I barely noticed them, my focus entirely on the map, on the plan, on the future it represented for my unlikely family.

Piston would pay for threatening to take what was mine.

He would never get his hands on her because I would burn his entire world to the ground.

Because the Dixie Reapers protected their own.

Because I had claimed her and those boys as mine, and nothing -- not Piston, not his club, not hell itself -- would take them from me.

That wasn’t just a husband’s promise or a biker’s threat. It was a vow written in my soul, as permanent as the ink on my skin, as binding as the patch on my back. And God help anyone who tested it.