Page 84 of Priest

“Alright,” Priest says. “Let’s talk.”

Just like that, the hum beneath the surface sharpens into something watchful.

27

Priest

When intel is real, it rattles.

It moves through rooms, changes shape in mouths that can’t keep still, makes men careless when they think they’ve got leverage. Leverage always makes noise. That’s the whole damn point of it.

This time, we get silence.

Days have gone by since we seeded the fake routes, and from our side of the fence, one of them should’ve lit up by now. We didn’t toss a single lie into the clubhouse and wait for it to catch fire. We layered the trap. Different versions. Different mouths. Different spaces. Every piece placed where it could be traced cleanly if it traveled.

One of them should’ve stirred something. A scout. A shift in chatter. A little pressure from the wrong direction. Even a cautious club twitches when good information lands in its lap.

Instead, everything sits still.

It’s the kind of quiet that presses against your ears until you realize you’re listening too hard for something that refuses to answer.

Church closes behind us with the familiar finality of steel and wood. Jackets come off. Chairs scrape. The table fills with men who already look irritated before anyone opens his mouth.

Rook gets there first. “We’re days out,” he says. “And there’s nothin’.”

Ink leans back in his chair, arms folded. “No chatter?”

“Not a whisper,” Rook replies. “No scouts. No pressure. No movement.”

Graves frowns. “That don’t make sense.”

“No,” Nomad agrees calmly. “It doesn’t.”

The room settles around the problem, each man turning it over in his own way. Rook looks ready to put his hands around the answer and shake it loose. Ink’s eyes are distant, already chasing patterns. Nomad sits quiet, road logic moving behind his expression, while Graves looks like patience is becoming a personal insult.

I drum my fingers once against the table. “Which tells us what?”

Ink’s gaze sharpens. “That either the lie didn’t travel…”

“Or it did,” Rook finishes, “and whoever the lie traveled to isn’t reactin’ the way we expect.”

That sits worse.

A lie that doesn’t move can be contained. A lie that moves and leaves no ripple means the water is deeper than we thought.

“Fallen Angels been seen a few counties over again,” Graves adds, measured. “Not close. Not far, just nosin’ around.”

Ink’s jaw shifts. “They’ve always kept their heads down and played neutral.”

“Neutral doesn’t mean absent,” Nomad says.

I nod once. “We don’t force it.”

Rook studies me. “You think they’re waitin’?”

“I think they’re deciding,” I answer. “And I don’t like not knowing what they’re deciding about.”

Church breaks without resolution, which tastes worse than bad news. Men filter out in low voices, engines firing up outside like punctuation. The trap hasn’t failed. It just hasn’t shown its hand yet, and that kind of waiting has teeth.