Chapter 2

Helena Austin POV:

I pulled the heavy microphone from its stand, the speakers letting out a high-pitched screech that tore through the tense silence of the room.

Calhoun snapped out of his trance. He shoved his knife back into its sheath and lunged toward the raised platform, his heavy boots thumping against the wooden risers.

"Put the mic down!" Calhoun snarled, reaching out to grab my wrist. "You're just a mechanic who inherited a few garages! You don't have the authority to speak in this hall!"

I sidestepped his reach with ease, pulling my phone from my leather jacket with my left hand. The screen glowed in the dim light, displaying an active call timer that had already passed twelve minutes.

"Did you hear that, Marcus?" I spoke directly into the speakerphone.

From the other end, the gruff, gravelly voice of my chief logistics dispatcher boomed through the speakers. "Loud and clear, boss."

"Shut it all down," I commanded, my voice flat and icy. "Cut every supply line running into Harrington territory. Freeze the parts shipments, lock down the fuel depots, and recall every rig within a fifty-mile radius. Effective right now."

"On it," Marcus replied, and the call disconnected.

Less than five seconds later, the low, earth-shaking rumble of heavy diesel engines firing up echoed from the industrial highway beyond the clubhouse walls. Ten semi-trucks, loaded with high-grade motorcycle components and fuel reserves, were pulling out of the Harrington compound.

Calhoun stood frozen on the steps, his chest heaving as his arrogant facade shattered into pieces.

"You... you crazy bitch," he stammered, his eyes darting toward the shaking windows. "Those rigs belong to our operations! That's club property!"

"Let me correct you, Calhoun," I said, tapping the microphone with the back of my silver skull ring. "Those rigs belong to the Austin estate. My father built that network. You and your crew were just the parasites feeding off the scraps."

Down on the floor, several patched members in charge of the club's logistics scrambled for their phones. Within seconds, panicked shouts erupted from the back tables.

"VP! The central account just rejected our transfer!" a veteran member yelled, staring in horror at his screen. "The parts vendor canceled our credit line! How the hell are we paying the cartel for next week's weapons shipment?"

Calhoun stumbled backward, his shoulder slamming into a barstool and sending heavy glass tumblers crashing to the floor.

"You think you can starve us out?" Calhoun spat, though his voice cracked with raw panic. "Without the Harrington patch protecting your trucks, your drivers won't make it past the state border alive!"

"Protect me?" I laughed, the sound dry and humorless. "You can't even cover your bar tab without my trust fund. What are you going to protect me with? Your bruised ego?"

Bernadette scrambled up from the floor, ignoring the dirt clinging to her tight dress, and threw her arms around Calhoun's waist, weeping loudly.

"Calhoun, please don't fight with her because of me!" she sobbed, burying her face into his chest. "It's all my fault... I never should have asked to stay..."

"Save your tears, Bernadette," I said, hitting play on a secondary audio file on my phone.

The speakers instantly crackled to life.

Bernadette's unmistakable voice echoed through the entire room, sharp and demanding: "Give me two vials of the border sedative. The kind that leaves no trace in a toxicology report. Put it on the Austin Transport tab, like usual."

The recording cut off.

Bernadette's crying vanished in an instant. Her body went completely rigid in Calhoun's arms, her innocent green eyes widening in absolute horror.

Calhoun looked down at her, his brow furrowing in confusion and doubt, but his desperate need to save face quickly overrode his common sense.

"You faked that!" Calhoun shouted, tightening his grip on Bernadette. "You manufactured a recording to smear an innocent girl! You're completely unhinged!"

"Believe whatever helps you sleep on the floor tonight." I shrugged, pocketing the phone. "The point remains: as of right now, you won't see another dime of my money."

I stepped off the platform, walking straight toward the double exit doors. The patched members in my path instinctively shifted their boots, clearing a wide berth for me to pass.

Just as my hand touched the heavy iron handle of the front door, a deafening crack echoed through the hall.

The sharp sound of an iron-tipped cane striking the wooden floorboards resonated from the top of the metal staircase.

"Hold your ground, girl."

I paused, turning my head.

Standing at the top of the mezzanine stairs was Hubbard Gardner—the President of Harrington MC.

His scarred, weathered face was twisted into a scowl of pure fury. The burn scars stretching from his left ear to his collarbone seemed to pulse beneath the dim yellow lighting.

"Hubbard," I said evenly.

"You think you can walk into a One-Percenter clubhouse, spit on our colors, cut our throat, and simply stroll out the front door?" Hubbard said, taking one heavy, deliberate step down the stairs.

Calhoun immediately rushed toward the bottom of the stairs, looking at his father like a beaten dog looking for a master. "Dad! She canceled our accounts! She's trying to ruin us!"

Hubbard didn't even look at him.

He swung his heavy right arm, his open palm cracking across Calhoun's cheek with enough force to spin the younger man around. Calhoun slammed into the banister, spitting blood onto the steps.

"Useless idiot," Hubbard growled. "Can't even keep a woman in line."

Hubbard stepped past his groaning son and stopped five paces from me, his massive frame radiating lethal hostility.

"Helena," Hubbard said, his voice dropping into a dangerous rumble. "I'll give you one chance. Pick up that patch from the floor. Sign the claiming ledger. And we forget this little tantrum."

He raised his left hand and snapped his fingers.

From the dark corners of the hall, a dozen heavily armed Enforcers stepped forward, racking the slides of their shotguns and semi-automatic pistols in unison. The heavy iron doors behind me were slammed shut and bolted.

Surrounded by a dozen gun barrels, I didn't back down.

Instead, I reached into the inner pocket of my leather jacket and pulled out two crisp, thick sets of documents.

"Hubbard." I raised the papers high above my head, my voice ringing out clear and steady. "Are you really going to force me to sign this fraudulent, dual-ledger contract in front of the Alliance Arbitrators?"

Hubbard's eyes snapped wide. The color instantly drained from his scarred face.

Above us, in the shadowed VIP booth overlooking the entire floor, the faint red glow of a cigar flared in the dark.

A man sitting in a heavy wheelchair leaned forward against the tinted glass, his razor-sharp gaze locking onto me through the gloom.