Chapter 8 JC
JC
Isit in a cramped interview room, wrists cuffed to the cold metal table.
My shoulders ache from being shoved into the back of a squad car, from the long wait in holding, from the sharp, sour taste of betrayal still coating my tongue.
The local cops hover in the halls, annoyed and useless, pushed aside by the ATF, who have swept in like they own the damn county.
I don’t know where Wrecker or Blade are. Last I saw, they were dragged off in different directions, faces blank, eyes refusing to meet mine as we were herded through booking. The ATF made sure to separate us, like they think distance is enough to break what we’ve built. They don’t know us at all.
The room stinks of stale coffee and ammonia. The agent across from me has a stack of papers, a laptop, and that smug, relentless patience only someone with a federal badge can carry. He keeps cycling through the same questions, his tone calm and rehearsed.
“We know you’re not the top guy, Mr. Calhoun. Help yourself out here. Where is Jinn?”
I stare back at him, blank as stone. He waits, leans in a little, hoping I’ll break. I let the silence stretch until he shifts in his seat.
“You and your crew took delivery today,” he tries again. “We’ve got all the evidence we need on that. But you can make this easier if you give us your president. Where is James Parker?”
I say nothing. I’m not giving them Jinn, not for free—not after what he’s done, not after the way he cut us loose and let us take the fall. If they want him, they can hunt him like we had to hunt for answers all this time.
The agent sighs, clicks his pen, and slides a photo across the table. “Who’s this?” It’s a grainy shot of Carrie, hair a mess, eyes wide, caught somewhere between a smile and a flinch.
I don’t flinch. “Never seen her,” I lie, voice flat. “You got the wrong girl.”
He knows I’m lying, but I don’t care. I’m done helping strangers tear apart what’s left of my world. The questions keep coming—about weapons, about routes, about the cash Jinn walked off with—but my answers are all the same.
Nothing. I can outlast them. All I have left is silence, and I hold it like a shield, hoping the others are doing the same.
Outside the window, I hear the grind of patrol cars and the muffled sound of a tired town coming apart at the seams. I sit as still as I can, jaw clenched, staring at the scratches in the table. I have nothing left to say.
“Listen, you’re looking at federal time. This isn’t a county jail slap on the wrist, you get that? You’re going away for decades unless you help yourself. You want to protect your friends? Tell us where Jinn is, and maybe we can talk about a deal.”
I give him nothing, just ask for my phone call.
The lead agent sighs like he’s disappointed, like he expected more from me. “Fine. You get one. Make it quick.”
He unlocks one wrist, shoves a phone across the table. I dial Wilson Decker’s number from memory. The lawyer answers after two rings.
“It’s Jace,” I say, voice gravelly with exhaustion. “Decker, I don’t know if you’ve heard or not…”
Wilson Decker has been the club’s attorney for years—a silver-haired pitbull who’s pulled us out of more fires than I can count. He’s seen everything, defended worse, and always tells us the truth, whether we want to hear it or not.
I clear my throat, unsure where to even start. “There was a deal and it—”
He cuts me off, voice calm but urgent. “Say no more, Jace. Don’t talk details on the phone. I’ll be right there. Sit tight and keep your mouth shut until I walk in.”
The line clicks dead. I close my eyes for a second, some thin thread of hope winding through the mess. Decker’s coming. Maybe that means all is not yet lost.
They move me from the interview room to a bench out front, cuffs biting into my wrists.
The waiting area is grim—old tile, flickering lights, the sour smell of too much bleach.
I try to catch the attention of one of the local cops walking by, ask if they’ve seen Levi or Nico, but he just shrugs me off without meeting my eye.
The station is busy now, people moving with purpose, ATF agents talking into radios, shuffling paperwork, the whole place humming with tension. Every so often I catch a familiar patch or voice, but no sign of my brothers.
After what feels like hours, I spot Decker striding through the doors, briefcase in one hand, coat already folded over his arm. He stops in front of me, gaze steady and calm, and nods for the agents to give us some space. When we finally get a sliver of privacy, he sits beside me on the bench.
“Decker, thank God you’re here,” I say. “I haven’t been able to get in touch with Levi and Nico.”
“They’re keeping you apart from the others for a reason,” he says quietly. “They want to wear you down, get you to talk. They’ll try the same with Levi and Nico.”
I swallow, shoulders stiff with frustration and worry. “Have you seen them?”
“Not yet. They’re being processed. But you need to keep your head, Jace. They want you separated so you start to feel alone.”
I nod, jaw tight. The words feel heavy on my tongue but I make myself say them. “Jinn’s gone, Decker. He took off with the money from the operation. Set us up and ran.”
Decker doesn’t look surprised. He lets out a long breath, then leans in a little closer. “That’s what I figured. But you did right, calling me. Don’t say anything to anyone else, not until I see what evidence they really have and talk to the other two. I’ll do what I can.”
He fixes me with that steady look of his, all business. “Jace, I need you to be straight with me. Tell me exactly what went down. Leave nothing out.”
I take a breath, feeling the weight of every detail, then speak low and even.
“We got word from Jinn last week about a transport job. Out-of-town buyers wanted guns moved across state lines. He said he’d set up the meet, handled all the talking. All Levi, Nico, and I were supposed to do was show up, drive, and keep things looking smooth.”
I shift, cuffs rattling against the bench. “Then he tells us he’s running late, to go without him. Buyers wanted us to take more crates than we’d agreed to—six, not two. The whole thing felt off. But Jinn told us to handle it, so we tried to play along, stall them until he showed.”
I glance down, jaw clenched. “Didn’t matter. ATF hit the lot just as we were loading. Agents everywhere, guns out, shouting. Buyers tried to run, we tried to get out, but they boxed us in. Next thing I know, I’m in cuffs.”
Decker’s eyes don’t leave mine. “And Jinn?”
“Disappeared. Took the money, never showed at the meet. We’re the ones left holding the bag.”
Decker lowers his voice, glancing around to be sure no one is listening in. “Jinn couldn’t have pulled this off alone. What about that girl—the fat girl he was seeing?”
The old anger flares in my chest. I bite it back, steadying myself before I answer. “Carrie isn’t part of this. She didn’t know anything about the deal. She’s not mixed up in Jinn’s mess.”
He watches me, searching for any doubt. “Are you sure about that? Sometimes people surprise you, especially when they’re desperate or scared. If she knew anything, even by accident, she could be a link. Or a liability.”
My fists clench in my lap, cuffs biting at my wrists. I want to defend her, to say she’s the last person who’d help Jinn burn the club. But doubt crawls up my spine—she did run, after all, and no one’s seen her since.
“I’m sure,” I say anyway, holding Decker’s gaze. “Carrie’s not involved. If she was, I’d know.”
Decker lets it hang there, not agreeing, not disagreeing. “Alright. I’ll look into her anyway. It’s my job to cover every angle.” He stands, fixing his coat, already moving on to the next problem. I’m left with nothing but my own words and the hope I’m right.