Well… finally. “Where the fuck have you been,” I snap. “I’ve been callin’ you for twenty fuckin’ minutes.” I point at Butch on the table.
Brick approaches, unhurried. Like our guys bleed out on tables every day of the fuckin’ week. "Church at noon," he deadpans. “We’ll discuss.” He doesn’t even look at Butch. Doesn't ask what happened. Doesn't offer to help.
What the fuck is happening here? "Did you hear me? I’ve been callin’ you. We were ambushed. Someone knew the route."
Brick's face remains impassive. "Bad luck."
"Badluck?" I echo, incredulous. "Three times in a month isn't bad luck, Brick. It's a fuckin’ pattern."
Brick’s eyes go narrow. “Are you tryin’ to say somethin’ here, Legion?” His voice is dangerously soft.
The room goes still. Diesel's hands remain steady on Butch's wound, but I can feel the tension radiating from him. Everyone is watching. Waiting to see what I’ll say.
Not everyone is happy these days. I’ve heard lots of grumbling over the past few weeks. Lots of questions about Brick’s new attitude. And all the ‘bad luck’ as he calls it.
Maybe not half, but close to half of the patched members are starting to think… maybe we need a new leader. Maybe Brick’s time has come.
Diesel would never go against Brick. Ever. But… he’s not happy, either. And if the men put it up for a vote and his name came out on top, he’d step up. I know he would.
Problem is, we’ve already got a fuckin’ Prez.
And he’s been the Badlands Prez for nearly twenty years now.
That’s a lot of earned allegiance. A lot of history.
But that shit runs out quick when you start making mistakes like this.
So I pull myself up to my full height and narrow my eyes right back. “Yeah. I’m doin’ more than just sayin’ something here, Brick. I'm questioning why our prez doesn't seem concerned that one of his brothers is bleedin’ out after a setup."
Brick's expression doesn’t change. "As I said, church at noon. We’ll discuss it then." He turns, like he’s just gonna walk out.
"We need to discuss itnow," I press. "Someone sold us out. Someone who knew the route, the timing, and the exact location of the exchange."
Bricks stops. Kinda side-eyes me over his shoulder. "And you think you know who, do ya?" The challenge in his voice is clear.
I take a step toward him, hands sticky with dryin’ blood. "I think it's interestin’ that comms went down right before the ambush. I think it's interesting that you weren't on the channel when we called for backup." Another step closer. "Where were you, Brick?"
The silence that follows is absolute. No one breathes. No one moves. It's the kind of silence that precedes violence—the moment before a storm breaks.
Brick's eyes go dead. "Careful there, Legion. You're a baby patch around here still. No one cares about the thirteen fuckin’ years you wasted as a prospect doin’ God knows what. In fact, what the hell were you doin’ all those years you were here, but not. You were one of us, but not.”
“Well, I know where the fuck I was for three of them.”
“Ah, right,” Brick sneers. “Your fuckin’ prison time. My God. If I had known that you’d canonize yourself for three short years in the hole, I’d have chosen someone else to take the heat. You never shut up about how you did time for us. Even that fuckin’ whore sister of yours had to mention it when she was at the gate holdin’ her shiny, new Ashby baby.” Brick turns to look at the club. He throws up his hands. “Am I right, or what? Raise your hand if you’re sick of hearing how Legion sacrificed for us.”
No one raises their hand. At first. But as Brick waits, they realize… he’s lookin’ for support here. He wants to know who’s still got his back. And he’s takin’ notes.
Lots of hands go up.
Diesel’s doesn’t.
Brick looks at him, chortles. “Come on, Diesel,” he says. “You’re sick of it too. You’ve said as much.”
I don’t look at Diesel. He’s allowed to have his own opinion. And sometimes people say shit just because they feel like they have to.
Like most of the members in this room right now.
I know damn well Dusty and Brick do not get along. Dusty is about ready to call it quits. After being here almost eighteen months as a prospect, he’s ready to say fuck the Badlands patch, pack up his woman in the laundry, and try his luck with another club farther west.
