Chapter 9 #3
"Unknown," I say before Trigger can elaborate. The word comes out too fast, too sharp. I force myself to slow down, sound casual. "Could be Lattimer's crew using it as a waystation. Could be runners from one of the smaller independents. The place was clean."
Capone's eyes slide to me. The weight of that gaze is physical. I can feel it pressing against my chest, my throat, searching for the lie I'm hiding.
"Clean," he repeats. Not a question. A test.
"Empty," I correct, adjusting my story in real-time. "No product. No personnel. Just tracks and evidence of recent occupation."
"What about markings?" Blayze asks, stepping down from the porch. His voice is casual, but his eyes are sharp. "Territory tags? Any indicators of which crew was using it?"
My throat tightens. Dagger shifts his weight beside me—barely noticeable, a half-inch movement, but I feel it like an earthquake. He knows. He fucking knows I'm about to lie.
"Generic," I answer. "Spray paint. Gang tags. Nothing identifiable to a specific crew. Could be anyone marking new territory." The lie hangs between us. Visible. Wrong.
Capone takes a long drag, smoke curling through his exhale. His gaze doesn't leave mine. Doesn't even blink.
"Generic," he echoes, voice flat as a blade.
"Yeah."
I force myself not to look away. Not to flex my right hand, even though the scar is screaming. Not to do anything that screams liar in neon letters across my forehead.
The silence stretches. Every second feels like an hour. Somewhere behind me, a bike engine ticks as it cools. Peanut meows from the porch. A crow caws in the distance.
Normal sounds. Normal world. But nothing feels normal.
Finally, Capone’s head nods once, slow and deliberate. "Red," he says, still watching me, "run imaging on the area. I want satellite sweeps from the last seventy-two hours. Cross-reference with known movements from Lattimer's crew and any independents operating south of the city."
"Copy," Red murmurs, already typing.
"Trigger, log the coordinates. Add it to the patrol rotation. I want eyes on that location every forty-eight hours."
"Yes, Prez."
"Blayze, reach out to our contacts south, Iron Disciples, Los Demons, anyone who might have heard chatter about a new crew moving through that territory."
"On it," Blayze says.
Torch mutters, “Guess we’re not getting our beach day after all.”
Capone smirks faintly. “Welcome to paradise.”
The tension eases for half a second. A low laugh fills the air, the scrape of boots on gravel. The small things that keep you from falling apart.
Capone flicks his cigarette into the dirt and grinds it under his boot. The ember dies in a small puff of ash. "Tiny. Garage. Now."
Fuck.
The other brothers disperse. Trigger to his office, Red to the tech room, Blayze to his phone.
They move with the practiced efficiency of men who've done this dance a hundred times.
Only Dagger hesitates. He catches my eye for half a second, long enough to communicate everything he's not saying out loud.
I know you're lying. I don't know why. But when this blows up, don't say I didn't see it coming.
Then he's gone, and it's just me and Capone and the weight of every lie I've ever told.
The garage smells like oil and regret. Capone shuts the door behind us, and the click of the latch sounds like a cell door closing. Final. Absolute.
He doesn't speak immediately. Just leans against the workbench, arms crossed, and watches me. Waiting. Patient as a hunter in a blind.
I move to the sink, grab a rag, and start wiping my hands even though they're already clean. Anything to avoid his eyes. Anything to keep my hands busy so they don't shake.
The water runs cold over my knuckles. I scrub once, twice, three times. The rag turns gray with road dust and soot, but my hands still feel dirty. Still feel stained with something that won't wash off.
I stare at the stains between my fingers, at the small scar running across my palm from a Hellhounds initiation I was too young to understand. That part of me is supposed to be gone. But it’s still there.
The scar across my palm throbs in time with my pulse.
"You're lying to me," Capone says finally.
My hands still. Water drips from my fingers, pattering against the metal sink. "No, I…"
"Don't." His voice is quiet, but it cuts like wire through bone.
"I've known you five years, Tiny. I know when you're hiding something.
I know your tells. You flex your right hand when you're nervous.
You avoid eye contact when you're not sure of your answer.
And you clean your hands when you feel guilty. "
I set the rag down, turning off the water. I turn to face him, because not facing him now would be admitting everything.
"Prez."
"Whatever it is," he interrupts, "it stays in this room.
Between brothers. But I need to know if this thing is going to blow back on us.
" He pushes off the workbench, takes two steps closer.
Not threatening. Just closing distance. Making sure I can't hide behind space.
"I need to know if you're protecting someone outside this club.
Because if you are, you're putting everyone inside at risk. "
This is the moment. The last exit before the highway becomes a cliff. I could tell him everything. About Creed, about the Hellhounds, about the fact that Lattimer isn't just hiring muscle, he's hiring my ghosts. My past. The monsters I thought I'd left bleeding in the desert six years ago.
But if I do, Capone will pull me off runs. Bench me. Maybe even question my patch, wonder if the Hound in my history is still breathing in my present.
And if I'm not out there, I can't protect them from what's coming. So I lie. Again.
"The tags were generic," I say, meeting his eyes, forcing steadiness into my voice. "But if Lattimer's moving through that territory, consolidating, it means he's building something bigger than we thought. Bigger than shipment hits. He's establishing infrastructure. Waypoints. Supply lines."
It's not a lie, exactly. Just not the whole truth. Capone studies me. I can see him weighing it, trust versus instinct. Faith versus experience. The silence stretches until it's a living thing between us, breathing and hungry.
"If you're protecting someone," he says slowly, each word deliberate, "you're putting everyone else at risk. You understand that?"
"I'm not protecting anyone," I say. "I'm protecting us. I'm protecting this club from a threat I don't fully understand yet. And when I do understand it, when I have all the pieces, I'll bring it to Church. I swear."
Another long silence.
Capone's jaw works. Once. Twice. He's chewing on something. Anger, maybe, or disappointment. Hard to tell which would hurt worse. Then he nods. Slow. Reluctant. "Alright. But Tiny."
"Yeah?"
"Whatever ghost you've got riding shotgun," he says, voice dropping lower, "you either bury it or bring it to Church. Because when it catches up, and it will catch up, I need to know my Road Captain's head is clear. I need to know you'll put the club first."
"It is," I lie one more time. "Always."
He doesn't look convinced. But he lets it go. For now.
"Get some rest," he says, moving to the door. "Tomorrow we start mapping Lattimer's network. If he's building infrastructure, we burn it down before it's finished."
"Yes, Prez."
He pauses at the door, hand on the knob, and looks back over his shoulder. "Tiny. You've earned your place here. Earned your patch. Earned my trust. Don't make me question any of those things."
The words land like bullets. Clean. Precise. Devastating.
"I won't," I say.
He holds my gaze for one more heartbeat, then leaves. The door swings shut behind him with a soft click that sounds like judgment.
After Capone leaves, I turn the faucet back on and let the water run over my hands. The scar across my right palm is raised, angry red, and hot to the touch. I press my thumb against it, hard enough to hurt. The pain grounds me, pulling me back from the edge of wherever my mind is trying to go.
This is the scar from my first Hellhound mark. The blood oath. The moment Creed cut my palm, mixed my blood with his, and said, "You're one of us now. Family. Forever."
I was seventeen. Stupid. Desperate to belong to something, anything, after years of foster homes that taught me I was disposable.
Now I'm thirty-two. Still stupid. Still desperate. But the family I'm protecting this time actually deserves it.
I dry my hands and pull off my cut. Hanging it carefully on the hook by the door. The Royal Bastards MC, Road Captain patch gleaming even in the dim light of the single bulb overhead. Then I peel off my shirt, the fabric sticking to sweat-slicked skin.
In the cracked mirror above the workbench sink, I can see it. The cover-up tattoo on my left shoulder blade.
It used to be a Hellhound skull. Black and red. Creed did it himself after my first year in the club, and said it made me official. Marked me as property. As a pack.
When I joined the Royal Bastards, I had it covered. Blayze took me to his guy and didn’t ask questions when I said I wanted it gone. Just made the appointment and drove me there himself.
Now it's a phoenix rising from flames. New life from ash. Redemption inked into skin. Beautiful. Symbolic. Meaningful.
But in the right light, if you look close enough, you can still see the outline of the skull underneath. The shadow of what I was bleeding through what I'm trying to be.
I trace the edge of the phoenix with one finger.
Feel the raised scar tissue where the original ink sits, buried but not gone.
Covered but not erased. You can cover the past. You can paint over it, build on top of it, pretend it doesn't exist. But you can't erase it, and sooner or later, it bleeds through.
Marked and bound, Creed's voice echoes in my head. Forever.