Miami’s jaw clenched. He looked away, down at his leg. Quinn’s hand slid from the chair to his shoulder, a small anchor.
“Fuck,” he whispered.
Nobody corrected him.
“You’re not putting that on yourself,” Blackjack said, voice even. “You were out. You didn’t choose that. He walked into that room, and the Vincinos pulled the trigger. That’s on them.”
Miami dragged in a breath, let it out slow. “Still feels like shit,” he muttered.
“Good,” 8-Ball said. “Means you’re not dead inside yet. Common problem in this industry.”
Miami huffed something that was almost a laugh.
Blackjack tapped his fingers once on the desk, drawing everyone’s eyes back to him.
“You’re updated,” he said. “You know about the gate visit. The hits. Dante. The traitor at his side. Roman’s oath. Liberty’s position. You’re caught up as far as we are.”
Miami nodded once. “So, when do we ride?” he asked. “I can stay upright. Crutch ismostly for show.”
“Not a chance,” Blackjack said.
The word landed like a punch.
Miami blinked. “Excuse me?”
“You’re back in the clubhouse,” Blackjack said. “You’re not back in the saddle. You may have left against doctor’s orders, but my orders are you will follow up with one. That cast says no. Bone says no. I say no. That’s three votes and you only get one.”
“You’ve sent people into war with worse,” Miami shot back. “You just told me some cartel boy painted a wall with his brains. I can pull a trigger sitting down.”
“And you will,” Blackjack said. “From here.”
Miami frowned. “What, you want me to answer phones?”
“I want you in the building,” Blackjack said. “I want your eyes on the cameras, your brain on the routes, your mouth on the radio when we’re out. You know our roads. You know our habits. Our holes. You can see the shit we might miss while we’re busy not dying and are distracted on a run. That’s not nothing.”
“It’s a bench,” Miami said.
“It’s a position,” Blackjack corrected. “You bleed out on a sidewalk because you tried to prove you still have both your nuts, what does that get us? What does that get Quinn?” His gaze flicked to her, sharp. “You being breathing and pissed off in here helps us more than you being noble and dead out there.”
Quinn’s fingers tightened on Miami’s shoulder. Shedidn’t say anything, but I watched the way her jaw clenched. She wanted him safe more than he wanted to ride. That was saying something.
Miami stared at Blackjack for a long second. Then at 8-Ball. Then at me. He saw no give in any of us and finally let his head drop back against the chair.
“Fuck you all,” he muttered.
“Love you too,” Blackjack replied calmly. “You can graduate from the bench when a doctor says your leg can handle being thrown around in a firefight. Until then, you’re home based.”
Miami didn’t agree, but he didn’t argue again either. That was as close as he came.
“Any questions?” 8-Ball asked.
“Yeah,” Miami said. “Where’s my fucking coffee? If I’m going to listen to any more of this shit, someone could at least caffeinate me.”
Quinn rolled her eyes and kissed the top of his head. “I’ll get it,” she said. “Try not to pick another fight while I’m gone.”
“No promises,” he said, but his hand came up to brush her thigh as she moved past. A little apology. A little anchor.
The debrief was over.
