𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐩𝐢𝐭𝐲

Chapter 91

A/N: We are so back.

— Chapter 91 —
For Our Undying Resilience

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N O A H

Anxiety was spiking through my every fucking nerve.

Friday night. The big celebration. It was the grand reopening of Joe's Bar, and business was in full swing. Packed as soon as the doors opened, it was one of the exceptionally rare occasions that leather-vested Stray Dogs weren't the only people in the nearby vicinity.

Civilians and strangers I didn't recognize spanned every inch of the place, chatting excitedly with drinks in hand. Clamoring music, laughter, and incessant noise made the atmosphere overstimulating and unpredictable.

"Jesus," Chains had remarked as we'd walked inside, a group of high-ranking bikers in tow. "Are we sure we got the right joint?"

It was a fair question. The place was damn-near unrecognizable. It looked less like a dive bar and more like a somewhat respectable establishment—less clutter, less darkness, less of the usual beers, and a fresh smorgasbord of martinis and cocktails. Laminated certificates, fake plants, and photos of the bar's rich history lined several freshly painted walls.

The checkerboard flooring was gone, replaced with smooth, polished timber. Soft lighting strips illuminated the counter and nearby shelves. Above the bar itself were rows of glasses strung up on gold rails, as well as hanging light fixtures that gave the room a sense of modernity. Every leather booth and stool had been refurbished, the tables replaced, the wood altered to remove every trace of vandalism and graffiti. If I hadn't been so focused on my discomfort just standing here, I'd have probably thrown up in a corner at the sight of it all.

"This place looks fucking great!" Jaws laughed behind me, as nearby bikers echoed the sentiment with eager nods and awestruck expressions.

My opinion was mine alone, it seemed.

Managing to shoo away the patrons at a quieter corner of the room, our group of senior Stray Dogs had soon settled into a spacious booth where we could talk uninterrupted. Rusty had ordered us a round of drinks, and Chains used the waiting time to unfurl a large map across the sparkling table. He stabbed a dagger into one corner to keep it in place.

On the map was an old aerial view of the tracks, the docks, and sections of the few streets that surrounded them. Taking advantage of the unused darts in a nearby dartboard, I'd quickly pinned the different colored ornaments into specific locations on the map.

From there, discussions ensued.

"Let me get this straight." Wilder, the accented Brit, scoffed behind a glass of gin. "You got all this information from Han—the dipshit that tried to kill you—and Sage. The same psychopath who's spent the last several months working for Midas?"

Excluding myself and Chains, the three other bikers at our table exchanged vengeful glances.

"Hey," Chains countered, "Sage may not be all-there in the head, but she's still smarter than half the people in this building. And if she's preparing for something big, that means the rest of us should be arming ourselves up to the nines."