Page 81 of Scornful

Rati leans forward, his scarred knuckles white as he grips the edge of the table. "What's the plan?"

"Complete lockdown," Runes declares. "Every family, every woman, every child stays here at the clubhouse until this threat is eliminated. No exceptions."

Murmurs ripple through the room.

Lockdown means exactly what it sounds like—turning our clubhouse into a fucking fortress.

It means families crammed together, kids missing school, businesses shut down.

It means we're admitting this war has come to our doorstep.

"What about the spa, the bar?" Dag asks. Always thinking about the money, our treasurer. "We shut everything down, we lose revenue. The Patriot wins without firing another shot."

"Everything closes except Bubba's," Fenrir speaks up from his VP spot. "We need to maintain some appearance of normalcy, keep revenue flowing. But the spa, it goes dark until this is over. Magnolia and Aziza need to shut things down too. Granted, I’m certain Magnolia will have things closed given what’s happened."

"I’ll make sure Aziza shuts down the bakery, not gonna have my ol’ lady or our kids get hurt. Now, Bubba’s, are our people working there?" Aesir asks.

"They get paid," Runes says firmly. "Nobody suffers because we're at war. We take care of our own."

"And the Patriot?" Magnus asks the question we're all thinking. "We just gonna sit here playin’ defense while he plans his next move?"

Runes' smile is death itself. "We hunt him down like the rabid dog he is. Every connection, every associate, every fuckin’ penny he's got—we destroy it all. This isn't retaliation anymore, brothers. This is extermination."

The room erupts in agreement.

Fists pound the table, voices raise in support.

I catch Fenrir watching me from across the table.

For the first time since he found out about Astrid and me, he doesn't look like he wants to tear my throat out.

He nods once—acknowledgment, maybe even approval.

Probably because I turned Laken's skull into hamburger meat for threatening his daughter.

"Assignments," Runes continues once the noise dies down. "Ivar, you're coordinating compound security. Twenty-four-seven coverage, rotating shifts. Nobody gets in or out without our say-so."

Ivar nods, already making mental calculations. "I'll need at least six men per shift. Two on the gates, two on the perimeter, and two floating."

"Take who you need," Runes approves. "Prospects included. This is all hands on deck."

"Kraken—" Runes stops, remembering. "Shit. Tor, you take point on gathering intel. I want to know everything about the Patriot's operations. Where he eats, where he shits, who he's fuckin’. Everything."

"On it," Tor confirms. "I've already got feelers out. That warehouse explosion last month? Word is he lost a major shipment. He's hurting for product, might make him desperate."

"Good. Desperate means sloppy." Runes turns to Magnus. "You're handlin’ supplies. We don't know how long the families will be here. Food, medical supplies, whatever we need."

"Consider it done. I'll coordinate with the ol’ ladies, get a full inventory. Might need to make some bulk runs."

The assignments continue.

Every brother gets a role, a purpose in this war.

Vanir takes communications—burner phones, encrypted messages.

Logi handles weapons inventory.

When Runes looks at me, I straighten. "Geirolf, you're on protection detail for the families. Work with Ivar on security rotations. And—" he pauses, glancing at Fenrir, "—you're personally responsible for the VP's family."

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