Page 28 of Bram

They stared at each other. It would’ve been funny if I wasn’t so tired.

After ten minutes, Ruiz stood. “We’ll be in touch.” He looked at me. “A man with your record, caught in the middle of a missing DA, doesn’t look good for anyone.”

I waited a beat. “You’re being pressured,” I said. “From above.”

He didn’t flinch. Just turned and left.

Feldman watched the door close, then leaned in. “You all right?”

I nodded.

“Anything you want to tell me?”

I shook my head. “Not in this room.”

He got up, stretched his back, and patted my shoulder. “Let’s get you out of here.”

Outside, the sun was straight overhead, frying the parking lot. The heat shimmered, making everything look blurry and false. I squinted, saw the Harley parked two blocks down, the only thing that made sense in the whole goddamn picture.

I started walking, boots crunching on the asphalt. Every step was slower than the last.

I thought about Julie, and about what was happening to her right now.

I checked the time and then headed for the Colonel.

twelve

Bram

Corcoran State Prison squatted on the edge of the valley like a fever dream, all razor wire and gray concrete under a sky so wide it made you feel like an ant with delusions of significance. There were no trees out here, nothing to soften the perimeter—just the road, cracked and patched and sunburnt, circling the compound like a dried-up river. The heat hit different here, not just hot but wet, crawling under the leather and sticking to your bones. I’d spent my time in county and a few stints in bigger holes, but I’d never set foot in Corcoran. There was a first for everything.

I pulled the bike up to the shoulder, killed the engine, and let the silence creep in. Just the ticking of metal cooling, the distant hum of electrical transformers, and the taste of old sweat collecting at the corners of my mouth. The gates were another hundred yards up, topped with cameras, motion sensors, and a guard shack so bulletproof it looked like a bank vault with a view. Out front, a black limousine idled, engine throbbing at exactly the right pitch to let you know it was paid for in cash. The windows were so dark they turned the sun into a rumor.

The driver was out of central casting: dark suit, aviators, haircut you could set your watch by. He stood by the rear door, face unreadable, one hand folded over the other at the wrist. I set both boots down and waited, hands loose on the bars. No reason to look nervous. I could wait all afternoon.

The gate buzzed open with the sound of a giant mosquito, and out walked the reason for the whole production: Gerald Marsh, known to this valley and half the state as the Colonel, but to me just a bastard in a better suit. He looked good for a man who’d done twenty in the can—hair silver but still thick, skin tight to the jaw, posture straight enough to make the guards look like slouches. The suit was charcoal, custom, with a shirt so white it made his tan look carved. Even the shoes—handmade, I’d bet a thousand—caught the light just so.

He wasn’t your typical club president. He wore suits instead of kuttes; he rode around in expensive cars instead of a bike. I wasn’t exactly sure where his money came from; maybe it was old money, maybe the politicians were lining his pockets. It didn’t matter. He’d be dead soon enough. That’s why, at the last minute, I’d decided to uninvite Sniper and Trace. They would have killed the man the minute the prison gate opened. I didn’t want to see my sons dragged away.

The Colonel scanned the road, the lot, the gate, the fields past the fence. Didn’t look right at me at first, but when his eyes landed, he let the smile come slow, like a man savoring the first drag on a fresh cigar. He walked over, no hurry, stopping about three feet from my front tire.

He didn’t speak at first, just adjusted a cufflink and watched the sun glint off my bike’s headlamp. The driver opened the limo door, but the Colonel ignored it, taking a long look at the horizon. I let him have it.

“Mr. Jackson,” he said, his voice pure Riverside County: sandpaper and bourbon, but with enough polish that you’d let him close a deal before you realized he’d gutted you. “I wasn’t expecting you here. But I suppose I should have been.”

I kept my hands on the bars. “It’s a free country.”

He smiled wider. “Sometimes it feels like that, doesn’t it? But then the mail comes, and there’s another summons, another notice, another piece of paper that says: ‘No, Gerald, you’re still a guest in someone else’s house.’” He gave a little laugh, just for himself. “You look well. Considering.”

“I’m over the anger, Gerald. I’ve made peace with Millie’s death.”

“But you haven’t made peace with me,” he said, smug as some Hollywood asshole. It was California, after all.

“I’m going to make my peace with you, Gerald. I give you my word.”

“That a threat? Are you threatening me outside a federal prison?” He held out his hands and looked around.

He took a step closer, looked at the road behind me, the stretch of valley that led back to the interstate. “You know, Bram, I’ve thought about this moment a long time. The day I’d walk out and see the world had kept spinning. You were always going to be here. The stubborn ones, the survivors. I suppose I should thank you for keeping things interesting.”