Chapter 33: The Vote
The team gathered at 0900 hours on February 28th.
We'd arranged the folding chairs in a rough circle around the central workspace—the closest thing to a conference room our warehouse headquarters could provide. The intelligence wall loomed behind us, McKinnon's photograph now occupying a prominent position among the targets and connections that defined our operational landscape.
No one had slept well. I could see it in their faces—the dark circles under Santos's eyes, the tension in Elena's shoulders, the way Wire's hands trembled slightly as he set up his laptop to take notes. The weight of yesterday's revelations had settled over all of us, and the decision we were about to make would determine whether that weight got heavier or lighter.
"I'm going to explain how this works," I said, standing at the head of the circle. "This is the first time we've formally voted on a major operation, so we need to establish ground rules."
Bear shifted in his chair, his massive frame making the folding furniture look like something from a children's classroom. "We've never needed to vote before."
"We've never faced a decision like this before. The trafficking operation was clear—victims to rescue, criminals to stop. McKinnon is different. He's not an immediate threat to innocents. He's a leader ordering violence against his own organization." I paused, making sure everyone was tracking. "Some of you think we should strike while he's vulnerable. Others think we should let the Dogs destroy themselves. Both positions have merit."
"So we vote," Sarah said. "And then what? Majority wins?"
"Majority wins, with one exception. If Elena votes against, we reconsider. She's our moral compass—if she thinks an operation crosses a line, we need to take that seriously."
Elena looked surprised. "You're giving me a veto?"
"I'm giving you a voice that matters more than mine. You're the one who remembers why we're doing this. The rest of us..." I glanced around the circle. "The rest of us are soldiers. We're good at fighting, not so good at remembering what we're fighting for."
The room was quiet for a moment. Then Santos spoke.
"I'll go first, if nobody objects."
No one did.
Santos stood, moving to the intelligence wall where McKinnon's photograph waited. He'd spent the night preparing, I realized—there were new documents pinned around McKinnon's photo, details I hadn't seen before.
"Arthur McKinnon, forty-seven years old. Born in Jersey City, joined the Dogs of Hell at nineteen. Worked his way up through the ranks—started as muscle, became an enforcer, eventually took over the New York chapt er three years ago." Santos tapped one of the new documents. "Before he became chapt er president, the New York Dogs were a standard biker gang. Small-time drug dealing, protection rackets, occasional violence. McKinnon changed that. He's the one who built the trafficking operation."
"He created the pipeline?" Wire asked.
"From scratch. Reached out to eastern European suppliers, established the warehouse network, cultivated buyers in Philadelphia and Atlantic City. The trafficking revenue was more than ten times what the Dogs made from their previous activities." Santos's voice was flat, professional—the voice of a cop presenting evidence. "He's not just a leader. He's the architect. Without him, the New York Dogs go back to being a mid-level gang. With him, they're a major trafficking hub."
"That's an argument for," Sarah said. "What's your vote?"
"My vote is yes. Take him out." Santos returned to his chair. "Every day he's alive, he's building infrastructure to move more victims. The purge isn't a bug—it's a feature. He's eliminating potential witnesses so he can rebuild the operation from scratch."
Sarah stood next. She moved with the calculated efficiency that characterized everything she did—no wasted motion, no unnecessary emotion.
"I understand the argument for immediate action. I don't agree with it." She addressed the room directly, making eye contact with each of us in turn. "We've been operational for less than a week. Our first mission was successful, but it was also messy—we burned a warehouse, made noise, gave Karen Page enough information to write a front-page story. The Dogs of Hell know they have enemies now. They just don't know who."
"Isn't that an advantage?" Bear asked.
"It's a temporary advantage that disappears the moment we strike again. Right now, McKinnon is looking for leaks inside his organization. He's not looking for an external threat. If we hit him, he'll know the warehouse attack wasn't an isolated incident. He'll start hunting for us specifically."
"He's already hunting for whoever destroyed the warehouse," Santos pointed out.
"He's hunting blind. There's a difference." Sarah pulled up a tablet and displayed a map of the city. "We don't have McKinnon's location. We don't have his security details. We don't have exit routes, backup plans, or contingencies. Rushing an operation against a paranoid target who's already in crisis mode is how people get killed."
"So your vote is no?" I asked.
"My vote is wait. Gather intelligence. Let the purge run its course and exploit the chaos afterward." She paused. "I'm not saying we shouldn't eventually target McKinnon. I'm saying we shouldn't do it this week."
Bear spoke next without standing. His voice carried easily through the warehouse—the voice of a man who'd spent years giving orders in combat zones.
"I don't care about timing. I care about the mission." He locked eyes with me. "We started AEGIS to help people who can't help themselves. Right now, there are people dying because we poked a hornet's nest. Some of them are criminals. Some of them might be witnesses who could have testified, victims of intimidation, people who got caught up in something bigger than themselves."
"The purge isn't our responsibility," Sarah said.
"The hell it isn't. We triggered it. We own it." Bear's jaw tightened. "McKinnon is ordering these deaths. We take him out, the deaths stop. It's that simple."
"Nothing is ever that simple."
"Sometimes it is. Sometimes you identify the source of the problem and you eliminate it. That's what soldiers do."
Wire raised his hand tentatively—a gesture that seemed almost childish coming from a man who could hack federal databases. "Can I ask a practical question?"
"Go ahead," I said.
"If we decide to pursue McKinnon, how long until we have enough intelligence to act? Sarah said we don't have his location or security details. How do we get them?"
Santos answered. "I have contacts in the NYPD. Some of them might know where McKinnon operates. It would take a few days to work those channels without raising suspicion."
"I can monitor DoH communications," Wire added. "They're sloppy right now, using the same encryption I already cracked. If McKinnon gives orders, I might be able to triangulate his location from the messages."
"Combined approach," Sarah said, her tactical mind already working the problem. "Santos works his contacts, Wire monitors communications, I analyze patterns. We could have actionable intelligence in four to five days."
"And the purge continues for four to five days," Bear said.
"The purge continues whether we act or not. The only question is whether we're prepared when we strike."
The arguments had been made. Now it was time for the remaining votes.
Elena stood slowly, her hand going to the crucifix at her throat—the same gesture she'd made before our first operation, the same prayer her grandmother had taught her.
"I don't want to vote on whether someone lives or dies," she said quietly. "That's not why I joined this team. I joined to save lives, not to take them."
"Sometimes taking lives saves lives," Santos said.
"I know. I know that's the calculation we're supposed to make. Kill one person to save ten. Kill ten to save a hundred." She shook her head. "But it doesn't feel like math when you're the one holding the syringe. Or the gun."
"Elena," I said gently. "You have the right to abstain."
"I know I do. And I'm going to use it. I'm not going to tell you not to pursue McKinnon—he's a monster, and the world would be better without him. But I'm not going to put my hand up and say 'yes, kill that man.' That's not who I want to be."
"Abstention recorded," Wire said, typing on his laptop.
That left me.
I'd been listening to the arguments, weighing the positions, trying to separate my own instincts from what was best for the team and the mission. The truth was, both sides had valid points. Sarah was right that rushing into an operation without proper intelligence was dangerous. Bear was right that the purge was killing people who might not deserve to die.
But there was another consideration that none of them had mentioned. A piece of context that I couldn't share without revealing things I wasn't ready to reveal.
Frank Castle.
In my previous life's knowledge, Frank Castle's family would be killed in a few weeks—caught in the crossfire of a gang war in Central Park. That massacre would create the Punisher, a one-man army of vengeance who would tear through New York's criminal underworld with brutal efficiency.
If AEGIS weakened the Dogs of Hell before that massacre, it might change the equation. The gangs involved might be smaller, less powerful, less likely to engage in the kind of open warfare that got innocent families killed.
Or it might make things worse. Destabilizing the Dogs might create a power vacuum that other organizations rushed to fill. The gang war that killed Castle's family might happen sooner, or involve more factions, or spiral into something even more devastating.
I couldn't know for certain. The future I remembered was already changing—every action I took created ripples that spread in unpredictable ways. But I knew that doing nothing wasn't neutral. Inaction had consequences too.
"My vote is yes," I said. "We pursue McKinnon."
The room shifted. Santos nodded. Bear's expression didn't change—he'd expected this. Sarah's lips pressed together in a thin line of disagreement, but she didn't argue.
"That's three yes, one no, one abstention," Wire reported. "Majority carries."
"Sarah," I said, "I understand your concerns about intelligence and preparation. That's why I'm adding a condition to this operation. We don't move until you're satisfied that we have enough information to act safely. You're our analyst—if you say we're not ready, we're not ready."
Sarah's expression softened slightly. "That's... acceptable. Four to five days for reconnaissance. If the intelligence picture doesn't improve by then, we reassess."
"Agreed. Santos, start working your contacts. Wire, monitor communications. Bear, you and I will review tactical options based on what we learn." I looked around the circle one last time. "This is how we're going to operate from now on. Major decisions get discussed. Votes get taken. Everyone's voice matters."
"Democracy in a vigilante organization," Elena said softly. "Is that even possible?"
"We're going to find out."
The meeting broke up, people drifting toward their stations and their tasks. The warehouse hummed with renewed purpose—the energy of a team that had made a decision and was now preparing to execute it.
I stayed by the intelligence wall, studying McKinnon's photograph. A forty-seven-year-old man who'd built an empire of human misery. A leader who was currently ordering the deaths of his own people to protect that empire.
In four to five days, if the intelligence supported it, we'd take that empire apart.
And somewhere in the back of my mind, a clock was ticking. Frank Castle's family. Central Park. A massacre that would create a monster—or maybe a hero, depending on how you looked at it.
"Can I change it? Should I change it? Or am I just making everything worse?"
The questions had no answers. All I could do was keep moving forward, one operation at a time, one decision at a time.
Tomorrow, Santos and Sarah would begin tracking McKinnon. The hunt was on.
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