The phones at the office haven't stopped ringing. People are calling us dead meat. Susan swallowed hard. The protective bubble of her zip code suddenly felt very thin. 30 miles away in an industrial park on the edge of the city limits, the atmosphere was entirely different.
The Hells Angels clubhouse was a cinder block fortress. No windows, heavy steel doors, surveillance cameras tracking every angle of the perimeter. Inside, it smelled of stale beer, motor oil, and cigarette smoke. Jim was sitting at the long wooden bar nursing a bourbon. He was out of his leathers wearing just a black t-shirt.
He looked at his phone watching the video Toby had recorded. He didn't smile. He felt a cold, dull anger. Not for the insult to his pride, but for the insult to Dutch. The door to the back office opened.
Cole walked out. Cole was the president of the charter. He was a smaller man than Jim, wire-thin, with sharp, intelligent eyes and a mind like a steel trap. He had kept the charter out of federal indictments for 10 years because he understood strategy. Violence was a tool, but it was often the clumsiest one.
Cole pulled up a stool next to Jim. He placed his phone on the bar. It was paused on Susan's face. "You handled yourself well today, brother. " Cole said quietly. "I was tired. " Jim muttered.
"If I wasn't so damn tired, I might have caught a charge. " "Good thing you didn't. " Cole tapped the screen. "The internet is doing the heavy lifting right now. Her husband's business is bleeding out. They're getting death threats from teenagers in Ohio. Jim shook his head.
I don't care about her business. I care that she ran her mouth about Dutch. I know. Cole poured himself a shot of bourbon. He knocked it back.
The disrespect is public. That means the response has to be public. The club can't let a civilian spit on a memorial piece and walk away feeling like she won. Jim looked at Cole. What are you saying?
We don't touch her. The feds are watching us too closely right now. I'm not going back to a cell over some bored housewife. We aren't going to touch a hair on her head. Cole smiled.
It was a cold, predatory expression. If we break her windows, we're criminals. If we lay a hand on her, we prove her right. She wants us to be animals. She expects us to be monsters.
Cole turned to face the rest of the room. A dozen fully patched members were shooting pool, drinking, and talking in low voices. Listen up, Cole barked. The room went dead silent. Pool cues were lowered.