They all stare at me.
"You're…coming down with us?" Silas asks, surprised.
I shrug, nod. "Yes. The need to protect my identity is over. You all know me, now." I pause, let out a breath. "And, to be honest with you all, I don't want to go back to being a recluse." I glance at Brys, smiling. "I realized recently that while this," I sweep a hand at the building, "is Club Sin. “This,” I gesture to the whole crew, including myself, “is therealclub.” And I want to be part of it."
Chance steps forward. "Then you need two things, Boss."
I frown. “Those two things being?"
"The brand and the vow."
I grin savagely. "I absolutely agree." Roll a shoulder. "The brand may have to wait until after I’m healed more, though?"
Chance smirks. "I suppose that's fair." He ducks under the lintel and inputs the code into the keypad; the door lock clunks,and he tugs the door open, holding it for everyone. I'm last, and he stops me. "You really want to take the brand, Boss?"
"Can't very well be part of the club without it, can I?"
"It's not just a club, sir."
I shake my head. "No more, Boss, no more, sir. I'm just…Jakob."
"It's a brotherhood, Jakob." His eyes are dark and serious and wise. "You've more than earned a place with us. You created this brotherhood. You don't need the brand to be one of us—you already are."
There's a hot lump in my throat. "Thank you, Chance."
A squeal of brakes draws our attention—a trim figure in black leather stands straddling a sleek motorcycle; an opaque black visor shields the figure's features. "Nicolae Dragos?" The voice is of indeterminate gender, muffled by the helmet; it could be a soft-spoken male or a woman with a deep voice.
Chance has a handgun out in an eyeblink, the figure gripped by the jacket, the gun shoved up under the lip of the helmet. "Who the fuck are you and what the fuck do you want? You have five seconds to answer before I turn your skull into a soup bowl."
Moving slowly, keeping their hands visible at all times, the figure pulls something from inside their leather jacket using two fingers—a manila document envelope. "For Nicolae Dragos."
"I am here," Nicolae says, shuffling slowly back up the stairs and out into the sun. "Easy, Chance, my brother. This person is merely a messenger. Yes?"
The rider nods once. "Correct. I am unarmed." They produce a pen from the inside pocket, and a crumpled, much-folded piece of paper—an invoice. "Sign, please. Anywhere."
"What is this?" Nicolae says, signing the paper with a scrawl. "I am not expecting anything."
"I don't know what it is. All I know is that I was contracted to deliver this package to these coordinates. I received it one hour ago."
"Do you know who sent it?"
The figure unfolds the paper Nicolae just signed. "Ahhh…a Major Lisel Neufeld. It originated from Ramstein Air Force Base."
Nicolae's eyes widen. "Thank you."
"Of course. Have a nice day." The rider guns the engine and is gone in an eyeblink.
Nicolae is still just standing there staring at the document envelope like it's either a bomb about to explode or the most precious item in the universe.
"Let’s take it inside, shall we, Nicolae?” I suggest.
He nods. "Yes. Yes."
Downstairs in the newly-renovated Arrow quarters, we all cluster in the common area around Nico as he pinches the metal tabs together and opens the flap.
"Are you expecting anything from your contact, Nic?" Solomon asks.
Nicolae shakes his head. "No. I have not heard from Major Neufeld since our meeting in Germany. I had not expected to for some time, if at all. The wheels of justice, as we all know, grind rather slowly. Internationally, most especially." He hasn't withdrawn what's inside, yet. He lets out a breath and does so, slowly, gingerly.
