My hoodie sleeves are shoved up, ink shadows curling down my forearms.The air in the clubhouse feels heavy tonight.Damp.Wrong.Like the walls know what we saw in that church basement and they’re waiting for the next body to show up.
I pocket the scrap and leave, locking my room behind me purely out of instinct.The hall is quiet.Too quiet.Most of the brothers are drinking, playing pool, trying to pretend Hell hasn’t turned into a hunting ground.
The map in the war room glows under a flickering light.Red string trails from pushpin to pushpin.The disappearances.Back roads.State lines.Parking lots.Boundaries of the Reverend’s reach.Used to look like coincidence.
Now it looks like a blueprint.
I slam the door on my way out.
The cold night air hits me in the teeth.Oaks and Whiskey lean against the fence, smoke curling around them.They go silent when I approach.
“Seen this?”I hold up the scrap.
Whiskey squints.“Looks like a rag.”
“Smell it.”
He hesitates, then sniffs.His face softens into dread.“Blood.”
Oaks raises an eyebrow.“So?Deer get hit all the time out this way.”
“This ain’t deer.”
His smile is too loose.“Club girl dropped it, maybe.”
I step in, close enough for him to feel the threat under my skin.
“Where were you last Friday night?”
Whiskey goes rigid.
Oaks laughs too quickly.“Here.Why?”
“You weren’t on shift.No run.No ride.No alibi.”
Whiskey whistles.“Jesus, Royal.You accusing your own?”
“Someone’s using our blind spots.Someone who knows our schedules.”
Oaks’ smirk falters.Just a flicker.But enough.
I drop the scrap into my pocket and walk away.
I don’t trust anyone.
Not now.
Not when Hell appears hungry.
My phone rattles in my pocket.It’s Joey.
Text reads, “Royal, I need you.It’s important.”
Last time she said that she ended up in my bed.I fucked her in front of Becki, cut her even.Making a choice, I block Joey’s number.A problem to deal with later.
When I reach the cell door again, my pulse spikes.Becki’s asleep.
Or pretending to be.
