Chapter 10 Silver
SILVER
Spencer Medlock strolls out of Wheaton University’s main building, backpack slung over one shoulder, completely oblivious to the fact that he’s being watched. His Honda Civic chirps when he unlocks it then tosses his things in the backseat.
As soon as he starts the engine, his music blears from the speakers, the heavy bass obnoxious and disruptive to the otherwise calm street.
It wouldn’t surprise me if the kid’s deaf by now from all that fucking noise.
I’ve been doing my homework for a couple days now. Ever since Solana’s breakdown, I’ve taken it upon myself to find out exactly who was involved in the situation. I started with the basics, thinking like a twenty-something-year-old and logging on social media to scope out profiles.
Instagram, Facebook, whatever profiles I could find.
I browsed friends lists, tagged photos and locations, even the school’s pages. But I couldn’t find anybody named Kel anywhere.
Was this friend of hers not even enrolled at Wheaton U?
When my social media browsing turned up nothing, I went even more basic. I might not’ve found this Kel asshole online, but I had the address Solana had me pick her up from.
I turned up to the small bungalow style home that resembled more of a frat house thanks to the patchy lawn and red plastic cups ditched in the yard.
Still no Kel anywhere.
But that’s how I came across Spencer.
Apparently Spencer lived in the house too, coming and going as he pleased. I watched the scrawny, rubberneck douche I saw parking his car in the drive with the profile online that I dug up on Solana’s friends list.
Then I tailed him to school.
As he gets in his Honda and drives off, bass still bumping, I follow him once again. I keep three or four cars between us at all times to avoid any suspicion.
He drives halfway across Wheaton to what’s known as the downtown area—generous to call it that when it’s only a few blocks of shops and restaurants. Wheaton’s maybe got five thousand more people than Pulsboro, but it’s still small enough that most know each other.
He parks near a corner store. I cruise past, doubling back to park half a block down. He checks his phone before heading inside.
I give it a beat or two, then follow, crossing the street in my aviator shades.
The store’s the typical small market that sells a little bit of everything from energy drinks to lottery tickets and toilet paper.
Spencer grabs a bag of Funyuns and some gum, then takes out cash from the ATM in the back.
My phone buzzes in my front pocket. I take a quick peek to find Logan’s name on the screen. I already know why he’s calling.
We’re supposed to be heading out soon to go pick up Tom. But for the moment, that obligation can wait.
Spencer walks out of the store, and I’m still keeping tabs on him. Rather than return to his car, he heads down an alley between the corner store and another shop. He’s nervous, glancing over his shoulder every couple steps.
Yet he’s too much of an amateur to realize he does have reason to be anxious—I’m following him.
Another college-aged guy appears from behind a dumpster, hood up despite the sunny weather. Their exchange is awkward, Spencer forking over cash and the hoodie guy passing over a baggie of weed. Both of them give furtive glances like cops are gonna materialize from thin air.
Hoodie walks off quick. Spencer turns to leave, and I move in.
His face flattens in immediate alarm as he sees me rushing toward him, but it’s too late to do anything. I’m too fast and too strong.
I slam him back against the brick wall, my arm barring across his throat. Before he knows what’s happened, he’s now pinned into place like a mouse trapped by a hawk.
The baggie of weed slips from his hand, and he goes so pale he almost becomes translucent.
“Oh shit! Oh shit!” he repeats in a shrill panic. “I’m sorry, officer! First time, I swear! I wasn’t—please don’t arrest me, man!”
I press harder against his windpipe, leaning in close enough he can see himself reflected in my aviators. “I’m not a cop, kid.”
His eyes go wider, if that’s possible.
“You should fucking wish I was a cop,” I growl, teeth clenched. “Because then you might walk away with all your parts intact.”
“What—I—” He’s practically hyperventilating, drawing desperate breaths into his lungs and trembling on the spot. “Take the weed! Take my wallet! Whatever you want, man, just please—”
“Shut the fuck up!” I bark at him, pressing harder and cutting off his words with a wheeze. “Only speak when I tell you to. Understand?”
He nods frantically.
“You live with Kel Greene?”
“I don’t… I don’t really get mixed up in Kel’s stuff; whatever he’s into, that’s on him, I swear—”
“What did I just say?” I slam him against the wall again. His head bounces off the brick. “Shut up and listen. You live with him; I know you do. So that means you know about him. Where is he? Why can’t I find any record of him at your school?”
Spencer’s shaking so hard, it wouldn’t surprise me if he soon pisses himself. “K-Kel’s… that’s not… that’s not his government name. J-just what he goes by.”
“And what would the real one be?”
“H-he’s a junior, named after his dad who bailed or something, so he doesn’t—”
“I don’t give a shit about his daddy issues. What’s his real name and where is he?”
“Ma-Martin! Martin Greene Junior!” he blurts out desperately. “He’s gone for two weeks. Visiting family in Houston I… I think.”
“You think or you know?”
“I know, I know!” he says as I rattle him some more by the front of his shirt.
Houston for two weeks. I file it away, then slam him against the wall one more time for emphasis. His teeth click together.
“You better not be lying to me, Spencer. Because if you are...” I let the threat hang, then lean in close enough our noses almost touch. “I know where you live. I know where you go to school. Trust me when I say you do not want me coming back to find you.”
“Ye-yes sir. I’m not lying! I swear!”
I release him and he crumples, sliding down the wall. The baggie of weed sits forgotten on the ground as I walk away, leaving him gasping and shaking in the alley.
Martin Greene Junior, otherwise known as Kel by his friends.
Gone for two weeks.
That gives me time to plan exactly what I’m going to do to him when he gets back.
I pull into the Steel Saloon’s lot sensing conflict in the air. Which is why it doesn’t surprise me when I push open the bar doors and find Mace and Logan squared.
Cash and Sydney stand between them like referees, trying to keep this from turning into an uglier argument than it already is.
“—not fucking going!” Mace yells, his face clenched with anger. “You want to play happy family with him, that’s your choice. But leave me the fuck outta it!”
Sydney reaches for his shoulder, trying to calm him. “Mace, if Logan can put the past behind him—”
He jerks away from her touch as if it burns. “Logan’s making a mistake.”
“Prison might’ve changed him,” Cash offers sensibly, ever the voice of reason in my absence. “Maybe for the better. You won’t know unless—”
“He ain’t ever gonna change!” Mace barks. “I’m not wasting another second of my life fooling myself that he will!”
Logan steps toward him, and for a second I think they might actually come to blows. It wouldn’t be the first nor probably the last time the two brothers have fought.
But instead Logan seems to realize fiery hostility won’t do much to get through to his brother. He’s controlled in how he looks him in the eye and speaks his mind.
“I get why you’re angry. That mission he sent me on—it damn near killed me.
It should’ve killed me. You all thought it had for years,” he says grimly.
His eyes reflect memories of the dark and twisted things he endured.
“But I didn’t die. Teysha and I went through hell with the Chosen Saints.
We survived it. And as for Tom… he didn’t know what would happen that afternoon. He couldn’t’ve.”
“Bullshit,” Mace spits. “He knew. He as good as sacrificed you. I’m not about to pretend it’s all good.”
He turns and storms out the back, the door swinging open fast on the hinges. Sydney sighs, looking between us.
“Go on without us,” she says. “I’ll talk to him. He just… he has a lot of complicated feelings about him. Especially now that we’re… you know, trying to start a family of our own.”
I wait for her to go, then glance over at Cash and Logan, a brow raised.
“I didn’t know about that,” I admit. “Mace and Syd?”
“Yeah,” Cash says with a nod. “They figure it’s a good time. With things being a time of peace for us.”
Me and Logan share another look, both of us with the same thought in mind. If the Penas really are pissed about our arrangement breaking down—if they really were the ones watching me outside my house the other night—then that’s about to change.
Our great time of peace might be coming to an end sooner than we realize.
“You sure you’re good to do this?” I ask Logan.
He nods, jaw set. “I’m ready. Been ready.”
We head out, leaving the saloon behind for my truck. Cash climbs into my truck’s backseat while Logan takes shotgun.
We pull out onto the road that’ll take us three hours north to Lenton Federal Correctional, where Tom’s been counting days.
The miles roll by in relative silence. Cash fidgets with his phone. Logan stares out the window at the countryside blurring past.
It’s a colder February than usual, even with the sunshine. Almost like it reflects the mood we’re in.
I keep my eyes on the road and try not to think about what Tom’s return means for all of us.
For the club’s fragile finances. For the leadership questions that’ll inevitably come up. For the Pena situation that’s started simmering.
We’ve held things together without him. Made decisions, fought battles, kept the Steel Kings alive.
Now he’s coming back to reclaim his throne, and everything we’ve built in his absence is about to be tested.
Logan shifts in his seat. “You think Mace’ll come around?”
“No,” I answer bluntly. “Some things cut too deep to heal.”
Cash sighs from the backseat. “What about you, Silver? You ready for Tom to be back?”
I consider the question, well aware Tom never officially passed the baton. It was always temporary.
“Doesn’t matter if I’m ready,” I answer. “He’s coming home today whether we like it or not.”
“We’ll figure it out,” Cash says.
They’re the last spoken words as the highway stretches ahead and we speed toward our destination. Closer to whatever comes next.
The Texas State Penitentiary at Lenton looks like every prison you’ve ever seen in the movies. It’s a giant concrete box designed to hold men who’ve done terrible things. There’s mile-high barbed wire and very few windows to be found.
We wait outside the visitor center as the main gates grind open with a mechanical crank.
Tom Cutler walks out flanked by two armed guards. He’s wearing a cheap polo shirt and stiff jeans, no doubt standard prison-issue attire to send him on his way.
Four years have aged him more like ten. Deep lines carve his face up, taking away any good looks he had previously. His hair’s gone long and wild, more gray than brown these days, the ear-length sheets visibly greasy.
But it’s his eyes that hit hardest—they’re an icier blue than I remember. They’re hardened like a man returning from a grisly war, carrying almost no life in them.
Just coldness. Only just vaguely human.
He stops in front of Logan first. The son he sent on a suicide mission not long before he got busted by the Feds and sent away. It’s been years since they’ve seen each other. He opens his arms and they embrace, quick but perfunctory.
Suppose it’s better than nothing.
“I always knew you were still alive,” Tom says. “I told Mace and the others it must’ve been a mistake.”
Logan merely nods, then steps back, clearly torn himself by his father’s presence.
Tom turns to Cash next, extending his hand. Cash takes it, the two sharing a firm handshake and greeting.
“Blake. Good to see you haven’t changed.”
“Tom,” Cash merely says with a nod.
Then his ice-blue eyes turn to me.
We stand opposite each other for a moment, two men who once called each other brother, who spilled blood together and buried bodies in the desert. Best friends since we were kids, through thick and thin.
We were inducted into the club on the same night. Given our monikers and cuts together.
Silver and Cutty.
Prez and vice prez.
Now we’re practically strangers. Worse than strangers. We’re men who know too much about each other to ever be comfortable again.
Tom extends his hand, a slight smile playing at the corner of his mouth that never fully reaches his eyes.
“Jack… brother,” he says, gripping my hand. “Thanks for keeping my club warm for me.”
I match his grip pressure as we shake hands and look each other in the eye, pretending neither of us feels the tension simmering.
“No need to thank me,” I say. “Welcome back, Tom.”
“Heard you’ve been busy making big changes.”
“Doing what needed doing.”
“Sure you were,” he says, finally releasing my hand. His lips twitch in another almost-smile. “But I’m back now. Things’ll go back to how they should be.”
He steps past me, starting for the parking lot as if he’s in the driver’s seat. He’s the one picking us up, not the other way around.
Me, Logan, and Cash share looks, each of us a mirror for the other. Our expressions are tight, our minds set on the same thought.
Our prez is back, and he’s not about to waste time reclaiming his throne.
For better or worse.