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Dodge raised his hand in surrender, leaning back in his fold out chair.
“Peter Isobel wants to start a war with us.” Zep looked around the table. “When he threatens one of us, he threatens all of us.”
A cacophony of curses and fists thumping timber rang out in agreement.
“He thinks we’re weak, with Hollywood out of the club and Jesse and Ray dead.” Zep shook his head.
“And now he's trying to cut the head off,” Connor added.
Zep grunted. “We’ve got some decisions to make. Hollywood left us exposed when he was in the wind. Made Jesse the perfect substitute for enforcer in case anyone was in the mood to take a shot at us.”
“Jess was unhinged,” said Tosh. Short and athletic with jet black hair, he’d been patched for almost ten years and was handy with a blade and got off on spilling other people’s blood.
“Which was the point. We needed someone who could rip the throat out of his grandmother and smile while he did it. The cops were breathing down our neck and we couldn’t risk anyone else moving in on our enterprises.” Zep nodded at Tosh. “And Jesse provided in spades.” Until he fucked with Isobel’s family and gave the old man an excuse to come after the club.
Tosh nodded in agreement, along with most of the other brothers. “When’s Brodie getting back?”
“He’s been delayed in Paris,” Connor answered. “Caught up in that terrorist attack.”
Zep smoothed his moustache over and waited for the murmurs to die down. He needed to get his house in order, which meant making some big decisions today. “Brodie knows this club inside and out and has a good head on his shoulders for the business.” He looked at Connor. “You’ve been Club Secretary for decades.”
Connor inclined his head. “That’s right. Nothing’s changed.”
Zep nodded and sat back. As president, he couldn’t nominate or vote, unless he had to make a tie vote or break a tie vote. But he was clear on the outcome he wanted, as was Connor.
“Brodie has been acting as our Sergeant at Arms.” Connor looked around the table. “Any reason we shouldn’t make that permanent?”
No one spoke.
“Any other nominations for the position?” asked Connor.
More silence.
“All in favour of Brodie as Sergeant at Arms?”
A resounding chorus of aye’s echoed around the shed.
“Against?”
Silence.
“Good.” Zep clasped his hands on the table in front of him. “We need an enforcer. Hollywood’s left big shoes to fill. He made killing an art form and he was the fucking best in the business.”
Disgruntled murmurs filled the air. Alex Riley had been the best enforcer The Devils—or any club in recent times—had known. But him leaving the club had left a bad taste in many of the brothers’ mouths. For all of them, their loyalty began and ended with the club.
Zep tapped his hands on the table, making sure he had the attention of everyone in the room. “Our enforcer needs to be smart. He needs to know who the players are, and how they interact. You can’t just kill someone without considering the consequences.” That was where Jesse had not been suited to the role at all. “He needs to follow orders while thinking for himself.”
Zep looked at his brothers gathered round the table. Most were watching him, others kept their eyes downcast. It was a coveted role, but one with enormous responsibility. Everyone knew Hollywood had never gotten drunk or lost control. He was always ready. Always willing. Always able. Until he wasn’t.
“You want nominations from the floor now?” Connor asked.
Zep spread his hands wide. “Let’s hear from the floor.” He knew exactly who he wanted as his next enforcer, but he was keen to see what the boys thought.
“Mick’s a fucking top shot, at any range.”
“Not Coop. He’s more likely to shoot himself in the face.” Laughter roared around the table.
“Yeah, fuck off, Dodge,” Coop sneered.
