Page 60 of Hammer

Saint stood first, his voice cutting through the charged atmosphere.Unlike Tempest, who wore his emotions like his patches -- loud and proud -- Saint had always been more of a strategist, a thinker, the one who saw three moves ahead while the rest of us were still reaching for our weapons.“We need to think long-term here.The Devil’s Boneyard already has beef with the Minions.We join forces, we can push them out for good.”

I clenched my jaw, fighting the immediate urge to dismiss his words.The diplomat’s approach felt too slow, too bloodless for the rage burning in my chest.Every time I blinked, I saw Piston’s hands on Amelia, saw the fear in her eyes that she tried so hard to hide.Those boys -- my boys now -- deserved immediate protection, not political maneuvering.

Saint continued, oblivious to my internal struggle.“I’m not saying we don’t respond.I’m saying we respond smart.Coordinated.The Boneyard’s been looking for an excuse to push the Minions out of their territory.They’re the ones who helped Amelia escape in the first place.”

“And look how well that worked,” I muttered, flexing my bruised knuckles.“Piston still found her.”

“Because we’ve been playing defense,” Saint countered, his gaze steady on mine.“I’m talking about offense.Strategic offense.We reach out to allied clubs -- Boneyard, Savage Knights, Southern Devils -- create a united front.Make it so the Minions have nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.No fueling stations, no safe houses, no friendly bars or dealers.”

The logic made sense, and I hated it.Hated that my need for immediate blood was being countered with reason and strategy.But forty years in this life had taught me that Saint’s approach was solid.Patient.Effective in the long run.

“How long?”I asked, the question coming out like gravel.“How long before Amelia and the boys are safe?”

Saint’s expression softened marginally.“Sooner than going in half-cocked and starting a war we might not win cleanly.The Minions have reach in three states, if not more.They’ve got cops on payroll.Judges.We hit them directly, we risk blowback.”

Before I could respond, Tempest slammed his fist onto the table, the impact sending an empty whiskey glass toppling.Our Sergeant-at-Arms had never been known for subtlety or patience.His face was flushed with anger, eyes burning as he leaned forward.

“Fuck diplomacy,” he growled, his voice vibrating with barely contained fury.“They threatened one of our old ladies.We hit them now, hit them hard.”He looked around the table, challenging anyone to disagree.“You think making nice with other clubs is gonna stop Piston?You think he gives a shit about territory lines or diplomatic pressure?He put his hands on Hammer’s woman.He threatened to kill her.”

Murmurs of agreement rippled around the table.Younger patches leaned forward, hungry for action, for blood.The older ones exchanged weighted glances, measuring options, calculating risks.The division was visible even without words -- the hotheads eager to mount up and ride versus the strategists wanting a planned approach.

“I’m not saying we do nothing,” Saint clarified, his patience a testament to years of these debates.“I’m saying we make sure when we strike, it’s final.No half measures.No loose ends.Taking out Piston isn’t going to solve the issue of the Devil’s Minions.If anything, it will only provoke them.”

“While we’re planning,” Tempest countered, “Piston’s out there licking his wounds, getting ready to make another move.You think he’ll wait for us to form a strategic alliance?Fuck that.We send a message.Tonight.His clubhouse, his businesses.Anything we can locate, or other clubs can get their hands on.Burn them to the ground.”

The part of me that was just a man, just a husband protecting his wife, roared in agreement with Tempest.I wanted to feel the satisfying crunch of Piston’s bones under my fists again.Wanted to finish what I’d started in that parking lot.

But the other part of me -- the part that had spent time in prison, the part that now had two more boys looking to me for safety -- knew Saint’s approach had merit.Fighting Piston one-on-one was one thing.Taking on his entire club without backup was another.The boys needed me alive and free more than they needed Piston dead quickly.

“Both approaches have good points and bad ones,” Prophet offered, breaking his usual silence.“We can move on multiple fronts.Diplomatic channels take time to establish.While Saint works those angles, we make sure Piston understands the immediate consequences of threatening one of ours.”

Warden nodded, his massive frame shifting as he leaned forward.“A show of force doesn’t mean all-out war.Just enough to make them think twice before trying anything else.”

The debate intensified, brothers talking over each other now, the chapel filled with the low rumble of aggressive suggestions, strategic concerns, and practical considerations.I sat silent, absorbing their words, weighing options.This wasn’t just about my pride or my rage anymore.This was about Amelia’s safety.About Chase and Levi growing up without looking over their shoulders.

“Hammer,” Savior said, drawing my attention.“Your call.Your family that’s been threatened.”

The chapel fell silent, all eyes turning to me.The weight of their expectations, their brotherhood, pressed against my shoulders.They would follow whatever direction I chose.Would back my play, whether it was Saint’s measured approach or Tempest’s immediate retaliation.

I drew a deep breath, forcing the red haze of rage to clear enough for rational thought.“Both,” I said finally.“We do both.Saint starts reaching out to allied clubs tonight.Sets the diplomatic wheels in motion.”I turned to Tempest.“And we send a message.Not the clubhouse -- too obvious, too expected.His businesses.His income.Hit him where it hurts while making it clear why we’re doing it.”

A slow smile spread across Tempest’s face, eager and predatory.“Now you’re talking.”

“I’d already started digging,” Wire said.“I can handle crippling him financially.As for physical attacks, those will be harder.Everything he has in his name is in Florida, and I don’t think you want to leave long enough to handle that yourself.”

I grunted and knew he was right.Didn’t mean I had to like it.

“The response has to be proportional,” Saint cautioned.“We make a point without pushing them into a corner where they have nothing to lose.”

“He threatened to kill my wife,” I said, the words coming out like bullets.“He promised to take my boys.There’s nothing proportional about what I want to do to him.”

“And we’ll do it,” Savior assured me, his voice calm but carrying absolute conviction.“But we’ll do it right.We’ll do it so it ends with him, not with a war that puts everyone at risk.Sure, we’ve gone up against some heavy players in the past, but the Devil’s Minions aren’t like the others.They have too many chapters and their reach is beyond what we can handle.”

The tension in the room shifted subtly, brothers nodding in agreement, the divide between immediate action and strategic planning beginning to blur.It wasn’t either/or.It was both.A show of force now, coupled with a longer strategy to eliminate the threat permanently.

“So we’re agreed?”Savior asked, looking around the table.

The responses came in quick succession, brothers voicing support, some pounding the table in emphasis, others offering quiet but firm agreement.The path forward was taking shape, a compromise between blood and diplomacy, between immediate satisfaction and lasting security.

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