There was another pause, and when she spoke, it was almost gentle. “Take care, Damron.”
I wanted to say something that would sting, but all the old ammo was spent. “You too, Senator.”
She hung up. I held the phone to my ear until the dial tone hissed like a warning. Then I set it down, hard enough to rattle the whiskey bottle next to my boot. I stared at the wall for a long minute, the weight of the promise pressing into my back teeth. I’d just agreed to put my ass on the line for the woman who’dmade a career out of setting me on fire. The thought made me want to punch something, or fuck something, or both. Instead, I poured a drink and watched the shadows crawl around the room. There was a picture of the club on the shelf above the desk—me and Nitro, the old crew, all of us younger and dumber and convinced that family was the one thing nobody could take away. I wondered how many of us still believed it.
My phone buzzed again. Another headline: GIAMMATI PREDICTS ‘VICTORY FOR WORKING MEN’ AS BILL COLLAPSES. I smiled at the wording, all meathead and no brains. Giammati wouldn’t see the knife coming until it was buried in his spine.
I drained the glass, letting the fire settle in my belly. The road ahead was paved in bullets and broken promises, but I’d walked it before, and I’d walk it again. For her. For me. For the club.
When the bottle was empty and the phone went silent, I just sat there, staring at the wall, waiting for the next shot to ring out.
###
The next morning came up mean and bright, the way New Mexico sun always did when you’d been drinking too late and sleeping too little. I’d crashed at the club, half-dressed and face-down in paperwork, with the bottle for company. Nitro showed up at the crack of dawn—he never did learn to knock, just kicked the door open with a boot and let the sound do the talking.
He looked like hell, or maybe just like someone who preferred his world that way. Sunglasses indoors, a sleeveless cut that showed off a new bruise and three old ones, and a plastic cup of gas station coffee steaming in one hand. “Heard you were up,” he said, not bothering to ask if I’d slept at all.
“Barely,” I said, lacing up the boots. “We’re rolling.”
Nitro squinted, then clocked the shoulder holster on the desk. “We expecting trouble, or just wishing for it?”
“With Giammati, there’s no wishing required.” I reached for the Glock, checked the magazine, slid it home with a snap. “We’re going to his campaign office.”
Nitro leaned in the doorway, arms folded like a bouncer at the last-chance saloon. “Politics and club business don’t mix, brother. You taught me that.”
I shrugged into my cut, the leather biting cold across my arms. “Today they do. He put a target on Carly’s back, and I’m not letting that stand.”
Nitro set the coffee on the file cabinet, next to a pyramid of shot glasses from our last trip to Juarez. “You’re getting soft, St. James. You sure this isn’t about the girl?”
I shot him a look. “It’s always about the girl. That’s why we fight at all.”
He grinned, teeth sharp and uneven. “I figured as much.” He palmed his own sidearm, gave it a quick once-over, and holstered it with a practiced flick. “All right, Prez. You point, I shoot. But if this turns into another fuckup like that city council raid—”
“It won’t,” I cut in. “We’re just sending a message.”
He eyed me up and down, but didn’t push it. There’s a hierarchy in the club, sure, but the real law is survival. Nitro understood that as well as anyone. He fell in step as we walked out, boots thudding on the scuffed planks. The clubhouse was half-empty at this hour, but every man still conscious lifted his eyes as we passed—some nodding, some just watching, the unspoken buzz of coming violence thickening the air.
The club’s lounge looked like the inside of a 1980s crime scene: cracked leather couches, a bar sticky with last night’s spill, and a wall of mugshots going back to the Carter administration. The smell was a mix of stale smoke and the cheap pine they used to mop up blood. The only window faceda cinderblock wall, and even the sunlight looked dirty coming through it. We needed a new place.
I paused by the weapons rack and grabbed an extra magazine, just in case. Nitro watched, jaw working like he was chewing glass. “You got a plan?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “Don’t start a war unless you’re ready to finish it.”
He liked that. “You want the others to tail?”
I shook my head. “No parade. We walk in clean, scare the shit out of them, then leave. If Giammati wants to play dirty, we show him what real dirty looks like.”
Nitro rolled his neck, the scar on his jaw whitening. “That’s what I’m here for.”
We hit the hallway, our boots echoing in unison, and out past the prospects guarding the front gate. They stood up straighter, hands behind their backs, like cadets in a movie. The club’s mechanics were already working on a stripped-down Harley in the lot, oil pooling under the block. One of the hangers-on, some girl with a black eye and a smile, gave me a little salute as I passed. She knew the score. They all did.
Nitro grabbed his helmet and swung it over the handlebars, but before he climbed on, he gave me a look—half brother, half confessor. “You sure about this? If you go up against a state senator’s rival, there’s no coming back.”
I put a hand on his shoulder, squeezed hard enough to make him wince. “Nobody threatens family. Not on my watch.”
He nodded once, then fired up the bike, the engine’s roar bouncing off the concrete and straight into my bloodstream.
I mounted my own, the seat creaking under old scars and bad habits. For a second, I just sat there, the engine idling, watching the men who’d come to see us off. No words, just a lot of waiting. I wondered how many would still be here when this was all over.
