The Preacher clears his throat. "There's something else you need to know. Three months ago, I witnessed a shooting. Castellano's task force executed a 16-year-old kid named Jamal Brooks. Unarmed. Shot him in the back, then planted a gun on him. I have bodycam footage. I got it from a rookie cop who couldn't live with what he saw. Castellano doesn't know it exists, but he suspects I have something. That's why he tried to kill me. Kill all of us."
The room goes dead silent.
Diesel's face darkens. "And the girl saw them planting the bombs."
"Yeah. Which makes her a witness to the attempted murder of thirty people. Castellano can't let that stand. He'll bury her, and then he'll come for me."
Tommy stands. "So, what's the play?"
Reaper looks around the room. "We protect her. We keep her family stable. We make sure Castellano knows that if he touches her, he's touching us. And when the time's right, we expose him publicly with evidence he can't deny."
Diesel crosses his arms. "We're not a charity, Reaper. We're a motorcycle club. We got our own problems: feds breathing down our necks, territory disputes. Now you want us to adopt some kid?"
"I want us to have honor!" Reaper snaps. "Remember what that word means? That little girl has more honor than half the men I've met in my life! She saved us because it was the right thing to do, not because she wanted something—just because! And if we let the system erase her for that, then we're exactly what they say we are: criminals, thugs, nothing!"
He lets the words hang.
"So, I'm calling a vote. Do we protect Zara Williams and her mother? Yes or no?"
The Preacher raises his hand. "Yes."
Tommy studies Reaper for a long moment, then nods. "Yes."
One by one, hands go up—some quickly, some slowly. When the count is done: 26 vote yes, 4 vote no, including Diesel.
"Motion carries," Reaper says. "Here's how this works: First, we stabilize them financially. I want five grand in an envelope delivered anonymously. Covers rent, food, bills. No note, no name, just cash."
Tommy nods. "I'll handle it."
"Second, we watch their building, rotating shifts. If Castellano's people come around, we know about it. We don't engage unless we have to, but we're present. Visible. Third," Preacher says, "I'm making copies of the bodycam footage, hiding them in multiple locations. If anything happens to me, those copies go public automatically."
Reaper points to a member named Layton, a former paralegal. "You're going to find us the best civil rights attorney in Chicago, someone who's not afraid to go after dirty cops. We'll need them when this goes public. And fourth," Reaper looks at each man in turn, "nobody talks about this outside this room. No girlfriends, no buddies, nobody. Castellano has ears everywhere. One slip and that kid's dead."