I'm on my Triumph in the staging area, watching the formation come together.
"You've ridden formation before." Tate appears beside my bike, voice low enough that only I hear. "Devils MC?"
"Years undercover." No point lying to someone who's already figured it out. "They ran tight formations. Learned quick or got left behind."
"This isn't Devils MC," he says. "We run clean, we run disciplined, and we don't tolerate bullshit on the road. Fall back if you can't keep up."
"I can keep up."
He studies me for a moment, then nods and heads to his own bike and takes lead position, Will rides directly behind him as President. The rest of the Brothers fill in the staggered formationwith practiced efficiency. Cole positions himself at sweep, the last bike in the formation, watching everyone ahead of him.
The Sergeant-at-Arms position, though Cole's the VP. I file that detail away. Shaw must be working today, leaving Cole to ride sweep and watch for threats from the back.
Tate's hand goes up, and the formation moves out as one unit.
The ride north is unlike anything I experienced with the Devils MC. No showboating, no aggressive lane splitting, no intimidation tactics. Just precise formation riding with hand signals flowing down the line, fuel stops executed with efficiency, each Brother knowing their position and maintaining it.
I ride near the back, just ahead of Cole in sweep. I'm aware of him the entire ride. Not because he's close, but because his presence registers differently than the others. Control and calculation in every movement, scanning for threats, monitoring the formation with tactical precision.
We're well north of Anchor Bay when Tate signals the turn into a property I recognize from club research. Smaller MC, Washington-based, legitimate operations. Charity toy drives and veteran support networks alongside their brotherhood.
The memorial service happens in their clubhouse yard. Brothers from multiple clubs fill the space, kutte patches representing different organizations, different territories, all gathered to honor one fallen member. I stand apart, my observer status clear, but several nod acknowledgment of my presence. Word travels fast in MC circles. Federal agent who rides her own bike and knows formation protocol gets cautious respect.
The service itself is brief. Stories shared, memories honored, a moment of silence that stretches longer than comfortable. These men understand loss in ways civilians don't. They'veburied Brothers in war zones and home territory, and the ritual matters because it's all that separates grief from chaos.
Cole appears at my shoulder as the crowd begins to disperse. I didn't hear him approach, which bothers me more than it should.
"You ride well," he says, his tone offering observation rather than praise. "Where'd you learn formation?"
"Working undercover with Devils MC." I keep my voice neutral, but something in his expression tells me he's already made the connection. It was necessary."
"Necessary for the job, or necessary for something else?" He shifts his weight slightly, closing the distance between us by inches. Testing my boundaries again. "You don't spend years embedded in an outlaw MC just for career advancement. That's personal motivation."
I should deflect. Should maintain professional distance and refuse to give him ammunition he could use later. But something about the way he's looking at me, recognizing damage he understands, makes deflection feel pointless.
"Modified weapons killed my younger brother. Gang shooting, wrong place wrong time. College junior. I joined ATF to stop that from happening to someone else's family." I hold his gaze. "What's your excuse for going Delta Force?"
His mouth twitches. "Family tradition. Seemed like the logical choice." He pauses. "Lost a brother in Afghanistan. IED. Explosives hidden in a dead dog on the roadside." His voice stays flat, reciting facts without the emotion most people would carry. "Taught me that doing everything right doesn't mean shit when someone wants you dead badly enough."
It's not grief. Not even anger. Just his assessment of how the world actually works.
"I'm sorry," I say, and mean it.
"Don't be. I'm not." He watches me process that, and something predatory shifts in his expression. "He died doing what he signed up for. I learned what I needed to learn. We both got what we came for."
The brutality of it sits between us. Most people would soften that, add context, explain they don't really mean it that way. Cole doesn't bother.
"You use it," I say. Understanding clicks into place. "The loss. The anger. You use it."
"Everything's a tool if you know how to apply it." His gaze holds mine, and I see the calculation underneath, testing how much honesty I can handle. "Grief. Rage. The part of you that wants to burn the world down because someone took what was yours. You either control it, or it controls you."
"And you control it."
"I control everything I can." Beyond their surface meaning, the words promise something darker. "What I can't control, I eliminate."
Cold runs down my spine. Not fear, exactly. Recognition that I'm talking to someone who's made peace with darkness most people spend their lives avoiding.
"Is that what you tell yourself?" I ask. "When it gets heavy?"
