Page 24 of Bones and Ashes

"And now you're…" He blows out a breath. "I'm not really sure. I was expectin' some hostility. I guess I didn't peg you as the quiet type."

I don't bother reacting to his assessment. He's not wrong. I am quiet. But obviously, I can also be very loud. "So… what do ya want?"

"I want to know what you plan on doin', Legion. Now that you've taken control of this club and you've got options."

This laugh I give him, it's got teeth. And it's also real. "Do I have options, Laz?"

"Everyone has options. Sometimes they're all bad. But they're still options."

I decide to just get to the point here. Because what happened with Mike this morning wasn't ever gonna be a secret. "Well, let me tell you about my 'options' Laz. They are all bad, just like you said. I've got the remnants of some pretty fucked up shit on my shoulders right now. And I'm gonna go on the record and say two things to you. One. I'm not a rat. And two. I didn't fight this goddamned hard to get the things I now have just to lose them all to things I never agreed to in the first place."

His eyes squint down a little. "I'm not sure what that means."

"No. I didn't spell it out, did I? And guess what? I'm not gonna either."

"All right." He presses his hand flat on the table like he's about to stand up. "That's fair. You don't know me. You don't know us. But like I said, we're not like you."

Then he does stand. Pushes back from the table with both palms flat and rises to his full height, and I'll give him this—the man carries himself like somethin' that doesn't need permission. His fingers go to his lips and a shrill whistle cuts through the room, sharp and clean. The kind of sound that doesn't ask twice.

Everyone stops what they're doin'.

Every conversation dies mid-word.

Every head in the room turns to look at him like he's the only thing breathin'.

"Let's go, men," he says. "We're headin' out."

That's it. No explanation. No justification. Just the command and the silence that follows it.

He looks down at me. Holds my eyes for a beat longer than he needs to. Then pops off a small salute—two fingers, casual, almost mocking except it isn't. It's respectful. Which is worse.

"We're gonna spend the next three days out at June's place," he says. "Packin' it up and gettin' it ready to sell. If you've got anything to add to what you said—or anything you didn't say—you know where to find me, brother."

Brother. That word again. Comin' from a mouth that looks like mine.

And just like that, they leave.

They file through the door one by one, and none of 'em look back. Not a single goddamned one. The door slams closed behind the last man.

Then silence.

Outside, fifty-seven bikes roar to life.

Not all at once. It builds. One engine turns over, then another, then another, like a heartbeat findin' its rhythm—and then the whole parkin' lot is shakin' with it. The floor vibrates under my boots. The windows rattle in their frames. Fifty-seven machines built to announce themselves to a world that didn't ask, and they don't give a damn whether it asked or not.

I sit there. Don't move. Don't speak. Just let the sound wash through the walls and into my chest and settle somewhere between my ribs where it hums against the brand.

Two minutes later, when Diesel drops down into the empty seat across from me, the rumble is faint. Distant. Fadin' south down the dirt road like thunder rollin' away from a storm that already hit.

Like a memory of somethin' that was just here and now isn't.

Like the echo of a question I still don't have the answer to.

"Well," Diesel says, settlin' into that chair like it's the only piece of furniture left in the world. "How did it go?"

I don't answer right away.

I study him. I watch him the way you watch a man when you're decidin' whether the thing he's offerin' you is a hand or a fist.