But his hand is up.
I don’t look at him, because I know Dusty now. And the regret he feels for playing along to Brick’s bullshit will show all over his face if I look him in the eye.
Men do what men gotta do.
But that don’t mean that some of these guys wouldn’t have my back if it came down to it.
Brick looks back at me, his anger stowed, but present. "Remember who brought you in, Demon. Because it’s the same man who can put you out."
We stand there, locked in a stare that says more than words ever could. Three weeks ago, I would have backed down. Three weeks ago, I still believed in brotherhood above all.
"Doc's here!" Crow calls from the door, breaking the moment.
Doc Simmons shuffles in, medical bag in hand, reeking of bourbon. His eyes dart between Brick and me, sensing the tension but wisely choosing to ignore it.
"Move," he orders, pushing past me to reach Butch. "Everyone back. Give me space."
Diesel and I step away from the table as Doc begins his work, muttering to himself as he cuts away Butch's shirt.
Brick turns without another word, walking toward the back hallway that leads to his office. His shoulders are relaxed, his pace unhurried—a man without concerns. A man certain about his place in the world.
I stay behind, watching as Doc works on Butch, barking orders at the prospects to fetch water, towels, his spare kit from the truck. The blood pools on the table, drips to the floor, spreading in a dark stain across the concrete.
I look down at my hands—red and sticky, already drying at the edges. Then back to the door where Brick disappeared.
The math isn't complicated.
The conclusion isn't pretty.
The danger isn't coming from outside. It's coming from in here.
We got ourselves a rat.
And right about now, as I study the room, I realize I’m not the only one who knows who it is.
I count eleven faces starin’ at the door where Brick disappeared.
Eleven is good, but not nearly enough.
I push through the clubhouse door, escaping the smell and the chaos of a brother down and on his way out. Dawn's breaking over the eastern hills, streaks of orange and red runnin’ across the horizon.
I fish a cigarette from my pocket, gettin’ Butch’s blood all over my pants. I light up, drawing deep, letting the smoke fill the hollow spaces where trust used to live.
But as I look around the parking lot, I realize… there are bikes here I’ve never seen before. I missed them on the way in because of Butch and the sun was still sleepin’.
But there’s no way to miss it now.
I recognize Hammer's custom paint job. Reaper's extended forks. Ghost's blacked-out Road King. The others belong to men whose faces I've seen but whose names I've never learned. New blood that came in while I was up at Whitefall.
These bikes are lined up in perfect formation on the far side of the parking lot. Not in line with mine, or Diesel’s, or any other bike that actually belongs here. But alone. Apart.
They all have chromed wheels catching the first light, leather seats beaded with morning dew. Engine’s still tickin’ from the ride in.
Nobody rides in at 5 AM unless they're called. If you don’t live on site, there’s no real reason to be here on a random Tuesday at dawn.
Unless someonedidcall them.
All this calculation happens in the span of one exhale. On the inhale, I see them. Four men over by Ratchet’s garage, leanin’ against the door. Smokin’, watchin’ me through narrowed eyes.
