Page 41 of My Veteran Biker

"You okay?" I ask.

"Yeah. Just thinking about Tuesday."

"The raid."

"Yeah."

I step into the garage and lean against the workbench. "Tell me what happens. Specifically."

He's quiet for a moment, weighing how much to say.

"We go to Crane's property. Six of us: me, Clint, Tate, Cain, Chuck, Axel. We breach the house, secure any men inside, find Crane. Clint makes the call. If Crane cooperates, maybe we let him walk. If he doesn't..."

"He dies."

"Yeah."

"And if something goes wrong? If there are more men than you expect or if Crane has better security?"

"Then we adapt. But the plan is solid. Cain's source confirmed Crane only has two loyal men left. One's with him at the property, one's at their last safe house in the next county. We hit the property when we know the second man isn't there."

"What if the intel is wrong?"

"Francis."

"I'm serious. What if you walk into a trap?"

He crosses to where I'm standing and puts his hands on either side of me, caging me against the workbench. His face is close enough that I can see the gray at his temples, the scar through his eyebrow that I never asked about.

"I've been doing this for seventeen years," he says. "I'm good at it. We're all good at it. And we're going in with solid intel, backup plans, and six brothers who trust each other completely. It's as safe as this kind of thing gets."

"That's not the same as safe."

"No. It's not."

I look at him and see the truth he's not saying. That he could die Tuesday night. That any of them could. That this life involves risks that can't be calculated away no matter how good the planning is.

"I'll be waiting," I say.

"I know."

"And if you don't come back, I'm going to be furious with you."

"That's fair."

He kisses me hard, all urgency and possession. When he pulls back his eyes are dark.

"I'm coming back," he says. "I've got something to come home to now."

We spend the rest of Sunday in domestic intimacy.

He changes my car battery like he promised. I make lunch from the limited supplies in his kitchen. We sit on his back porch drinking iced tea and not talking about Tuesday.

At five-thirty we walk to Dad's house together.

Knox brings a six-pack of the beer Dad likes, which means he paid attention years ago when we used to have barbecues in the summer.

Dad answers the door in slacks and a button-down shirt, dressed up more than necessary.