Raptor at a picnic table outside the clubhouse. Burger in one hand. Middle finger up at whoever was behind the camera. Smile wide. Alive.
The room went very quiet.
“Raptor, Devil’s Aces prospect,” Blackjack said formally. “Died in the line of loyalty. Name goes on the wall. His story gets told. We don’t forget.”
“We won’t,” the room echoed, low.
Blackjack then turned to face someone.
“Turnpike,” he said. “On your feet.”
Turnpike blinked, then stood. He looked like he half-expected to be chewed out. Instead, 8-Ball reached under the table and pulled something out. He then passed it to Blackjack.
It was a patch for his cut.Member.
“Last night you tackled a Giorlando prince out of a bullet’s path and held that position while everything went to shit around you,” Blackjack said. “You’ve been our pain in the ass, our road dog, our smart mouth, and our loyal bastard long enough. Not to mention you pulling that truck maneuver at the hot drop that started it all. I kept you in prospect rags because I wanted to see what you did when the first body dropped in front of you. You’ve answered that question ten-fold.”
He held the patch out.
“From this moment, you ride as a fully patched in Devil’s Ace,” he said. “You share our enemies. You share our dead. You share our war.”
Turnpike swallowed hard. For a second, he looked like he might say something sentimental. Then he caught himself.
“About fucking time,” he muttered, voice rough.
Laughter rippled around the table—not bright. Just enough to crack the tension a fraction.
He held the patch in his hand and stared down at it like he had been waiting his whole life for it.
Liberty’s voice came through the speaker again. “Congrats,” she said. “Try not to die too fast with it.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Turnpike said.
Blackjack let it sit for a beat, then rapped the table again.
“We’re bleeding,” he said. “They wanted that. They sent a messenger to our gate and hits to our fronts.They hit our ally’s club and killed a prospect to see if we’d bow. We’re not bowing. From here, every move we make is going to hurt them back. The ledger stays buried, but we’re going to use everything in it. Roman’s going to play his own hand. Liberty’s already in. The Aces don’t stand alone. Remember that when the next shot lands somewhere.”
His gaze cut to me briefly, then to Jersey.
“And remember this too,” he added. “We take care of our own. In life and after. That’s the only reason any of this bullshit is worth it.”
He lifted the gavel, brought it down once.
“Church is out.”
Blackjack disconnected the call with Liberty. Chairs scraped. Men rose. Some clapped Turnpike on the back. A few touched the wall where Raptor’s photo now hung, fingers brushing the frame like it might answer back.
I stayed where I was for a second, watching the boy in the picture flip off the camera forever.
A warm presence appeared at my side. Jersey. Close enough that our shoulders brushed.
“You okay?” he asked under his breath.
“No,” I said. “But… I’m here.”
He nodded. “Same.”
We stood there a moment longer, side by side, looking at the wall full of names and faces. Old ghosts. New ones.
