Damron was already outside, pacing the length of the parking lot, cigar in hand and a look on his face like he was about to bury every man in the county. He saw me and jerked his chin. “We roll in twenty. Get your shit together.”
I nodded, then went back inside to find Seneca, sitting and staring at the map like maybe God would drop in for a consult. He looked up at me, and for a second, his eyes went soft, almost human.
“You ready to die?” he asked.
“Not today,” I said, but I didn’t mean it.
He smiled, wolfish. “Good. I’d hate to see Saint get bored.”
We loaded up at dawn. Every man in the Bloody Scythes was there—patched, armed, faces scrubbed raw by sleepor lack of it. The prospects loaded gear into the chase van: med kit, extra mags, enough water to drown a horse. Seneca handed out radios, old-school walkies that still worked better than any cell tower this side of the Sandias. Damron took point on his Road King, the president’s patch gleaming like a badge of last rites. I was second in line, with Melissa riding pillion, her arms cinched so tight around my waist I could barely breathe. She was quiet, jaw locked, the only sign of nerves the way her hands trembled every time the engine idled.
We rolled out in formation, engines blaring through the empty streets, the sound a warning shot for anyone dumb enough to still be asleep. The cold morning air cut through leather and into bone. I could taste the coming fight in the back of my throat, metal and old blood and that sour tang of panic pretending to be bravado.
We hit the county road and opened it up. The Scythes rode tight—side by side, elbows nearly brushing, every man locked in, no showboating, no fuckery. War formation. We made the trip in forty minutes flat, crossing the old railroad tracks and cutting through the dead lands east of the lake.
When we crested the last rise, I saw the Leatherbacks waiting. They’d brought everyone—patched, prospects, maybe a hundred bikes all told, every one of them gleaminglike a headstone. The formation was surgical, the bikes in a perimeter, men standing at attention, Cutler D’Agossa in the center like a black sun. Saint Etienne flanked him, and for the first time, I saw why everyone in the southwest told his stories with a shiver.
Saint was huge. Not just tall, but wide—thick through the neck and shoulders, arms like a pair of railroad ties. His shaved head caught the morning light, and his face was a mess of old scars and ink, the most prominent being a chain of tally marks up both forearms, each a neatly executed stroke. I counted twenty-eight before I looked away. The air around him buzzed with violence, a field effect that made you want to look anywhere but straight at him.
The Scythes pulled up just outside the Leatherbacks’ circle. Damron killed his engine, and the rest of us followed. The silence that fell was surgical—no coughs, no mutters, just the click of kickstands and the snap of gloves being pulled tight. The world went still for a second, the only sound the distant caw of a bird and the faint hiss of cooling engines.
I swung off my bike and helped Melissa down. She gripped my arm, eyes locked on the ring of Leatherbacks. Some of them ogled her, but most just watched me,dead-eyed, like they were already rehearsing my death scene.
Damron stepped forward, and I went with him, Seneca close behind. We walked to the center, where Cutler stood with Saint looming at his right hand.
Cutler was almost unrecognizable in the daylight. He wore a suit under his cut, the sleeves rolled to show his own tangle of tattoos. His hair was slicked back, and his eyes were pure ice. He smiled, but it didn’t touch anything above his lips.
“Morning, gentlemen,” he said. His voice was soft, almost polite. “Glad you could make it.”
Damron didn’t smile. “Let’s get it done.”
Cutler looked at me, and for a second, I saw the old man who’d scared the shit out of half the state for a decade straight. There was a calculation in his gaze, a razor-thin sense of danger, but also a kind of sadness, like he’d already grieved every possible outcome and was just here to collect the bill.
Saint Etienne smiled at me—just a flash of teeth—and then rolled his neck, a sound like gravel under boots. “You ready, Augustine?” His accent was slurred, almost French, but the threat translated just fine.
I ignored him and looked at Melissa. She stood at the edge of the Scythe formation, back straight, fists clenched,refusing to break even as the entire Leatherback army stared her down.
I turned to Damron. “You got the terms?”
He nodded, then addressed the crowd, his voice big enough to fill the clearing. “Old school rules. Trial by combat. No firearms. No outside interference. Fight ends when one man submits or dies.” He looked at Cutler. “Winner’s terms honored, no retaliation. You good with that?”
Cutler nodded, then raised his hands. “Leatherbacks—witness.” His men all nodded, some grunting assent. I glanced back to the Scythes. Every one of us nodded as well, some with more enthusiasm than others.
The two clubs started to form the circle—an arena of bodies, two men deep, with the center cleared out and the dirt kicked flat. The prospects marked the edge with a row of bikes, headlamps flicked on even though the sun was already up. It looked like a funeral in progress, and maybe it was.
Melissa found me at the edge. She pulled me down into a hug so fierce I thought she’d crack a rib. Her breath was hot against my ear. “Don’t you fucking die,”she whispered.
I squeezed her back, then pulled away and kissed her hard. Not soft, not sweet, but a claim. I wanted Cutler to see it, and Saint, and the whole fucking world.
“Love you,” I said.
She punched my chest, tears in her eyes. “I know.”
I stepped into the circle. Saint Etienne was already there, bare-chested, tattoos and scars gleaming with fresh oil. He’d taped his wrists, and his hands were wrapped, but otherwise he looked like he’d just climbed out of a grave and decided to wreck the first thing he saw.
I stripped off my cut, handed it to Seneca, and flexed my hands. My right was still fucked from the fight with Joey, but I could feel every finger. Good enough.
Cutler called out the start. “Gentlemen. On my mark.”
