Total pages in book: 40
Estimated words: 38333 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 192(@200wpm)___ 153(@250wpm)___ 128(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 38333 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 192(@200wpm)___ 153(@250wpm)___ 128(@300wpm)
I stay behind, watching as Doc works on Butch, barking orders at the prospects to fetch water, towels, his spare kit from the truck. The blood pools on the table, drips to the floor, spreading in a dark stain across the concrete.
I look down at my hands—red and sticky, already drying at the edges. Then back to the door where Brick disappeared.
The math isn't complicated.
The conclusion isn't pretty.
The danger isn't coming from outside. It's coming from in here.
We got ourselves a rat.
And right about now, as I study the room, I realize I’m not the only one who knows who it is.
I count eleven faces starin’ at the door where Brick disappeared.
Eleven is good, but not nearly enough.
I push through the clubhouse door, escaping the smell and the chaos of a brother down and on his way out. Dawn's breaking over the eastern hills, streaks of orange and red runnin’ across the horizon.
I fish a cigarette from my pocket, gettin’ Butch’s blood all over my pants. I light up, drawing deep, letting the smoke fill the hollow spaces where trust used to live.
But as I look around the parking lot, I realize… there are bikes here I’ve never seen before. I missed them on the way in because of Butch and the sun was still sleepin’.
But there’s no way to miss it now.
I recognize Hammer's custom paint job. Reaper's extended forks. Ghost's blacked-out Road King. The others belong to men whose faces I've seen but whose names I've never learned. New blood that came in while I was up at Whitefall.
These bikes are lined up in perfect formation on the far side of the parking lot. Not in line with mine, or Diesel’s, or any other bike that actually belongs here. But alone. Apart.
They all have chromed wheels catching the first light, leather seats beaded with morning dew. Engine’s still tickin’ from the ride in.
Nobody rides in at 5 AM unless they're called. If you don’t live on site, there’s no real reason to be here on a random Tuesday at dawn.
Unless someone did call them.
All this calculation happens in the span of one exhale. On the inhale, I see them. Four men over by Ratchet’s garage, leanin’ against the door. Smokin’, watchin’ me through narrowed eyes.
Their cuts are fresh. Their boots, too.
I nod. None of them nod back.
I circle toward my Dyna, moving casual. My eyes trace the bike, checking for loose wires, for any sign someone's been at it. Nothing obvious, but that doesn't mean shit. A man who knows what he's doing can make a bike fail in a hundred invisible ways.
I turn, inhale again. Exhale. Think.
Three runs in a month gone sideways. Three times we've lost everything because we got hit.
Each time, Brick assigned me point position.
Each time, the routes changed last minute.
Each time, comms failed right when we needed them.
Movement catches my eye—a flash of blonde in the clubhouse window. Brandy, with her phone pressed to her ear, watching me with those empty doll eyes. She doesn't look away when I catch her. Just keeps staring, keeps talking into the phone.
I take another drag, letting the smoke burn my lungs.
From behind, I recognize Diesel’s footsteps. "So… church," he says, stopping beside me. "Noon. Everyone’s bein’ called in."
I exhale smoke. "Yup."
"What did I tell you." Diesel's voice is carefully neutral as he turns to look at me. “There will be a next time, member that?”
Of course, I remember that.
“This is ‘next time’, Legion. I sure the fuck hope you’re ready. Because you will not have thirty-nine members with you today.”
The silence stretches between us, loaded with everything we're not saying. The last full church ended with eight members voting against me. Eight members who thought Savannah was a liability. Eight members who will have a say at noon about whatever the fuck is happening here.
"Who are these guys?" I ask, nodding toward the line of motorcycles.
Diesel's jaw tightens. "Nomads from out west.”
“Nomads?” I frown. “Since when? I’ve never heard about any nomads.”
“That’s because you were doin’ time, Legion. They came in about… oh, two years ago, maybe.”
“Came in? What’s that mean? What are you sayin’ here?”
Diesel looks at me, scoffin’. His words drop low, almost a whisper. “What the fuck do you think I’m sayin’, Legion? Think about it. New guys, new bikes, new cuts. And not a one of them ever came in as a prospect.”
So it’s true. Brick is a rat. He’s sold out. For protection, or money, or both. And these… nomads. They’re Feds. Brick is workin’ for the fuckin’ Feds.
“They’re gonna get a vote today?” I ask.
Diesel grunts. “You’ve got me, I’ll make it clear no matter the cost." He says it quiet enough that only I hear. “But I don’t know how many of the others will stand with us.”
“They all know?” I’m floored.