Weird.
But I’m beyond carin’.
The nomads are grouped at the back. Standing. Hands in their pocket’s or crossed in front of their chests, like they belong here.
Like they own the place. Because they do. Have for two years now, according to Diesel.
Brick looks up from his papers. Eyes lock on mine. Expression unreadable—not surprised, not angry, not pleased. Just waiting. Calculating.
"Right on time," he says. Voice casual but eyes sharp. "Got something for me, Demon?"
I walk forward. Slow. Deliberate. The money bag swings slightly in my left hand with each step.
Men turn to watch me pass. I notice positions without looking directly at anyone.
Diesel sittin’ next to Ledger at the front. Havoc in the middle of all the other patched members. His eyes track me, but his face is blank. Chains and Ratchet are together on the left.
I reach the table, five feet from Brick. Close enough to see the gray threadin’ through his beard and the calculation in his eyes. His fingers rest flat on the papers, all casual and controlled like this isn’t a fuckin’ set up to ruin my life.
I set the bag down on the scarred wood. Don't let go of it yet, just let it rest there between us.
Brick reaches for it.
My right hand moves to my back. Smooth. Practiced. No hesitation. No thought between intention and action. I find the grip, my fingers closin’ around it, and I pull the gun out in one fluid motion.
I draw, raise, extend, sight, breathe.
Then I shoot Brick between the eyes. Point-blank range. Maybe four feet. Can't miss at this distance even if I wanted to.
The sound is massive in the enclosed space. A deafening crack that punches through my eardrums and keeps echoing, bouncing off the cinderblock walls.
Brick's body snaps backward. His head whipping back so hard, I hear vertebrae crack. There’s a small entry wound—just a dark hole punched through his forehead, almost neat. The back is another matter altogether. Skull fragments. Brain bits. Blood spray painting the memorial photos on the wall behind him.
Then he drops. Just collapses like someone cut his strings. His chair goes over backward, his body hits the concrete, and… that’s it.
Over.
The roomfreezes.
Total silence except for my ears ringing. Half a second that stretches into eternity. Every man stunned into stillness, their hands frozen mid-gesture, their mouths open and eyes wide. Cigarettes burn between fingers, forgotten.
Nobody breathes.
I pivot. Gun already tracking. My body moving on autopilot. I find the nearest nomad. The one with the shaved head and tribal tattoos snaking up his neck. He's reaching for his weapon. Too slow. Way too slow.
I fire. Center mass. Double tap. Two rounds punched through his white T-shirt before he clears leather. Red blooms across the cotton like flowers opening. He staggers backward, his mouth workin’ like a fish as he tries to breathe through punctured lungs. Then he goes down with a crash.
Chaos erupts. Everyone moves at once. Chairs scrape against the floor, shouts are overlapping—warnings, curses, names being screamed. The unmistakable sound of weapons being drawn from leather, slides racking, safeties clicking off.
Men look around wildly.
Guns out but nobody knows who to aim at. We're all wearing the same patch. Same cuts. Same colors. Same fucking brotherhood that Brick sold to the Feds two years ago.
Confusion in every face.
Which is exactly what I need.
I find the second nomad—the one with the goatee and the custom leather gloves. He's faster than the first. Gun already out. Raising it. Finger on the trigger.
