Page 51 of Bram

“Boss,” he said. “Next time, try not to bleed out before the fight starts.”

“Where the fuck is he, Rusty. He should have been here.”

My phone buzzed, and I answered, seeing Julie’s number on the screen. She spoke, and the guys watched me, none moving until I ended the call without saying bye.

“He’s at our clubhouse,” Rusty said.

“Fuck,” was all I had.

twenty

Bram

When you think your world is about to end, you do things differently. You hit 100mph on your bike, knowing you’re pushing it too hard. Knowing life or death is only separated by a split-second. I could lose her. Not Julie. I couldn’t go through it again. My world would end just as the light had begun to shine.

When I got to the club, there he was, just standing there, out in the open, hands loose at his sides. No lieutenants, no blacked-out Lincoln idling at the curb, not even a coyote or a mongrel for company. Colonel had ditched the suit for a white shirt with the sleeves rolled, the kind of shirt that said wedding or funeral, but the cuffs were streaked brown where he’d wiped his hands, and his silver hair looked like he’d just woken up out of a ditch. His Left hand was empty, the right hand holding a blade, nothing fancy. Six inches, single-edged, probably something he’d taken off a dead enemy back in the old days and sharpened every week since.

I pulled up, engine rattling in the morning quiet, and let the bike idle while I read him. He didn’t move. Not even a blink. Just that long, level stare, like the whole lot was a chessboard, and he knew every piece that mattered was already in play.

I shut off the bike and swung my leg over. My shirt stuck to my ribs, still damp at the bandage, crusted from where the stitches had already soaked through. Every breath burned, but I didn’t give him that. I peeled the shirt over my head and left it on the seat. The sun caught the bruise spreading black around my side, the dressing beneath it gone from white to something almost rust.

Edge was outside, leaning against the door frame of the club. He didn’t bother with a hello. He took a look at me, then a look at the old man, and then came down the steps slow, boots heavy on the wood. He crossed the distance, handed me the knife I knew he’d been saving for something like this—bone handle, short and ugly, grip wrapped in old electrical tape—and then stepped away. He didn’t wish me luck, didn’t clap me on the shoulder, didn’t make a joke. That would have been disrespectful, to the moment and to the man I was about to fight.

I rolled the knife in my palm, and tested the edge. It had weight to it, balanced for close work, and I wondered, just for a second, if Edge had been waiting to give it to me since the first time we’d talked about finishing the Colonel face-to-face.

“Morning,” the Colonel said. His voice carried. You’d think he was asking for the paper and a cup of coffee. “I hear you’ve been busy.”

“Let’s cut the bullshit, Gerald.” His face fell slack. “It’s time for you to die. Put an end to everyone’s misery.”

“Your confidence is misguided, Bram.” He looked back. “You left my family behind?”

“They’ll be here soon enough. In time to see your ass lying on the ground, dead.”

I didn’t answer.

We started slow, two men on a line, measuring. Gravel soft under the boots, enough give to make every shift matter. I knew how he moved from old footage and a dozen years of running counter to his crew, but it’s one thing to read a man’s habits from after-action reports and another to see it live, ten feet away. He circled to his right, leading with his weak side, blade back and tucked. The stance of a man who’s spent half his life cutting people who never saw it coming.

The first pass was a feint. He flicked at my shoulder, drew back, tested the reach. I didn’t bother blocking, just stepped outside and let him show his footwork. He was good—better than I’d given him credit for, which is saying something. He didn’t waste motion. Even the fake-outs looked accidental, like he was moving with the wind instead of against it.

Second pass, I closed. Got in low, tried to bull-rush him, but he pivoted and slipped the blade under my arm, tagging the bandage. I felt the slice, deep and cold, blood running fresh and hot down my side. He didn’t follow up. Just danced back two steps, knife up, calm as a surgeon.

“You’re slower than last time,” he said.

I grinned and spat in the dirt. “Still faster than you need.”

He didn’t smile. He lunged, arm snapping out with that old man speed, like the joints were spring-loaded. I blocked with my forearm, caught the inside of his wrist, and the knife slipped past but not before catching my side again. Not as deep, but it stung. I twisted his arm, tried to bring him in close for a throw, but he dropped his weight, and we locked up, chest to chest, both of us pushing for ground.

He broke the clinch with a headbutt—straight up into my nose, hard enough to starburst my vision. I lost hold of his wrist for half a second, which was all he needed. The knife came around, aimed at my ribs, and I barely got my own blade up in time to block it. The two knives scraped, kissed at the edge, and I felt his arm tense. He wanted to end it on the next move.

“You ever think it would come to this?” I asked, voice flat through the blood pooling in my mouth.

He shrugged, like it was Sunday and he was missing his crossword. “Always knew you were the one.”

We circled again. The heat kept building, sun creeping up, the lot empty and silent. I could see Edge at the edge of my vision, arms folded, watching every second.

The next time we closed, I didn’t try to outthink him. I let him cut me. Small one, just below the ribs, but he put his whole body behind it. The pain was sharp, bright, but I used it to bring my own blade around and drive it through the meat of his thigh, just above the knee.

He went down on one leg, knife still in his hand, but I tackled him into the dirt. He rolled us, got on top, tried for a finishing cut, but I had both hands on his wrist and twisted until I felt something give. He grunted, not a yell, just the acknowledgment of pain, and let go of the knife rather than lose the hand. I flung it behind me, got a knee into his chest, and hit him once, hard, with the butt of my own.