He wants a pledge and he wants it now. Normally, I’d say this was not a great way to total up your loyal members. With bodies and blood pooling in the room, still wet.
But they’re alive for a reason and all of them are holding weapons.
They don’t hesitate. They declare one by one.
"Badlands."
"Badlands."
"Badlands."
Down the line until everyone's spoken except me.
I don't need to say it. They already know. But I do anyway. “It’s only ever been Badlands.”
Diesel nods. “Welp,” he starts. Like this is just another day in the life. “You’re in charge now, Legion.” He looks at the rest of us. “Anyone got a problem with that?”
They shake their heads.
“Good,” Diesel says. Then he pushes his bloody knuckles at me. “All hail, President Demon.”
I blow out a breath, dap him, then stand there like an idiot as all the other guys follow his lead.
When that’s over, I look at Chains, who is kneeling beside Havoc's body. He’s careful and respectful as he presses two fingers to his neck. Checking for a pulse even though it's obvious. He waits. Finds nothing. Then looks up and meets my eyes. “Gone.”
I think about June. Their farmhouse. Their dinner table. Their six kids. The way she looked at Havoc like he was her whole world.
Time for that sorrow later.
Right now, we’re still in the middle of winning.
“OK,” I say, pointing at the door. Outside, people are still bangin’. “We got things to take care of out there too.”
Diesel nods to me.
I nod back.
Then I turn to Ratchet. "Open it."
Ratchet pulls the steel crossbeam. He yanks it free with both hands and lets it clang to the floor. The sound echoes as he pulls the door open. The hinges protest with a long shriek as sunlight floods in.
I step out first. Smoke billowing out behind me like I'm walking through fog. Gun still in hand, eyes adjusting to brightness. The compound spreads before me—bikes, buildings, dust, sky.
Brandy starts toward me, twenty feet away. Moving fast. Mouth opening. About to speak. Phone still clutched in her hand. Eyes wide—fear, or surprise, or calculation.
I raise my gun without breaking stride. Her death comes smooth. One shot, right between her eyes. She drops mid-step, slumping to the dirt. Her phone clatters as blood starts pooling under her blonde hair.
Silence.
I scan the immediate area. Five women outside in various positions. One near the garage—younger, probably early twenties. Two by the main clubhouse—hangarounds I recognize but don't know their names. One near the bikes—older, maybe thirties. One trying to back away—moving slow, hands up.
I look at Diesel without speaking, not asking.
And no one hesitates.
We all raise our weapons as one.
They’re runnin’ now. But it only takes five seconds to make the world go still again.
