Toby swallowed hard, tears welling in his eyes. "Trent. Trent Gallagher."
Brick nodded slowly. He stood up, kissed his sister on the forehead, and walked out the front door. He didn't scream. He didn't throw anything. And he didn't immediately ride to the Gallagher estate to commit a felony.
The Hells Angels did not survive for decades by being stupid or reckless. Brick knew that physically brutalizing a 17-year-old kid, even a monster like Trent, would bring immense heat on the club and potentially put his sister in legal jeopardy. No physical pain heals. Brick wanted to inflict something far more permanent. He wanted to inflict absolute bone-chilling psychological terror. He wanted to strip Trent Gallagher of his false sense of immunity and show him what real power looked like.
Brick rode straight back to the fortified compound of the San Bernardino clubhouse. He walked past the prospect guarding the steel gate and stepped into the main bar area calling for a church meeting, a mandatory sit-down for all fully patched members. Sitting at the head of the heavy oak table was the charter president, a veteran biker named Iron Mike Callahan. Mike was a shrewd, calculating leader who had successfully navigated the club through multiple federal crackdowns.
Brick laid out the situation. He explained how a wealthy, privileged jock was tormenting his disabled nephew while the school administration served as accomplices. In the culture of the Hells Angels, family is sacred. An attack on a member's bloodline is an attack on the patch itself.
Iron Mike leaned back in his chair, lighting a cigar. "The kid is a minor. We touch him, the feds will use it to raid the clubhouse. We don't break the law." Mike smiled, a cold, predatory gleam in his eyes. "But there's no law against going for a ride, is there? No law against picking up our nephew from school."