The way Chef's expression darkens makes it pretty freaking obvious that he's less than thrilled. The rest of the room, on the other hand, crack up so loud that his response is drowned out. He limits himself to a scary look in my direction. “You fuckers,” he says with a grunt when the room finally quiets.
King holds up a hand, getting their attention back. “The new task force is a direct assault on the biker communities. On us. A Hawthorne with free reins would already have the clubhouse leveled and napalmed into oblivion. Fuck, it's probably already on the agenda. He'll never get the votes from South Side. He doesn't give a fuck what happens to us.”
He's good at holding the crowd. Even Eagle-eye is nodding.
“We're going to put pressure on him until he breaks. Until he leaves us alone. For him to step down. The bullshit task force will be history. If he wants his daughter back safely, he'll comply. What man wouldn't want to protect his daughter?”
“I say we get rid of her.” The speaker's a shirtless biker with runic tattoos and little braids in his blonde beard. He's looking right at me with icy blue eyes.
“Viking,” says Hero with what sounds like a slight warning in his tone. It's a good name. I could totally imagine him pillaging the coast of England, all by himself if he had to.
Then I realize getting rid of probably doesn't mean sending me home. I find my voice for the first time. “If any harm comes to me, my father will tear this place apart.”
If glares could murder, someone would already be drawing my outline with chalk. “Watch your words,” snaps Chef. He shifts and a gun in his belt comes into view, reminding me that these guys are killers. “You don't want to sound like you're looking for violence. Around here, you might just find it.”
I really should learn to keep quiet.
“We're not putting anyone down today.” Hero steps in front of me and puts out an arm protectively. His voice is stern. “The real enemy isn't the mayor's little girl. The real enemy's out there, and if all we do is fuck around, nothing's going to change.”
Even Chef nods at that.
Bear, sunk deep on one of the leather couches—at his size, I doubt he can sit anywhere without it being deep—speaks up. “The enemy's out there, sure, but this is trouble. It's bullshit that you took a risk like this. You fuckers didn't even ask us first, even if it affects the whole club. It's a shit move, boys.”
Several people grunt and nod.
“We're the kings of South Side, and you're a bunch of fucking pussies.” Wild Child spits on the floor as he cleans under a nail with his knife. “Turn in your fucking club cards and get the fuck out of here if you can't take the heat, but I'm not going to bow down to a shithead like Hawthorne.”
I remind myself he means my dad and not me, also a Hawthorne. At least I assume so.
“Children!” Eagle-eye stands up and puts Jupiter on the chair. He curls up on the warmth Eagle-eye leaves behind, then shuts his eyes again. “What is this shit? We're brothers. Fucking family. We take care of each other, and we have each other's backs.”
“Hell, yeah,” one of the bikers agrees.
“It's about time someone did something,” says a new voice. He's young, maybe my age. He flicks a curl of blond hair out of his eyes. “We need action. I'm not ready to be buried and forgotten.”
Chef cuts the air dismissively with his hand. “When you've been around as long as me, kid, you learn that sticking your head out isn't what's best for business.”
“Business?” Wild Child gestures so wildly with the knife that I take a step back, right into Hero. It's like backing into a wall. “What, it disrupts the company synergy? Prevents sea change? Lowers shareholder value? We're not a fucking corporation. We're an MC. We're the goddamn Screaming Eagles.”
The discussion devolves quickly. No fistfights, at least not yet, but there's a lot of growling. If I'm lucky, a brawl will break out and I can make a run for it. I throw a hopeful glance at the door, but the guy watching it with his arms crossed over his chest makes a pretty amazing Mr. Clean impersonation, if Mr. Clean had tattoos of naked women on motorcycles down both arms and a silver earring.
“Shut the fuck up!” Eagle-eye holds his arms out, and amazingly, the room quiets. “The wheels are spinning, and ditching little Ms. Hawthorne isn't going to change a fucking thing. And maybe the boys are right. Maybe we've grown too passive. Fuck, the thought of risking our operation tears me up inside, but are we going to let the mayor and an army of corrupt cops boss us around just because we're feeling a little jittery in our pants?”