Chapter Twenty-Two
The second morning of the long annual motorcycle club run started with a very heavy, dark tension that felt significantly thicker than the cold, gray morning fog rolling through the tall pine trees. The cool air was completely still, but everything felt incredibly dangerous, like a bomb that was just waiting for a single spark to explode.
We had camped much deeper into the high green hills the night before, away from the main highway roads. Early in the morning, before the sun could even fully rise in the sky, all of the patched brothers of the Iron Reapers were already gathered in a tight circle near the center bonfire pit. Their deep voices were very low, incredibly angry, and full of a dangerous suspicion as they muttered among themselves.
Stone stood right in the
