Being there.
Being enough.
It's… enough.
CHAPTER 9
I wake to the sound of nothing.
No boots on the stairs. No voices through the walls. No engine rumble from the lot. Just silence—heavy and wrong, like the compound's holding its breath.
Gray light bleeds through dirty blinds, cutting stripes across the concrete floor. The steel bed frame creaks when I shift, the metal protesting under my weight.
The canvas bag sits on the floor beside my duffel. Twenty-five thousand dollars. I stare at it from the bed, one arm behind my head, breathing shallow in the quiet.
Got you tomorrow.
I sit up slow, my feet hittin’ the cold floor. The shock of it travels up through my bones, waking me fully. I dress in jeans and a t-shirt. Then I pull the Glock 19 from under my pillow. The grip fits my palm like it was molded there. I check the magazine—fifteen rounds staring back at me, then chamber a round with a metallic click that echoes in the small room.
The sound is honest.
I tuck the gun in my waistband at the small of my back, under where my cut will hang so it won't print. Hidden but accessible. I've carried it this way a thousand times, but today feels like all of those moments collapsed into one.
I shoulder into my cut. Enjoying the way the leather settles across my shoulders, weight distributed the way it's supposed to be. The Badlands patch is visible in the mirror beside my bed—skull wrapped in barbed wire, rising from cracked earth. My demon name stitched below it in white thread.
I sigh, then look away from my reflection. Don't need to see what I already know.
Then I pick up the money bag. Loop the drawstring around my wrist. It's a prop. Theatre. Something to carry so my hands look occupied, so they think I'm playing along.
I'm not paying the fine.
I leave my room.
The door closes behind me with a soft click. I walk down the hallway, then the stairs, then outside. The compound spreads out before me, the morning sun already hot. With every step, the dust rises, coating my boots in fine powder as I take in the nomad bikes all lined up in formation near the church entrance.
Brandy follows me out, plants herself on the porch, and leans against a railing with a phone against her ear. Spyin’ on me, I guess. Not even tryin’ to hide it.
I don't acknowledge her. Don't even let my eyes linger. She's a Fed, or she's handling Brick, or she's both, and none of it matters because in ten minutes she'll be irrelevant.
I notice other details as I walk.
No prospects. No hangarounds. The usual morning traffic of women, and workers, and members grabbing breakfast—nothin’. The compound feels emptied out in a deliberate way.
I reach the heavy steel church door, pausing at the threshold.
I take one breath. Hold it. Let it out slow.
This is instinct now. No plan. No speech rehearsed. Just action. Pure and simple.
The way it's always been with me.
I step inside.
The room comes into focus in one sweep.
Brick at the head table, center position. Gray beard. Cold eyes downcast, looking at the papers spread in front of him like he's conducting legitimate business. Roach to his left—twitchy hands already drumming on the table. Ledger to his right, glasses reflecting fluorescent light, calculator face giving nothing away.
Officers flanking. Patched members in their seats arranged in rows. Everybody’s early, it seems.
