The desperation of the room was immediately palpable to Logan. Heavy, muted light from the lamps and overhead fixtures revealed threadbare patches on the worn red carpet as it washed over the gaudy artifacts lining the walls—banners emblazoned with symbols, books with yellowed pages, and old weapons displayed with grotesque pride. The pathetic shrine of a waning group of hobbyists trying to convince itself it mattered. Not to discount the awful things he had witnessed during his time with Saxon Warband, but they were small change compared to the Aryan Brotherhood or even NLR. Which was why Logan had been planted there in the first place: smaller, more unpredictable, easier to keep an eye on.

The try-hard ambiance was amplified by the stale tang of cigar smoke and the faint clink of metal as people passed the ancient weapons around as if in congratulation of conquests long past. A grab bag of stereotypes masquerading as legitimacy.

He scanned the room, noting the meticulous arrangement, a reflection of the scrupulous nature of Vandal Savage, enigmatic leader. Logan knew him by reputation: calm, collected, but simmering with a quiet rage that commanded fear and respect.

“Welcome,” Savage’s voice cut through the murmur, drawing all eyes to him. Logan watched the middle-aged man flash calculating eyes, his demeanor as understated as it was intimidating. Savage was a man of few words, but each one carried a weight that meant “you better fucking be paying attention.”

“Frankie,” Savage called out, his gaze locking onto Logan with a penetrating stare. “Step up here.”

Logan moved through the huddle of people, aware of the eyes following him. As he stood before Savage, he felt the man’s scrutiny, a silent assessment that seemed to peel away layers of pretense. Logan channeled his Frankie persona by compartmentalizing his terror of being discovered and adopted an aura of worship and respectfulness. I’m his bitch, Frankie reminded himself.

“You’ve earned your place here. You’ve proven yourself useful,” Savage said, his voice low but firm. “But usefulness is fleeting. What truly matters is loyalty.”

Frankie nodded, maintaining eye contact. “I understand. I swear I’m dedicated to the cause. Our country needs cleansing.” Then he bowed his head.

Savage stayed silent until Frankie looked up at him again. He nodded, a barely perceptible acknowledgment that Frankie had said the right thing. “Good. There is still plenty of cleansing to do.”

Savage’s presence alone was enough to maintain the hush over the small group as he waited several seconds before he addressed them. Frankie watched, taking mental notes of Savage’s gravitas—the way he held himself, the precision in his speech, the controlled intensity in his eyes.

“Be proud of the progress to which you’ve contributed,” Savage continued, measured. “But progress invites scrutiny. Be prepared for bloodshed.”

Frankie could see the subtle tension in Savage’s posture, the way his fingers tapped a staccato rhythm against his thigh, betraying a hint of the controlled rage boiling beneath the surface. This was a man who wrested and hoarded control, and any threat to it was met with calculated fury.

The door at the back of the room creaked open, and the atmosphere shifted as a woman entered. Her presence exuded a subtle but undeniable authority as she stepped in with impeccable posture and locked eyes with Savage, ignoring the rest of the group who craned their necks around to acknowledge the interruption. Her understated, professional attire and the sleekness of her loose blonde curls stood in stark contrast to the Warband members. She simply stood next to the door, arms at her side, and waited.

Savage’s eyes narrowed slightly as he clocked her presence, then his gaze swept over the entire room, reclaiming attention, before nodding dismissal to the gathering. He strode slowly and calmly to the back of the room while everyone else broke into smaller exchanges, speaking in muted tones.

Frankie lit up a cigarette and inserted himself next to Curly in a circle of conversation he hoped would be near enough to Savage to overhear his business with the woman. He feigned nonchalance as he pulled on his cigarette, and nodded occasionally to the dialogue while straining to catch snippets of Savage, his heart pounding with the effort to remain inconspicuous.

“...increased funding,” the woman was saying. “We’ve identified the targets, but we need to take it one step further.”

Frankie barely noticed Savage’s jaw clench and nostrils flare, a break in his controlled demeanor, a flicker of unease that the woman’s presence seemed to provoke. She took a step closer to him, though they were already in close quarters, and peered up at the taller man. A challenge? The woman clasped her hands in front of her as she continued to speak and leaned even closer to the point that she must surely be grazing Savage’s crotch. Savage bounced on the balls of his feet, jaw still clenched, scowling, but he did not back away.

“What about you, Frankie?” came Tina’s self-satisfied trill from behind him, drawing his focus, followed by her talon running down his spine.

“Hnh,” Frankie grumbled as he shook her off and took another drag. His heart skipped a beat; he didn’t have time for distractions.

“We were just discussing the latest recon missions. I’m sure you have an opinion,” Tina continued, her voice dripping with faux sweetness. “Curly here thinks we should go bolder. Right, Curly?”

Curly grunted in approval. “Need to show some bastards we mean business. Make a real statement.” Whether the “bastards” in question were the targets, the general public, or the larger white supremacist community, was unclear. If there was one thing Logan had learned about the group, it was that they loved vagaries. “Show them we mean business,” “take back our country,” “go bolder,” which all amounted to little more than comparing metaphorical dick size at a social club until Savage gave orders.

Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

Frankie nodded absently, his attention still divided between the conversation at hand and the more crucial one happening across the room. “Bolder, huh? I dunno. Seems like we gotta be smart about it too. Big moves can mean big trouble. Anyway, not much of a planner. More of a do-er.

Tina’s eyes narrowed, but she seemed satisfied with his non-answer. “Always the cautious one aren’t you. Soft. Just as well,” she said with a sly smile. “Leave the thinking to the big boys.” She leaned in, her breath warm against Frankie’s ear. “Just don’t expect to ride on our coattails forever.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Frankie said with a tight smile, exhaling smoke through his nose.

Across the room, the woman facing off with Savage was barely perceptible over the din. “This is not a request, it’s a directive.”

The power struggle unfolding in whispers felt like a silent thunderstorm, the air charged with unspoken threats. Frankie turned toward the door to blow smoke away from the circle, peeked up, and caught Savage’s face, a mask of fury barely contained. “We’ve been handling things our way, and it’s been effective. What makes you think more violence will do any good?”

“Because the objective isn’t to maintain,” she replied, her voice now carrying a hard edge. “It’s to dominate. Control through fear and chaos. If you can’t see that, then maybe you’re not fit for this role. Don’t be a pussy, Alan.”

Either the exchange wasn’t audible to anyone not listening closely, or everyone else was carefully ignoring it, because they continued to gather and converse.

The rage in Savage’s voice was barely contained. Frankie thought he might explode. He uttered through clenched teeth, “I’m the one who decides how we do it, not you, and not any other fucking suit.”

“Of course,” she said coolly. “Your job is to inspire your men. Call them to action. Don’t think about the consequences. Let us handle the fallout.”

Savage raised his voice, once again commanding the room, but kept his eyes fixed on her. “Move out. We’re done here. Wait for further direction.” Then he turned and left the room leaving the woman standing there. She smoothed her blouse before lifting her head, shaking her hair back, and following out the door.

Frankie’s heart pounded as he understood the situation. This wasn’t just about the Warband; it was part of a larger agenda. Someone was behind the curtain pulling strings. The thought of Vandal Savage’s strings being pulled left Frankie with a feeling of impending catastrophe. The objective of the infiltration was evolving. He had to pass this information on.

----------------------------------------

As the group dispersed, Logan slipped away and made his way up to the rooftop. The rough surface of the gravel crunched beneath his boots. The city sprawled below him, a sea of lights and distant sounds, providing the cover he needed. After a cautious lap around the roof and a quick glance toward the access door, he lit another cigarette and pulled out a small, encrypted communication device. His fingers moved with practiced ease, setting up a secure channel.

The device beeped softly, and Van’s face appeared on the screen, grainy but familiar. The dim light of Van’s office cast shadows across his features, highlighting the concern etched into his expression.

“Logan,” Van’s voice crackled through the connection, a mixture of relief and tension. “You’re safe?”

“I’m safe,” Logan replied, his voice hushed. “And I’ve got information. Savage isn’t acting alone. There’s a woman—some sort of handler? Part of some external organization pushing the Warband into more overt violence. Savage is being played.

Van leaned closer to the screen, his eyes narrowing as he processed the information. “Can you identify the organization?”

“Not yet,” Logan admitted. “But I’ve been trying to figure out where their resources are coming from, and I’m sure this is at least one of their benefactors.

Van nodded, his fingers tapping lightly on a notepad just out of view. “Keep gathering intel. I’ll get the team on it, see if we can figure out who we’re dealing with. We’ll pull you as soon as we can. Update me if things get out of control.”

Logan sighed as the weight of the situation pressed down on him. “I wish I could be there with you. This is harder than I thought.”

“I know,” Van’s voice softened, his gaze reflecting both compassion and worry. “But you’re doing the right thing. This is actually what you signed up for,” he said with a smile. “And hey, put out that damn cigarette.”

The tension between them eased, replaced by a familiar, comforting warmth. Logan leaned closer to the screen, meeting Van’s gaze. They stayed silent for several seconds, watching each other. Finally, Van peered around his office and his forehead filled Logan’s screen as his head rested on his device.

“Come home to me, Logan,” he said, his face still not visible.

“I will,” Logan replied. He fought back emotion but his voice betrayed a small crack.

Van lifted his eyes again. “I love you, Logan Waite,” he whispered, his voice a lifeline through the static.

Logan’s chest tightened with affection and guilt. “I love you, too,” he whispered back before cutting the line.

As the screen went dark, Logan lay back on the gravel of the rooftop. Van’s words echoed in his mind. The night, now full dark, seemed to close in around him, amplifying the danger of the unknown game he was playing. And amid the danger, his guilt expanded, tearing at the fragile balance he struggled to maintain.

Taryn’s face flashed before his eyes—her thin lips as she smiled, her sharp chin, her body as she held their kids. He loved her, had a beautiful life with her. And here he was, whispering to another man. He pictured Van’s shoulders, narrow but strong. He smiled, thinking of Van’s envy of his full beard when Van could hardly grow more than peach fuzz, even at 35. He conjured memories of Van’s fingers running across his cheeks, his chin, his lips.

“How did I get here?” Logan thought, sitting up on the ground. “In love with two people, betraying both of them?”

Logan took a deep breath, stood up, adjusted his leather jacket, and patted his pocket to make sure he still had his favorite cracked mirror shades. Then he headed for the door and made his way down the stairs. The building swallowed him as he descended.