My breath stutters. I try to steady myself, holding on to the edge of the step. The world feels suddenly smaller, the old porch pressing in on all sides. “Are they—will they be okay?”
He just offers a tight smile, nothing reassuring in it. “Depends on what the feds decide. Depends on the case.” He stands, jotting something on his notepad, then gives me a longer look. “You should stay available. Someone will follow up with you soon.”
As he disappears back inside, I press my forehead to my knees, overwhelmed by the dull ache of regret and fear.
8
JC
Isit in a cramped interview room, wrists cuffed to the cold metal table. My shoulders ache from being shoved into the back of a squad car, from the long wait in holding, from the sharp, sour taste of betrayal still coating my tongue. The local cops hover in the halls, annoyed and useless, pushed aside by the ATF, who have swept in like they own the damn county.
I don’t know where Wrecker or Blade are. Last I saw, they were dragged off in different directions, faces blank, eyes refusing to meet mine as we were herded through booking. The ATF made sure to separate us, like they think distance is enough to break what we’ve built. They don’t know us at all.
The room stinks of stale coffee and ammonia. The agent across from me has a stack of papers, a laptop, and that smug, relentless patience only someone with a federal badge can carry. He keeps cycling through the same questions, his tone calm and rehearsed.
“We know you’re not the top guy, Mr. Calhoun. Help yourself out here. Where is Jinn?”
I stare back at him, blank as stone. He waits, leans in a little, hoping I’ll break. I let the silence stretch until he shifts in his seat.
“You and your crew took delivery today,” he tries again. “We’ve got all the evidence we need on that. But you can make this easier if you give us your president. Where is James Parker?”
I say nothing. I’m not giving them Jinn, not for free—not after what he’s done, not after the way he cut us loose and let us take the fall. If they want him, they can hunt him like we had to hunt for answers all this time.
The agent sighs, clicks his pen, and slides a photo across the table. “Who’s this?” It’s a grainy shot of Carrie, hair a mess, eyes wide, caught somewhere between a smile and a flinch.
I don’t flinch. “Never seen her,” I lie, voice flat. “You got the wrong girl.”
He knows I’m lying, but I don’t care. I’m done helping strangers tear apart what’s left of my world. The questions keep coming—about weapons, about routes, about the cash Jinn walked off with—but my answers are all the same.
Nothing. I can outlast them. All I have left is silence, and I hold it like a shield, hoping the others are doing the same.
Outside the window, I hear the grind of patrol cars and the muffled sound of a tired town coming apart at the seams. I sit as still as I can, jaw clenched, staring at the scratches in the table. I have nothing left to say.
“Listen, you’re looking at federal time. This isn’t a county jail slap on the wrist, you get that? You’re going away for decades unless you help yourself. You want to protect your friends? Tell us where Jinn is, and maybe we can talk about a deal.”
I give him nothing, just ask for my phone call.
The lead agent sighs like he’s disappointed, like he expected more from me. “Fine. You get one. Make it quick.”
He unlocks one wrist, shoves a phone across the table. I dial Wilson Decker’s number from memory. The lawyer answers after two rings.
“It’s Jace,” I say, voice gravelly with exhaustion. “Decker, I don’t know if you’ve heard or not…”
Wilson Decker has been the club’s attorney for years—a silver-haired pitbull who’s pulled us out of more fires than I can count. He’s seen everything, defended worse, and always tells us the truth, whether we want to hear it or not.
I clear my throat, unsure where to even start. “There was a deal and it?—”
He cuts me off, voice calm but urgent. “Say no more, Jace. Don’t talk details on the phone. I’ll be right there. Sit tight and keep your mouth shut until I walk in.”
The line clicks dead. I close my eyes for a second, some thin thread of hope winding through the mess. Decker’s coming. Maybe that means all is not yet lost.
They move me from the interview room to a bench out front, cuffs biting into my wrists. The waiting area is grim—old tile, flickering lights, the sour smell of too much bleach. I try to catch the attention of one of the local cops walking by, ask if they’ve seen Levi or Nico, but he just shrugs me off without meeting my eye.
The station is busy now, people moving with purpose, ATF agents talking into radios, shuffling paperwork, the whole place humming with tension. Every so often I catch a familiar patch or voice, but no sign of my brothers.
After what feels like hours, I spot Decker striding through the doors, briefcase in one hand, coat already folded over his arm. He stops in front of me, gaze steady and calm, and nods for the agents to give us some space. When we finally get a sliver of privacy, he sits beside me on the bench.
“Decker, thank God you’re here,” I say. “I haven’t been able to get in touch with Levi and Nico.”
