The ride from the hospital to the clubhouse is tense and silent, the city passing by in a blur of gray concrete, damp brick, and streaky windows. The sky looks heavy, bruised with storm clouds that threaten to break at any moment.
When Locke’s truck pulls into the gated parking lot in front of the clubhouse, the atmosphere is electric with unspoken, deadly tension.
The lot is packed. Custom bikes are lined up in neat, gleaming rows against the brick walls, and full-patch members are moving back and forth in quiet, disciplined sync: hauling ammunition crates, checking sidearms, loading tactical gear into SUVs, and securing the perimeter doors.
There are no loud jokes today, no booming laughter, no music playing from the garage speakers. The entire compound smells of exhaust, high-grade
