The words dropped heavier than the actual gavel.
Blackjack looked at each of us in turn, like he was counting sins. His gaze paused a half second longer on Miami’s empty seat and I saw his jaw flex.
“Somebody start talking,” he said.
All heads turned toward 8-Ball and me. We’d led the bike’s run. It was our mess to explain.
8-Ball rubbed his hands once, knuckles popping. “Drop site was cold when we got there, but got hot quick,” he said. “No family contact. No Carlo. No car.”
“Anybody call ahead?” Blackjack asked.
“There was no info given,” 8-Ball said. “And when we got there, it was a ghost town.”
Blackjack’s glanced to 8-ball and grunted. “Then what?”
“We waited,” I said. “But not long after we got there, bikes started showing up pretty quickly.”
The room shifted. Chairs creaked. Priest’s fingers drummed a slow rhythm on the wood.
“Not ours, obviously.” I added. “But not a localchapter either. Not one I recognize at least. They rode in the dark. No lights at first. Kept their distance like they were waiting on something.”
“Angling for intimidation,” Mirage murmured.
“Angling for something,” Spade said. His mouth twisted. “They wanted that bike.”
“They didn’t say shit,” I added. “No introductions. No patches we recognized. They just stared.”
“We gave ’em a chance,” 8-Ball said. “Told ’em if they had business, they could state it. No response.”
Turnpike shifted his weight at the wall. I caught the edge of his nervous energy. He was built like a tank, but he wasn’t stupid. He’d seen how fast things can go sideways, and thanks to his move with the cage, Miami was able to get away.
“That’s when I told Miami to take the bike and go,” 8-Ball said. “Keep the goods moving. Keep them focused on us.”
I nodded. I could still feel the moment in my bones, the way the air had snapped right before 8-Ball said, “Drive like you’ve never driven before,” to Miami.
“Miami peeled off,” I said. “They went to follow but Turnpike blocked the exit with the cage.”
Blackjack’s gaze flicked to the prospect.
Turnpike straightened. “They weren’t getting past me,” he said, voice low but steady.
“You did good,” Blackjack said. Not warm. Not soft. Just a verdict.
Turnpike’s shoulders dropped a millimeterin relief.
“I saw a weapon. Gave warning. We exchanged.”
Priest cracked his neck. “That’s the polite version.”
“Anybody hit?” Blackjack asked.
“Not ours,” I said. “We’re clean. Not sure about them. They pulled back. Evacuated fast. Military fast. Like they drilled for it.”
Snake Eyes leaned forward, toothpick pausing. “Like it was second nature,” he continued. “They retreated like they had to be somewhere. Maybe find another way around. Either way, we didn’t see them again on the way back out of there.”
Mirage finally left the coffee in the corner and took his seat, mug in hand. “And Miami?” he asked.
“He took the bike to Redline,” I said. “I asked him if he was clear. He texted us when he got there. Bike’s secure. No tails. I told him to stay put for now. We’ll deal with the Giorlando’s and let him know when it’s good. That was the last we heard.”
