My jaw clenched.Nomads meant ghosts.Meant no fixed territory.Meant no easy retaliation.
Thorn cleared his throat.“That’s not even the worst part.”
Wrecker’s eyes snapped to him.“Spit it out.”
“Yogi isn’t the fucking president.”
The room went dead silent.
I felt something cold slide down my spine.“Then who the hell is?”I asked.
Nickel’s mouth flattened.“Some wandering asshole.Prez’s a nomad too.Doesn’t stay anywhere long.Leaves Yogi in St.Paul to hold the fort while he just… fucking wanders.”
“What kind of MC runs like that?”Fox asked.
Nickel shook his head.“Don’t fucking know.But it makes this harder.”
Wrecker dragged a hand down his face.“So even if we wanted to wipe them out—”
“We’d miss ninety percent of the club,” Brinks finished.
That did it.
My leg started bouncing under the table, rage coiling tighter with every word.Clove’s face flashed through my mind.Her shaking breath.Her counting.Her fear when someone touched her too suddenly.
“Did they mention Star or Clove?”Wrecker asked.
Nickel shook his head.“Not a word.Yogi said he’s got guys working pipeline jobs.Nothing more.We didn’t push.Didn’t want to look like we were digging.”
I let out a sharp breath through my nose.
Nothing.We got fucking nothing.
Wrecker’s phone rang.
Every head snapped toward him.
He answered it, listened, then straightened so fast his chair scraped loudly.
“Hold on,” he barked.“I’m putting you on speaker.Say that again.”
He dropped the phone onto the table.Mason’s voice came through, tinny but clear.
“I just got a call from the guy who tipped me off about Timmy.The other three?They’re back in town.”
The room erupted.
“Where?”Fox demanded.
“Shitbox motel on the outskirts.Guy said they were checking in.Each carrying a duffle bag.”
A fucking miracle.
My chair shoved back as I stood.“Let’s go.Now.”
“Sit the hell down,” Wrecker snapped.
“I’m not sitting on my ass while they pack up and run again.”