"Why me?" I mumble to the remnants of the dream. "Why do they hauntme? It's just a name, for fuck's sake."
The shower is a brutal awakening. Water pressure too high, temperature swinging between scalding and freezing. The spray hits my chest and the pain is immediate and electric. I grit my teeth against it, letting it wash over me.
When I get out I realize that someone left a tube of aloe gel on the edge of the sink, alongside a white pill I recognize as oxy. Thoughtful.
I take the aloe but put the oxy inside the medicine cabinet along with a whole line of pills people been tryin’ to give me since I got here four days ago. I need my head clear for whatever Brick wants.
I dress in clean jeans but no shirt. Not today, Satan. Can't even stand the thought of fabric against the raw flesh of my brand. I can’t even wear the cut. It'll have to wait.
Downstairs, the clubhouse is quiet. Morning-after kind of quiet. The kind that comes with hangovers and regrets. Crow sits at the bar, methodically cleaning a .45, piece by piece. He nods at me but doesn't speak.
"Mercy?" I ask.
He jerks his head toward the back door. "Range."
I step outside into the harsh Montana morning. The sun's barely up, but the air already carries that dry heat that promises a scorcher by noon. The sound of gunfire draws me around theside of the building to the shooting range. It’s just a dirt berm backstop and target frames made of repurposed metal signs, but it gets the job done.
Diesel stands behind Mercy, his massive hands adjusting her grip on a rifle that looks too big for her small frame. She squints down the sight, face set in concentration.
"Breathe out and squeeze," Diesel instructs. "Don't pull."
She does. The rifle cracks. A sign fifty yards away pings and stutters.
"Good girl," Diesel says, pride evident. "Natural. Just like your brother."
Something twists in my gut watching this. My nine-year-old sister learning to shoot from an outlaw biker. There's a wrongness to it. But there's a rightness too. This world doesn't spare children. Better she knows how to defend herself than end up dead because she can’t.
"Mornin’," I call.
Mercy turns, face lighting up when she sees me. Then carefully lowers the rifle, barrel down, finger off the trigger. At least Diesel's teaching her right.
"I hit five in a row," she says, pride making her stand taller.
"That's my girl," I say, and mean it. "Gotta see Brick. You good here?"
She nods, already turning back to her lesson. Diesel gives me a solemn nod. Message received. He'll watch her.
Brick's office sits at the back of the clubhouse, separated from the main room by a heavy wooden door. I knock twice, wait for his gruff "Enter," then step inside.
First time I've been in here since my release. Not much has changed. Same scarred desk. Same maps on the walls, marked with routes only Brick understands. Same smell of cigar smoke and old leather.
Brick himself sits behind the desk, phone pressed to his ear, as he stares at the floor. He's a big man, tall and solid, with the kind of face that's weathered rather than aged. Gray in his beard, none in his resolve.
"Don't care what they said," he's saying into the phone. "Price is the price. Border's hot right now... Yeah, well, that's not my fucking problem, is it?" He glances up, sees me, and gestures for me to sit. "Look, I gotta go. Have it there by Friday or the deal's off." He hangs up without waiting for a response.
I take the offered seat, trying not to look too obvious as I look around and take stock of the place. Filing cabinets against the wall, safe bolted to the floor, stack of burner phones on the corner of the desk. This room holds the secrets that sent me to prison. The secrets I kept.
"How's the brand?" Brick asks, lighting a cigar.
"Hurts."
He nods, approving. "Good. Should hurt. Means something that way." He studies me, eyes giving nothing away. "The kid can't stay here."
It's not what I expected him to say. I tense. "Mercy? She's not?—"
"Relax." He raises a hand. "Not saying she can't be around. Just can't live here. The clubhouse isn’t a place for a kid. Especially not a girl."
He reaches into a drawer, pulls out a manila envelope, and slides it across the desk. "Open it."
