## Chapter 4: The Claim
The Spur had never been what anyone would call respectable, but at least it had never looked like a war zone—until tonight. Sadie’s boots crunched over shattered glass, every crunch a reminder that Victor’s men had just torn through her bar like a sandstorm through tissue paper.
She stood in the doorway, the late-April wind knifing through the rip in her denim jacket, surveying the damage. Smashed bottles glittered in the neon glow; the BartWorks mirror—her dad’s pride back when he ran the place—lay in jagged pieces behind the oak plank bar. The scent of wasted whiskey mixed with the copper tang of her own blood where a flying shard had nicked her cheek.
It had happened so fast. One minute she’d been restocking limes, humming along with Waylon on the juke, and the next a black Suburban screeched to a stop out front. Three guys had climbed out—lean, twitchy, all sharp edges and dead eyes. The lead dog, Marco Ruiz, had flashed gold teeth and asked, real polite, where Victor’s “wayward bride” was hiding. She’d told him she had no idea, and when he’d insisted on looking in her office, she’d blocked his path. Worst idea ever.
**“Last chance, chica,”** Marco had hissed, fingers drumming a threat on the worn grip of a Glock. **“Victor just wants his property back.”**
She’d answered by spitting blood at his boots.
That was when he punched her. Once—sharp, surgical, splitting her lip but sparing her teeth because Victor wanted her pretty for…whatever came next. Then the boys had proceeded to rearrange her bar while she tasted iron and rage.
Now the silence felt eerily complete, like the calm eye of a tornado she could still outrun if she hustled. Problem was, tornadoes moved faster than a woman with a bruised rib and shaking hands.
Sadie knelt, picking up the framed photo of her daddy astride his ’78 Wide Glide. The glass was cracked right across his smile. She hugged it to her chest anyway. She’d be damned if she let Victor Valdez drive her out of the only place still breathing with her father’s ghost.
Boots scuffed on gravel behind her. Not the slick urban tread of Marco’s wingtips—heavier, a biker’s stride, weighted with attitude. She didn’t turn.
**“Didn’t your momma teach you not to sneak up on a woman holding broken glass?”**
**“She taught me plenty,”** came a low reply, unmistakable western drawl laced with granite. **“None of it covered suicidal bartenders who pick fights with cartel enforcers.”**
She finally looked. Jace Chandler stood six-four in dusty motorcycle boots, muscles roping his forearms beneath rolled flannel. His leather cut bore the Ironwood Saints’ colors—black background, white slash, the stylized halo tilted above a pair of crossed pistons. Sergeant-at-arms patch on the chest. Midnight hair just grazing the collar, eyes a storm-grey cataloguing every splintered stool and overturned table.
Sadie’s pulse stuttered. She hadn’t seen him since the night two weeks ago when she’d kissed him in this very doorway then slammed it on his grin. Stupid, stupid, stupid—because now she needed him and hated needing anyone.
**“I didn’t pick a fight,”** she said, swiping blood from her chin. **“They picked it. I just didn’t bend over fast enough.”**
Jace stepped inside, bootheels ringing crisp in the settling quiet. Two prospects hovered by the entrance—boys barely old enough to shave, kuttes still blank where club patches would go. Mercy and Riggs, Jace’s shadows tonight, both sporting fresh bruises from whatever mission the Saints had sent them on.
**“Riggs, Mercy—stand perimeter,”** Jace ordered. **“Nobody in who isn’t wearing our colors. Got it?”**
They nodded, vanished into night.
Sadie hugged the broken photo tighter. **“You bringing the cavalry to gawk? Because I’m fresh out of beer and goodwill.”**
**“Heard gunfire on police scanner,”** Jace said. **“ShotSpotter tripped at this address. Thought maybe you finally pissed off the wrong married man.”**
She almost laughed; it came out a croak. **“Married to his own reflection—yeah.”**
Jace knelt by the carved cedar post where Marco had slammed her shoulders. His gloved finger traced a faint red streak—her blood. **“Which crew?”**
**“Victor Valdez,”** she admitted. **“His recruiter Marco and two others. Looking for collateral they think belongs to them.”**
His head snapped up. **“Valdez as in the fucking Silver Creed cartel?”**
She nodded once.
Jace’s jaw went lethal. **“And you were gonna handle this solo? Jesus, Sadie.”**
Irritation flared under her exhaustion. **“It’s my bar, my problem.”**
**“It’s my fucking town,”** he shot back. **“We don’t let narco trash terrorize locals. Not on Saints’ turf. You know that.”**
Outside, thunder rolled across the mesa, long and low. Rain scented the air.
He walked a slow circuit, assessing, calculating. The way he moved—controlled, predatory—stripped her nerves raw. Last time she’d seen that stride he’d been stalking a cage fighter who owed the club money. The guy hadn’t walked right for a year.
**“They rough you up bad?”** he asked.
She lifted her chin. **“Seen worse.”**
His gaze slid to her ripped sleeve, the bruise blooming beneath. She watched him bank rage, layer it under discipline. That scared her more than Marco’s gun.
When he spoke again, his voice was almost gentle. **“Need you to tell me everything. No scraps, no pride. Whole picture, baby.”**
**“Don’t call me baby.”**
**“Fine. Whole picture, Sadie Girl.”**
That nickname—her father’s—thumped her sternum. She closed her eyes, sighed.
**“Can we at least do this over coffee?”** she asked. **“Because I’m bleeding on my floor and I’m pretty sure I’ll pass out if adrenaline crashes before caffeine hits.”**
He nodded, turned toward the back hallway.
**“Kitchen still intact?”**
**“They only trashed what customers see,”** she said. **“Professional message, amateur paint job.”**
She led him past the poolroom—felt under the table, cursed when her fingertips met nothing. They’d stolen daddy’s old shotgun she kept duct-taped there. Insurance just became a luxury.
In the cramped office she filled the camping percolator, hands trembling hard enough to clink the pot against the faucet. Jace leaned in the doorway, arms folded, hatchet-blade cheekbones lit by the bare bulb. She could feel him cataloguing every detail: the dented file cabinet, the secondhand safe, the Polaroid of her and dad at Sturgis stuck with yellowing tape.
**“Start talking,”** he said when coffee began to gurgle.
So she did—selectively. About tending bar in El Paso to pay community-college tuition. About Victor Valdez strolling in, all bespoke suit and serpent smile, watching her sling drinks like she served liquid heaven. How he’d courted her with flashy dinners, promises to bankroll her own place. And how, six months in, she realized the investment came with ropes: money laundered through her register, couriers using her apartment as stash stop, Victor’s groping hands staking territory every time she balked.
She described the night she’d finally split—how she’d cracked a bottle of Herradura across his temple during a “business dinner,” stuffed a go-bag, and ghosted north while his men patched his scalp.
She did not mention the flash drive in her boot heel, packed with ledgers that could crater half the Silver Creed’s distribution network. That detail stayed locked behind her teeth—because once you give a man like Jace a lever that big, he puts lives on the line, and Sadie’d had enough collateral damage.
**“So he wants you back to play fiancée,”** Jace summed up, **“or he wants you quiet.”**
She lifted a shoulder. **“Probably both.”**
**“How long since you ran?”**
**“Ten months.”**
He whistled low. **“That’s why you ducked out on our New Year’s hookup? Thought I’d done something.”**
Heat crawled up her neck; she busied herself pouring coffee. **“You did fine. I just…knew they’d keep hunting. Didn’t want you on their radar.”**
**“Little late for that, sugar.”** He took the chipped mug she offered, fingers brushing hers—static up her arm. **“You’re on my radar. Means you’re under my club’s flag tonight.”**
She opened her mouth to object, but the front door banged open. Boots stomped, accompanied by a cold gust. Riggs’ voice echoed: **“Riders incoming—no colors, but packing!”**
Jace set his untouched coffee down. **“Stay here.”**
**“Like hell.”** She yanked the .22 Beretta from the cookie tin above the fridge. **“It’s my damn bar.”**
He caught her wrist. **“You pop that peashooter, you’ll just piss ’em off. Let me handle it.”**
Lightning flash-bulbed the room; thunder cracked almost on top. His eyes were flint, unyielding. She recognized the moment he slipped into battle-calm—same expression dads wore right before doors got kicked in overseas.
**“Fine,”** she conceded, shoving the pistol in her waistband. **“But if you bleed on my floors I’m invoicing your club.”**
A crooked grin flickered. **“Duly noted.”**
They moved through the corridor, rain starting to drum the tin roof. In the main room Mercy had doused the neon, leaving only security lights. Through busted front windows she saw headlights carving spear columns across the parking lot—two SUVs boxing in Jace’s Dyna and the prospects’ pickup.
Doors opened; four silhouettes emerged, slicks gleaming wet. Marco Ruiz in front again, rain flattening his short Mohawk. He carried an aluminum bat.
Sadie’s pulse thudded against bruises.
**“Thought you said three,”** Jace murmured.
**“They called backup.”**
**“Stay behind the post, keep lights off your silhouette.”**
She obeyed, heart hammering.
Jace stepped into the open doorway, rain sheeting off the tin overhang. His tone rolled casual but carried an edge that could split rope. **“Bar’s closed, compadres. Come back tomorrow.”**
Marco smiled gold. **“Just here for la novia, biker. Not your fight.”**
Jace rested thumbs in his belt, knuckles inches from the pancake holster at the small of his back. **“See, that’s where you’re wrong. Anything breathes inside town limits, it’s club business.”**
One of Marco’s men flicked a collapsible baton; another racked a shotgun—sound like God cracking knuckles. Sadie tasted metal fear.
**“Last chance,”** Marco called over the rain. **“Hand her over—nobody walks hurt.”**
Jace chuckled, low and deadly. **“Ironwood Saints don’t hand over civilians. We bury men who ask.”**
Marco swung the bat onto his shoulder, advanced. **“Hero complex will get you a bullet crown, mother—”**
He never finished.
Jace’s hand blurred, snatching the bat mid-swing. One brutal yank sent Marco stumbling forward; Jace’s boot met his knee—snap audible even through storm. Before the cartel man hit ground Jace spun, bat whistling into ribcage of shotgun guy. Weapon clattered; Riggs appeared from shadows, tackling him.
Sadie blinked and the porch erupted—fists, blades, rain flashing sideways under parking-lot floods. Mercy crashed a beer mug over a goon’s head, glass and rainwater glittering together. Jace moved like water over hot iron—economical, vicious. Bat cracked ulna; elbow crushed larynx. Two bodies down before she remembered to breathe.
A revolver cleared leather from coat number four—silver snub flicking toward Jace’s spine.
**“Gun!”** she screamed.
Jace whirled, hurled the bat end-over-end—metal met temple with a sound like dropping ripe melon. Revolver fired skyward, round ricocheting off tin as the gunman toppled.
In five heartbeats the fight became a moaning heap.
Marco, kneecap disjointed, crawled toward the SUV. Jace strode over, grabbed Mohawk, slammed head against bumper—once, twice—then dragged him upright by collar.
**“Tell Victor the Saints claimed this ground,”** he growled, voice razor-flat. **“He sends another man into our county, we send him back in a box—pieces optional.”**
Marco spat blood, smiled. **“You think this ends here? He owns half the border. You declared war on a fucking army.”**
**“Good.”** Jace’s grin was pure carnivore. **“Armies are easier to hit than ghosts.”**
He shoved Marco into the mud, turned to Riggs. **“Zip-tie, ankles and wrists. Strip ammo, toss weapons in truck. We dump ’em county-line side roads with a message carved if they’re stupid enough to return.”**
Riggs nodded, moving efficiently.
Sadie stepped onto the porch, rain slicking her hair flat. Thunder rolled like distant drums. She watched Jace wipe blood off his knuckles—some his, mostly theirs—and felt the world tilt beneath liquor and adrenaline.
When he faced her, eyes were that eerie calm again. **“Let’s try this once more. Whole truth, Sadie. Right now.”**
Her legs shook. **“Inside,”** she whispered.
They left prospects dragging bodies; she led him back to office, slammed door on chaos, leaned against it. Tremors overtook her—coffee mug rattled in her grip as she set the Beretta on desk.
Jace folded arms. **“Cartel princess running from daddy warlord decides single-wide bartender life in my town is safe haven. Then wonders why big bad wolves sniff her out. Tell me what else you stole besides your freedom.”**
She swallowed. **“Information.”**
His brow arched.
**“Ledger drive,”** she said. **“Three months before I bolted, Victor let me close books at his nightclub. I copied spreadsheets—routes, ledgers, account numbers. Enough RICO ammo to sink half the Creed.”**
**“Jesus.”** He rubbed a hand over stubble. **“Where is it?”**
She tapped her boot heel.
**“You’re carrying it?”** Disbelief clipped his voice. **“Here? In my town?”**
**“Safer on me than in storage unit. Safer than leaving with friends Valdez could torture.”**
Jace paced like caged lion. **“Do you have copies?”**
**“Cloud encrypted. Auto-uploads once weekly if I don’t punch code. Friends stateside get link.”**
**“Fuck me.”** He stopped, planted palms on desk, eyes boring into hers. **“You realize Saints territory just became front line in cartel war?”**
**“I didn’t ask for rescue,”** she snapped. **“You chose to get involved.”**
**“Because you lied, downplayed danger. Thought you could handle rattlesnakes bare-handed.”**
Her temper sparked. **“I survived ten months—”**
**“By hiding, not handling.”** He straightened, decision crystallizing behind storm-grey irises. **“Pack a bag. You’re coming with me.”**
**“Like hell—”**
**“Club protection isn’t a suggestion, Sadie. It’s protocol when civilians become strategic assets. You got intel that could wreck Creed finances; they’ll burn three states hunting you. Ironwood Saints want that intel alive. Ergo my clubhouse becomes your crash pad.”**
She crossed arms, glared. **“And when you trade me to feds for leverage?”**
**“We aren’t ATF puppets,”** he shot back. **“We keep our own counsel. But first move is keeping you breathing. That happens at my place. End of discussion.”**
Lightning brightened the window; thunder followed instantly—storm overhead now. She felt walls closing: Victor on one side, Jace on the other, both convinced they knew best.
But Jace’s choice at least came with living to fight another sunrise.
She exhaled shaky breath. **“I need ten minutes.”**
**“Five.”** He turned to door, paused. **“Pack light and smart. Assume you won’t come back here soon.”**
Sadie rummaged go-bag from closet—old army duffel dad left. Into it: three changes clothes, toiletries, the cracked photo, burner phone, daddy’s Randall knife, and the .22. She pried rubber heel insert, confirmed flash-drive nested in foil, slid it back.
Jace reappeared with a roll of duct tape, tossed it. **“Muffle hardware,”** he said. He produced a windbreaker Saints logo, tossed that too. **“Keep colors visible—signals rival crews you’re under shield.”**
She donned jacket, zipped. **“I feel like a billboard.”**
**“Better a live billboard than dead rebel.”**
Outside, Riggs had stacked cartel guns in truck bed. Mercy hosed blood from porch planks. Rain slowed to soft hiss.
Jace handed her a half-helmet. **“Ride bitch or borrow pickup?”**
She eyed the towering Dyna, matte-black with joker-shift suicide shifter. **“I’m not riding bitch.”**
He smirked. **“Fine. You take my truck, I’ll ride escort. Riggs drives your Jeep—follow tomorrow after we sweep GPS trackers.”**
Keys exchanged hands; she climbed behind wheel of lifted Ford—leather seats smelled of cedar and gun oil. Engine rumbled alive, speakers humming Chris Stapleton low. She waited while Jace mounted bike, boots thudding jiffy-stand. For a heartbeat silhouettes of man, machine, and storm merged—one dark animal.
Mercy closed bar doors, snapped padlock. **“Prospects’ll board windows, post guard till insurance assesses,”** Jace said through open window. **“You concentrate on staying low.”**
She nodded, eased truck onto county road. Headlights knifed wet asphalt, rearview flashing with Jace’s single beam tailing like guard dog. Ten miles of backcountry, wind rocking pine tops, frogs screaming from