The Devil You Know

The war room in the Saints' clubhouse had been transformed into a command center that would have impressed military strategists. Maps covered every available surface, marked with colored pins indicating Colombian positions, allied club territories, and potential targets. Ghost's computer setup hummed quietly in one corner, multiple screens displaying surveillance feeds, encrypted communications, and intelligence reports that painted a grim picture of their situation.

Raven stood beside Jax as he studied aerial photographs of the warehouse district where the Colombians had established their base of operations. Even in the grainy satellite images, she could see the professional nature of their setup—strategic positioning, overlapping fields of fire, and what looked like military-grade communication equipment.

"They're not playing games," Diesel observed, pointing to a cluster of buildings on the map. "This isn't some street gang operation. This is a coordinated military assault on American soil."

"Which means we can't fight them like a street gang," Jax replied, his hazel eyes cold with calculation. "Ghost, what do we know about Vargas himself?"

Ghost pulled up a file on his main screen, displaying a photograph of a man in his fifties with silver hair and dead eyes. "Eduardo Vargas, age 52, former Colombian military special forces before he went private sector. He's been the cartel's primary enforcer for North American operations for the past decade. Conservative body count estimates put him at over 200 confirmed kills."

"Family?" Raven asked, studying the man's face and seeing nothing but controlled violence.

"Wife and two daughters back in Medellín, but they're untouchable. The cartel protects family members like they're heads of state." Ghost scrolled through more intelligence. "But Vargas has a weakness—he's got a reputation to maintain. Every operation he runs has to be a statement, a demonstration of power that sends ripples through the entire criminal underground."

"Pride," Hawk said from across the room. "Always comes before a fall."

"In this case, it might be our only advantage," Jax agreed. "What about Destiny? Any word on her location?"

Viper stepped forward, his scarred face drawn with exhaustion and worry. "Nothing concrete. Our sources say she's being held at the main warehouse, but we can't confirm it without getting close enough to trigger their security."

The silence that followed was heavy with the weight of impossible choices. Everyone in the room knew that a direct assault on the Colombian position would be suicide—they were outnumbered, outgunned, and facing professional soldiers with military training. But they also knew that leaving Destiny in enemy hands wasn't an option.

"What if we gave them what they want?" one of the newer prospects suggested, his voice barely above a whisper.

The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. Every eye turned to the young man, who immediately realized his mistake but was too deep to back down now.

"I mean," he continued, sweat beading on his forehead, "what if we actually paid the twenty million? Get Destiny back, buy ourselves time to plan a better strategy?"

"With what money?" Diesel asked, his voice dangerously quiet. "The Diamondback war cleaned us out. We've got maybe two million in liquid assets, and that's if we sell everything that isn't nailed down."

"Besides," Jax added, his tone carrying the finality of absolute authority, "you don't negotiate with terrorists. You kill them. Vargas took one of ours, which means this is personal now. Personal debts get paid in blood, not cash."

Before anyone could respond, the clubhouse's main phone rang. In the tense atmosphere, the sound was as jarring as a gunshot. Ghost answered it, his face growing grim as he listened to whoever was on the other end.

"Prez," he said, covering the receiver, "it's them. They want to talk."

Jax took the phone, his expression unreadable as he listened to the voice on the other end. When he finally spoke, his words were measured and controlled. "This is Jax Savage."

The conversation was brief, mostly Jax listening while the room held its collective breath. When he finally hung up, his face was a mask of cold fury.

"Vargas wants to meet," he announced. "Tomorrow night, neutral ground. He says he has a proposition that might interest us."

"It's a trap," Diesel said immediately.

"Of course it's a trap," Jax replied. "But it's also an opportunity. He's giving us a chance to get close to him, to study his operation, maybe even get intelligence on where they're holding Destiny."

"And if he just plans to kill you the moment you walk in?" Raven asked, though she already knew what his answer would be.

"Then I make sure I take him with me," Jax said simply. "But I don't think that's his play. Vargas is too smart to kill a club president on neutral ground. It would unite every motorcycle club in the state against the Colombians, and even they can't fight a war on that many fronts."

Ghost was already pulling up files on his computer. "Where does he want to meet?"

"The Palladium. Downtown, tomorrow at midnight."

The Palladium was a high-end nightclub that catered to the city's criminal elite—a place where rival organizations could conduct business without worrying about violence. It was owned by the Torrino family, old-school Italian-American organized crime that had survived by staying neutral in everyone else's wars.

"I know the layout," Hawk offered. "Multiple exits, good sightlines, and the Torrinos keep security tight. If Vargas is planning something violent, it won't be there."

"Which means the real trap comes after," Raven said, her mind already working through the possibilities. "He gets you comfortable, maybe even makes a reasonable offer, then hits you on the way home when your guard is down."

Jax nodded, appreciating her tactical thinking. "So we make sure we're ready for whatever comes after. Diesel, I want teams positioned at every major route between the Palladium and here. Ghost, full electronic surveillance—I want to know every word spoken in that meeting. Hawk, coordinate with our allies. If this goes sideways, I want backup ready to move."

As the men dispersed to carry out their orders, Raven remained behind, studying the photographs of Eduardo Vargas with the intensity of someone memorizing an enemy's face.

"You're not going in alone," she said quietly, not looking up from the files.

"Like hell I'm not," Jax replied. "This isn't the Diamondbacks, Raven. These are international criminals with resources we can't even imagine. I won't risk you getting caught in the crossfire."

"You're not risking me," she said, finally meeting his gaze. "I'm volunteering. And before you start with the protective male bullshit, think about this strategically. Vargas is expecting Jax Savage, club president and dangerous criminal. He's not expecting his girlfriend to be anything more than decoration."

"Absolutely not."

"Jax, listen to me," Raven moved closer, her voice carrying the conviction of someone who'd already made up her mind. "We both know this meeting is just the opening move. Whatever Vargas really wants, whatever his actual plan is, we're not going to learn it from one conversation. But if I'm there, if I can get close to his people while you're keeping his attention..."

"You want to run another infiltration," Jax said, understanding dawning in his eyes.

"I want to do what I do best," she replied. "Gather intelligence, find weaknesses, and help you destroy our enemies before they destroy us."

The argument that followed was heated but brief. In the end, they both knew she was right—their best advantage was the element of surprise, and nobody would suspect the club president's woman of being anything more than arm candy.

As they finalized their plans for the meeting with Eduardo Vargas, Raven felt the familiar mixture of fear and excitement that came with stepping into mortal danger. The peaceful months in the mountains seemed like a lifetime ago, replaced by the sharp clarity that came with hunting predators in their own territory.

Tomorrow night, they would walk into the devil's parlor and smile while he offered them poison. The question was whether they would be clever enough to survive the game long enough to turn the tables.

Outside, the city sprawled beneath a canopy of stars that seemed cold and distant. Somewhere in that urban jungle, Destiny was being held prisoner by men who viewed human life as nothing more than a negotiating chip.

The Colombians had made this personal. Now it was time to show them why that had been a fatal mistake.