Logan shifts in his seat. “You think Mace’ll come around?”
“No,” I answer bluntly. “Some things cut too deep to heal.”
Cash sighs from the backseat. “What about you, Silver? You ready for Tom to be back?”
I consider the question, well aware Tom never officially passed the baton. It was always temporary.
“Doesn’t matter if I’m ready,” I answer. “He’s coming home today whether we like it or not.”
“We’ll figure it out,” Cash says.
They’re the last spoken words as the highway stretches ahead and we speed toward our destination. Closer to whatever comes next.
The Texas State Penitentiary at Lenton looks like every prison you’ve ever seen in the movies. It’s a giant concrete box designed to hold men who’ve done terrible things. There’s mile-high barbed wire and very few windows to be found.
We wait outside the visitor center as the main gates grind open with a mechanical crank.
Tom Cutler walks out flanked by two armed guards. He’s wearing a cheap polo shirt and stiff jeans, no doubt standard prison-issue attire to send him on his way.
Four years have aged him more like ten. Deep lines carve his face up, taking away any good looks he had previously. His hair’s gone long and wild, more gray than brown these days, the ear-length sheets visibly greasy.
But it’s his eyes that hit hardest—they’re an icier blue than I remember. They’re hardened like a man returning from a grisly war, carrying almost no life in them.
Just coldness. Only just vaguely human.
He stops in front of Logan first. The son he sent on a suicide mission not long before he got busted by the Feds and sent away. It’s been years since they’ve seen each other. He opens his arms and they embrace, quick but perfunctory.
Suppose it’s better than nothing.
“I always knew you were still alive,” Tom says. “I told Mace and the others it must’ve been a mistake.”
Logan merely nods, then steps back, clearly torn himself by his father’s presence.
Tom turns to Cash next, extending his hand. Cash takes it, the two sharing a firm handshake and greeting.
“Blake. Good to see you haven’t changed.”
“Tom,” Cash merely says with a nod.
Then his ice-blue eyes turn to me.
We stand opposite each other for a moment, two men who once called each other brother, who spilled blood together and buried bodies in the desert. Best friends since we were kids, through thick and thin.
We were inducted into the club on the same night. Given our monikers and cuts together.
Silver and Cutty.
Prez and vice prez.
Now we’re practically strangers. Worse than strangers. We’re men who know too much about each other to ever be comfortable again.
Tom extends his hand, a slight smile playing at the corner of his mouth that never fully reaches his eyes.
“Jack… brother,” he says, gripping my hand. “Thanks for keeping my club warm for me.”
I match his grip pressure as we shake hands and look each other in the eye, pretending neither of us feels the tension simmering.
“No need to thank me,” I say. “Welcome back, Tom.”
