Page 25 of Heresy (The Lost Gospels #1)

EIGHTEEN

THE DEATH OF HOPE

HEX

T he bike screams into the Serpent Cycle Works garage, a howl of rage and raw horsepower that echoes off the polished concrete. I kill the engine and swing my leg off before the machine has fully stopped, my boots hitting the floor with a hard, definitive thud.

The air in here is no longer clean with the scent of oil and money.

It's thick with the metallic tang of gun solvent and the electric hum of controlled chaos.

The calm, professional workshop from yesterday is gone, replaced by a war room.

The wealthy clients are gone. The half-finished bikes on the hydraulic lifts are forgotten monuments to a time of peace that ended the moment I read the message on my burner phone.

Men are everywhere, their movements sharp, grim, and purposeful.

No one is laughing. No one is working on custom paint jobs.

They're stripping down rifles on the same tables where clients used to sign five-figure checks.

They're loading magazines with a rhythmic, practiced efficiency, the soft click-clack of brass seating into place a counterpoint to the angry rock music blasting from a speaker. This is not panic. This is preparation.

There is no time for reflection. The message on the burner is a brand burned into my mind. It was a photo. One of my oldest, most trusted brothers, Preacher, executed in a Santos warehouse. The accompanying text was a simple, brutal declaration of war from a ghost I thought I'd buried.

Found your leak. He sends his regards.

Cain didn't just find the leak; he murdered a patched member of my club, a brother, and is now mocking me with the proof. My mind is a storm of pure, cold rage. The time for games, for psychological tests, for anything other than absolute annihilation, is over.

Vera is still on the back of the bike, her body stiff with a fear she is trying desperately to conceal. I don't look at her. She is a complication, a ghost from a different war that I don't have time for right now.

"Get her back to her cell," I snarl to the nearest prospect without turning my head. The command is a bark of pure, unfiltered fury.

I stalk past the men, past the weapons, my entire being focused on a single point. I shove through the heavy door that leads to the church room, my kingdom, my war table. Vengeance is no longer a strategic choice. It is a biological necessity.

I shove through the heavy oak door to the church room, the scent of stale whiskey and old secrets a familiar welcome.

The room is already filled with the heavy silence of dread.

My entire patched brotherhood lines the walls, a silent jury of leather and denim.

At the massive oak table, Rook and Zero are already waiting, their faces carved from granite. They've seen the message. They know.

I stalk to the head of the table and slam the burner phone down on the scarred wood. The plastic clatters, a small, insignificant sound in the heavy quiet.

"He's not just testing us anymore," I snarl, my voice a low growl that cuts through the tension. "He's taking pieces off the board. He murdered Preacher and left him like trash for us to find."

Zero's hand is resting on the hilt of his Ka-Bar, his knuckles white.

"This is not a message. This is an execution," he says, his voice a flat, cold sheet of ice.

"The law is absolute. Blood for blood. We level their clubhouse.

Tonight. I want every last Santo dead by sunrise, and I want Judas's head on a spike. "

Several of the younger members murmur in agreement, their blood hot, their grief demanding a simple, violent release.

"And walk right into Cain's trap?" Rook counters, his voice a low rumble of pure strategy.

He is shaken, his face pale, but his mind is already a chessboard.

"This is what he wants, Zero. A public, bloody war.

He wants us to kill a clubhouse full of puppet-show bikers so the Feds come down on us with everything they have.

He wants us wiped off the map so he can pick up the pieces. "

The arguments rage around me, fire and ice.

Zero’s is the path of pure, hot vengeance that my own rage is screaming for.

Rook’s is the path of cold, strategic patience.

I hear them, but my mind is somewhere else.

It’s on a cold, windswept rooftop, listening to the quiet, steady voice of a woman who understands ruins better than anyone I’ve ever met.

"You don't fix it. A thing that's rotting from the inside can't be repaired. You have to burn it down and build something new from the ashes."

I look at the faces of my men, at the raw grief and fury in their eyes.

A simple "blood for blood" response, as satisfying as it would be, is playing the game by Cain's rules.

I am the king of this broken kingdom. And to win this war, I have to change the rules entirely. I have to burn down the board itself.

I hold up a hand, a quiet, simple gesture that cuts through the rage in the room. The arguments die instantly. Every eye fixes on me, waiting. The air is thick with the expectation of a verdict. Fire or ice.

"No," I say, my voice a low, deadly calm that is more terrifying than any shout. I look at Rook. "You're right. A public street war is what Cain wants. It's a losing game." Then I turn my gaze to Zero. "But you're right, too. This requires fire. Preacher's blood demands it."

I lean forward, my hands flat on the scarred oak table. "We are not going to attack the Sin Santos. We are going to give them exactly what they want."

A ripple of confusion moves through the room. Rook and Zero exchange a look, their expressions a mixture of shock and concern.

"Cain thinks he has a leak inside this club," I continue, my voice dropping, pulling them all in. "He thinks he has an advantage. We are going to let him believe it. We are going to feed our traitor a piece of information so valuable he won't be able to resist running to his master."

I let the idea settle in the heavy silence. "Next week, we are scheduled to move a major arms shipment for the Bratva. High-value. Untraceable. It's the biggest deal we have on the books."

Rook’s eyes widen, understanding and horror dawning on his face. "Hex, you can't mean?—"

"I do," I cut him off. "We are going to leak the route, the time, everything. We are going to let the Santos hit that shipment. We will let them take it. We will let them 'win.' We will let them think they have broken us."

The silence in the room is now absolute, a thick blanket of disbelief. I have just proposed sacrificing a multi-million dollar deal and, more importantly, betraying the trust of a dangerous ally in the Bratva.

"But the shipment," I say, my voice now a blade of ice, "will be a Trojan Horse.

Every weapon in every crate will have a tracker, smaller than a grain of rice.

When the Santos deliver our guns to their master, they will lead us right to Cain's real front door.

Not to some puppet clubhouse, but to the hidden base of operations he's been building for years. "

I look around the table at my stunned brothers. "I am not interested in cutting the head off a snake like Judas Santos. I want to find the man who holds the leash. I am willing to burn down a part of our own house to smoke him out."

I have just made the riskiest gamble of my life, a strategy of sacrificial ruthlessness that shocks my own inner circle to its core. It is a direct application of a ghost's philosophy, a decree to burn it all down to build something new from the ashes.

The heavy oak door of the church room clicks shut as the last brother files out, leaving the three of us—the crown, the council, and the sword—alone in the heavy silence. The air is thick with the weight of the gamble I’ve just declared.

Rook is the first to speak, his voice a low rumble. "This is a hell of a risk, Hex. You're betting the entire club on the idea that our traitor is stupid enough to walk into this trap."

"He's not stupid," I counter, my gaze hard. "He's arrogant. He thinks we're blind. He thinks the leak is clean." My eyes sweep between my two most trusted brothers. "And he's right about one thing. The leak isn't at this table. It's not a patched brother. I'd stake my life on it."

Zero, who has been a silent shadow by the door, takes a step forward. His dead eyes are fixed on me, his voice a flat sheet of ice. "Then it's the girl."

I don't flinch, but the air grows colder.

"She's the only new variable," Zero continues, his logic as sharp and clean as a blade.

"She's Bratva-connected. Cain could be making a play with them through her.

She could have a hidden comms device, a way of listening we haven't found.

The risk is too high. The plan to burn Cain is good, but we eliminate our internal threat first. Let me handle it. Now."

He is offering me the clean solution, the one he always offers. An erasure. A body in the Gowanus Canal that asks no questions. And a month ago, I would have agreed.

I raise a hand, a quiet, final gesture that stops him cold.

"No," I say, my voice absolute. "Impossible. She's been in a concrete box under constant surveillance. No contact. No electronics. Her security is absolute because I made it absolute. She is a ghost in this house. She is a splinter in my head. But she is not the leak."

I let the certainty of my words settle. I am now, for reasons that are purely tactical, her staunchest defender. The irony is a bitter taste in my mouth.

"The leak isn't our biggest threat or our newest complication," I say, the pieces clicking into place with a sudden, horrible clarity.

"It's someone we're not watching. Someone who can move through this clubhouse without suspicion.

Someone who hears everything because nobody ever thinks to look at them. " I look from Rook to Zero.

"It's a prospect."

The realization lands on them both like a physical blow. The thought that one of the eager, terrified kids trying to earn our patch is a traitor is a deeper violation than any external enemy.

"Get Glitch," I command, my voice now a low, deadly weapon. "Tell him to drop everything he's doing on the Santos. I want a full digital and financial deep-dive on every prospect we have. I want to know who they talk to, who they owe money to, who they're fucking. I want to see their ghosts."

I lean forward, my voice dropping to a near whisper, a promise of the violence to come.

"Find me the rat."

Rook and Zero give a single, sharp nod. Their unease about my larger plan is now overshadowed by this new, more immediate mission. They leave the church room, their purpose now clear and deadly, the gears of the internal hunt beginning to turn.

I remain at the head of the table, alone in the heavy silence. The rage is still there, but it's now channeled into a cold, terrifying purpose. The hunt for the traitor is a clean problem, a logical puzzle.

A few minutes later, the door opens again. Rook and Zero re-enter, and between them is Glitch. He's a wiry, nervous creature who seems more comfortable with machines than with men, his eyes magnified behind thick glasses, his cut still looking awkwardly new on his thin frame.

I remember when we recruited him two years ago.

He was some IT drone from a downtown firm, a weekend warrior who thought joining an MC would get him a cool patch and some stories to tell.

Little did he know he was about to become one of the most vital, and most trapped, assets in a multi-million-dollar criminal enterprise.

He’s seen too much now. He knows he’ll never leave.

Glitch pulls a chair up to the scarred oak table, his movements quick and anxious. He places his laptop down, the sleek, modern machine a stark contrast to the ancient, brutal wood. He flips it open, and the screen casts a cold, blue glow on his face.

"We have a rat," I say, my voice flat. "And he's a prospect. I want a full digital and financial deep-dive on every one of them. Now."

Glitch just nods, his fingers already flying across the keyboard with a speed that is inhuman.

The only sounds in the room are the soft, frantic clicking of the keys and the low hum of the machine as our digital ghost hunter begins his work.

Rook and Zero remain standing, silent sentinels at my shoulders.

The hunt for the traitor has begun. And in this room, I watch the digital ghosts of my own men flicker across the screen, searching for the one who has betrayed us all.