CHAPTER 4
I enter the meeting hall at noon, muscles tight under my cut. The building we hold church in stands apart from the main clubhouse. Concrete block walls, a single metal door with a locking bar across it, and no windows.
No chance for prying eyes or listening ears.
The floor is stained concrete, bearing decades of spilled whiskey, blood, and promises. Overhead, fluorescent lights buzz like angry wasps, casting everyone in a sickly pallor.
At the front, a raised platform holds the long wooden table where Brick and the officers sit. Diesel nods at me. Not sure if that’s an I-got-your-back nod or what, but I guess I’m gonna find out.
Behind them hangs our flag—skull wrapped in barbed wire rising from cracked earth—and the memorial wall with photos of brothers who died wearing the patch.
Sixty chairs face them, all arranged in rows. All patched members are present, plus the so-called nomads who hang back, by the exit.
Brick's gavel cracks against the table. "Church is in session," he announces. "Lock it down."
Someone secures the door, turns the key, and drops it in the metal lockbox. Nobody comes in or out until Brick says so. Those are the rules.
"Brothers," Brick continues, looking around the room. "We've got blood on our floor and questions that need answering."
Chains spits on the ground. "Fuckin' right we do."
"Shut it," Roach snaps from beside Brick. "President's got the floor."
"First order of business," Brick says, tapping a folder in front of him. "We've got rats in the walls."
There is an intake of breath here. Before Diesel’s confession, I probably would’ve mistaken it as surprise. But they’re not surprised. They’re resigned.
They don’t all look at me—most of them have more control. But at least half a dozen do.
And again, before Diesel’s confession, I’d take that as an accusation. Hell, it probably still is, in some way.
But that’s not really why they’re lookin’ at me. They’re lookin’ at me because I’m the reason for this meeting.
It’s not about me being the rat. It’s about me being a hold out after this meeting’s over.
"Three runs gone sideways in a month,” Brick goes on. Continuing with the charade. “That’s no coincidence, brothers. That's…” He pauses, lets the moment drag on. “That’s incompetence.”
Incompetence, huh?
Not a rat, then?
Not yet, at least. But it’s set up that way.
Brick stares directly at me, his gaze cold as Montana winter. I remember when those eyes held something like pride. When he'd clap my shoulder after a successful run, call me "the future of this club."
Those days are gone. Ever since I brought Savannah here, something changed in him.
I thought it was about her family. Their influences. And maybe some of it is.
But that’s not the real reason.
Then I thought it was the drama.
And that’s definitely part of it too.
But only in a second-cousin kind of way.
Drama equals attention. Attention equals eyeballs.
