# Chapter 11: War Council
The chapel’s air tasted of motor-oil, coffee grounds, and unspoken violence. Thirty-two leather cuts circled the scarred oak table like black feathers around a carcass—president, veep, SAA, road captain, enforcer, treasurer, six charter reps, plus prospects and hang-arounds standing three-deep against the sweating cinder-block walls. A single bulb hung over the map tacked to the tabletop: laminated satellite shot of the Southwest, red Sharpie arrows spidering from Sonora to Vegas, blue circles for Iron Kings strongholds, black X’s for known Silver Creed way-stations. Sadie sat at Jace’s left hand, kutte-less but not voice-less, the cracked flash-drive hanging from a paracord around her neck like a medal she’d never asked for. Every time she shifted, the plastic clicked softly against the .38 under her flannel—reassurance and reminder.
Jace rapped the gavel—chrome bolt welded to a piston—and the low growl of conversation died. “Council’s open. Topic: end the Creed’s reach north of the border or bleed for the next decade. Intel provided by Sadie Holbrook—civilian, but under our flag. She talks first.”
Chairs creaked. Some eyes narrowed; others gave her the flat respect they reserved for anyone who’d bled beside them. She inhaled diesel dust and started talking, voice steady only because she rehearsed in the shower at dawn while Jace shaved.
“Victor’s locked in federal custody in El Paso, but custody doesn’t neuter an octopus—it just squeezes the head while the arms keep reaching.” She tapped the map. “Creed command now sits with his sister—Lucía Valdez-Cortez, a.k.a. La Madrina. She’s the numbers brain: laundromats, used-car lots, rehab clinics—anywhere dirty cash can pose as legitimate. She hates Victor’s flashy shit; prefers spreadsheets to sicarios, but she’ll spend blood to protect margins.”
Brick grunted. “We ghost Victor, she promotes herself. We gut her finances, she comes begging.”
“Exactly.” Sadie slid print-outs across the wood—bank routing numbers, shell-company lists, QR-coded ledgers. “Drive’s got two years of transfers: twenty-three million washed through Arizona alone. Feds only got the summary. We’ve got the receipts. Lucía moves product monthly—fentanyl tabs pressed to look like 30-mill Oxy. Next convoy’s scheduled eleven days. Route: Douglas AZ → I-10 → 40 → Vegas distribution cells. If that load disappears, she loses both inventory and buyer confidence. Iron Kings seize the vacuum.”
Youngblood whistled. “We jack dope worth eight figures and the bitch can’t cry to cops. Clean score.”
“Clean until Creed shoots back,” Smoke countered, arms crossed. “They’ll hit our businesses—strip clubs, gun store, construction bids. Civilians eat stray rounds.”
Sadie met his gaze. “Civilians already eat them. I’ve got seventeen obits clipped from Phoenix papers last year—addicts who bought Creed pills thinking they were prescription. Juvie kids, truckers, waitresses. They just don’t make headlines.”
Silence thick enough to choke on. Luna, only woman patched besides the late Crystal, spoke from the doorway. “We’re debating profit versus body count. Sadie’s handing us both on a platter. Question is appetite.”
Jace leaned back, chair groaning. “Options on the table:
1. Hit convoy—steal product, torch trucks, send message. 2. Feed ledger to DEA—let feds kneecap books while we mop street-level remnants. 3. Negotiate—offer Lucía corridor access for percentage, keep Victor in jail, split border like civilized criminals.”
Ryder snorted. “Civilized and cartel don’t share a dictionary.” Riggs, nursing broken ribs from the Coyote Pass shoot-out, growled, “I vote blood. They shot Bear, damn near killed Prez. Percentage won’t unbreak Bear’s leg.”
Hands thumped table in agreement—prospect code for “aye.” Sadie’s pulse pounded against bruised ribs; she felt the old panic flutter, wings beating stomach lining. She pictured Victor’s grin through glass at the El Paso jail—knowing smiles that said games within games still favored him. Terror crawled up her throat, but stronger was the image of Maria’s swollen face, of Jace bleeding on the butcher-block, of Luna teaching her to stitch gunshot exit wounds in pig carcasses at dawn. She stood, palms flat on oak, earning the room’s attention.
“I vote option one-point-five,” she said. “Hit convoy, record every second. Leak footage to Las Vegas news same night DEA receives ledgers. Public sees dope dressed as safe pills, feds get bank trails, Creed loses both street and boardroom. We salt the earth behind us—buyers blame Lucía for heat, suppliers pull backing, chaos creates vacuum Iron Kings fill under ‘community protection.’ We look like white hats cleaning our own yard. PR bulletproof.”
Murmurs rippled—calculating, impressed, wary. Jace’s lip quirked—the micro-expression he saved for when she surprised him, which was becoming habit he clearly enjoyed. “Motion on floor. Amendment: media component. Seconded?”
Brick slammed fist. “Second.”
Debate fired quick—risks of cameras, exposure of club faces, but Ryder pointed out helmets and balaclavas solve optics, and treasurer Doc loved the idea of laundering seized fentanyl cash into legitimate bail-bonds business they’d been planning. Prospects were tasked with editing footage, blurring patches, overdubbing cartel names. Iron Kings would appear anonymous vigilantes; cartel branded public enemy.
Vote came fast—unanimous for amended hit. Gavel cracked; decision carved.
Jace dismissed prospects to prep bikes, trucks, drone cams. Patched members stayed for specifics—routes, radio channels, medical stations, body-disposal options, legal coverage if any Kings fell to cuffs. Sadie remained, taking notes even though her handwriting jittered. When talk turned to kill-orders on Lucía should she appear at scene, her vision tunneled, buzzing filling ears. Jace’s hand found her nape beneath her braid—warm, steady—grounding her without words.
At 0200 hours, gavel closed session. Men filed out, clapping shoulders, already smelling cordite and adrenaline. Luna lingered, pressed a fresh magazine into Sadie’s palm like a mother tucking lunch money. “You ride with us tomorrow, but you ride back, hear?”
Sadie managed nod, throat thick.
Then the chapel was empty—just her, Jace, and map stained by coffee rings looking like dried blood. Door shut. Echo died. Quiet throbbed.
Jace exhaled long, rolled the kinks from neck. Under lamplight, new silver threaded his temples—stress paid in hair pigment. He rubbed his thigh where shrapnel had carved a valley still pink. “You held solid in there,” he said, voice sand-paper soft.
She sat again, legs suddenly gelatin. “I held because you put me there. Don’t ask if I’m okay—I’m fucking terrified.”
He knelt beside her chair, forearms on her knees—a posture both supplicant and protector. “Fear’s fuel; just gotta spark it right.”
“I smell him when I close eyes,” she admitted. “Victor. Expensive cologne over copper. He’s in the cell, but he’s in my head too.”
Jace took her hand, turned it palm-up, kissed the lifeline. “We evict him tomorrow. Replace that scent with gun-smoke and rubber, then with pine from the mountains where we’ll ride after. You’ll breathe new memory over old.”
Tears blurred map edges. “If I lose you—lose this—I’ll shatter.”
“You won’t lose me. I’m stubborn as winter.” He pulled something from his pocket—a small silver coin, Iron Kings crest on one side, Saint Christopher on the other, hole drilled through. “Carried this since enlistment. Figured I’d pass it when I had something worth protecting more than my own skin.” He looped it through the paracord beside the flash-drive so it clinked against plastic. “Now it rides with our intel. You carry all our futures together.”
She closed fist around warm metal. “Promise you’ll come back.”
“I promise I’ll fight like hell to come back. That’s all any soldier gives.” He stood, pulling her up, wrapping arms until she felt heartbeat through bone. “But I want insurance.”
“Insurance?”
He stepped back, hands sliding to cradle her face. “Marry me. Not a church deal—our way, in front of the club, tomorrow before we ride. You wear my property patch, ink my name on your skin. Cartel sees that, they know touching you means declaring total war on every charter in three states. Symbol matters more than bullets sometimes.”
Breath deserted her. “Jace—”
“No pressure for forever. Just legal armor and brotherhood vow. We survive this shit-storm, we do courthouse later, big dress, whatever you want. But tomorrow I ride easier knowing every King swore to shield you as my wife. Cartel understands old-lady status. They’ll think hard before grabbing you again.”
She stared—into storm-colored eyes that held fear, hope, possession, and respect in impossible balance. Images cartwheeled: courthouse wedding to Christian at nineteen—cold office, indifferent clerk, marriage license later used as leverage for Victor to claim she “belonged” to him through broken vows. She’d sworn never to legally chain herself again. But this—club ceremony, chosen family, patch worn like banner—felt like weapon more than cage. Choice, not coercion.
Her throat worked. “Property patch doesn’t mean you own me. Means we own each other.”
“Damn right.”
“And I keep working, keep voting in club business, keep my name on accounts.”
“Never wanted anything less.”
“Then yes.” The word left her like bullet recoil—shock, relief, terror, elation. “Yes. Tomorrow.”
Relief sagged his shoulders; then he grinned, sudden as sunrise. “Knew I loved a warrior.” He kissed her—hard, brief promise. “Come on. Need to tell Luna to find flowers that don’t wilt in desert heat.”
He tugged her toward the door, but she held back, fisting his cut. When he turned, she stepped close, voice low. “One more thing—private.” She pressed palm over his heart. “You come back breathing because tomorrow’s only the start. I want forever even if we have to carve it from rock with bare hands. You die, I follow—and I’m nastier ghost than you could ever be. That’s my vow.”
Eyes flared—pride, fear, love tangled. He crushed her to him, mouth at her ear. “Message received, wife.” The word rumbled through flesh, lodging somewhere between ribs and future.
*
They found Luna in the kitchen humming Patsy Cline while sharpening hunting knives. When told, she whooped loud enough to wake prospects in barracks, then raided the garden for desert marigold and sagebrush, wrapping stems with red ribbon from last year’s Christmas stash. “Something borrowed—my mama’s ring.” She slid turquoise onto Sadie’s thumb. “Something blue—your balls for marrying this stubborn ass.” She winked at Jace, who flipped her off affectionately.
Word spread like gasoline fire. By dawn, the clubhouse courtyard filled: folding chairs in crooked rows, battery-powered fairy lights strung from corrugated roof, prospect DJ queuing Waylon Jennings on laptop speakers. Charter presidents rode in from Farmington and Kingman, patches dust-coated, bearing bottles of Patrón and hand-forged rings. Brick produced braided leather cord for hand-fasting; Doc printed vows on bar napkins because no one owned stationary.
Sadie stood in Luna’s trailer at sunrise while women she barely knew six weeks prior transformed her into something mythic: black denim skirt, white tank under Jace’s spare cut—sleeves ripped off, PROPERTY OF JACE sewn across the back in fresh crimson thread. Her hair braided with marigold, wrists banded in turquoise. She looked like desert queen, like survivor turned storm.
Luna met her eyes in mirror. “You scared?”
“Terrified,” she admitted. “And alive like I’ve never been.”
“Good. Marriage is war. You just declared alliance.”
Outside, engines idled in formation—thirty bikes gleaming under newborn sun, men in clean denim waiting to escort their president to vows. Sadie stepped into light; crowd quieted. Jace waited by the makeshift arch of exhaust pipes and wildflowers, cut pristine, face scrubbed, eyes only for her. Time folded—memory of courthouse with Christian blurred, replaced by desert heat, by choice, by hands that would never push, only anchor.
Pastor was absent. Instead, Sage held leather-bound journal, reading vows they’d drafted at 4 a.m.:
> “Do you swear blood, breath, and road to stand as one against all who come—lawman, devil, storm, or kin?” > “I swear.” Voice rang clear. > “Do you vow honesty in fear, mercy in victory, fire in loss?” > “I vow.” > “Do you claim each other not as chain but as blade—sharpening, shielding, never turning edge inward save in error?” > “We claim.”
Luna bound their joined hands with leather, poured tequila over the cord so it dripped between knuckles—sting of agave on tiny knife nicks from loading magazines at dawn. They sipped from same bottle, kiss simple because ceremony wasn’t for show—it was covenant, witnessed by men who’d kill or die at their word.
Then the crowd erupted—engines revved in rolling thunder, Guns N’ Roses replaced Waylon, whiskey flowed. Brothers queued to hug her, calling her *sister*, *old-lady*, *First Lady* with grins fierce as vows. She felt claimed, yes, but more—she felt *counted*, ledger balanced by choice not coercion.
Jace pulled her aside momentarily, thumb rubbing leather cord still damp. “You good?”
She looked over courtyard—kids chasing each other between chrome, Luna passing out tamales, Maria on crutches laughing with Bear whose cast bore Sharpie art of middle fingers. Smoke rose from grills; desert wind carried mariachi from someone’s phone. Life—messy, loud, dangerous—bloomed under threat of war.
“I’m perfect,” she said. And meant it.
He kissed her—brief, public, promise. Then louder, for family: “We ride at noon! Fill bellies, kiss babies, piss one last time—convoy leaves at twelve-oh-one!”
Cheers answered. Someone fired pistol into sky; bullet arced like exclamation point.
*
1100 hours—cargo trucks loaded, drones charged, med-kits staged. Prospects checked torques; women hugged men whose names matched tattoos on their own skin. Sadie zipped her go-bag—ledger copies in waterproof sleeve, wedding coin around neck beside flash-drive, fresh sketch of Jace’s sleeping profile tucked for luck.
Jace found her behind clubhouse, tightening boots. He crouched, slid switchblade into her boot sheath. “Backup for backup,” he said. “You ride rear seat with me to line—then you command comms from support truck. Eyes on drone feeds. You don’t enter kill-box unless shit collapses.”
“I hear.” She touched his beard, memorizing grain. “I love you.”
“Prove it by coming back with me.”
“Deal.”
They mounted—he on matte-black Dyna, she pillion, arms around armor-plated chest. Engine rumbled between her thighs like promise vibrating bone. One by one, bikes fell into column—chrome serpent slithering towards sun, towards war, towards future written in gasoline.
At highway on-ramp, Sadie looked back—clubhouse shrinking, desert swallowing it whole. She tightened arms, pressed lips to Jae’s neck beneath helmet, tasting salt and man and possibility.
Then forward—only forward.
War waited, but so did wedding night, so did tomorrow’s banana bread, so did the first sketch she’d draw of Jace laughing without shadows. She carried all of it in chest now—fear, fury, love—balanced like magazine seated perfectly in well-oiled chamber.
Convoy roared toward horizon, dust plume blooming red against turquoise sky—flag of new nation: two survivors, one vow, infinite miles.
Behind them, sagebrush trembled in slipstream—desert witness to covenant carved not in stone but in motion, in throttle, in choice.
And somewhere south, behind steel bars, Victor Valdez turned newspaper pages—unaware the woman he’d tried to own now wore another man’s patch like war paint, riding to meet whatever dawn would break.
The bikes vanished into heat-shimmer; fairy lights at their back flickered once, twice—then held steady, waiting for dusk to bring them home.