Chapter 37
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— Holden —
T he run came up five weeks after Bea’s surprise visit.
High stakes—a delivery to a contact in Reno, through territory that had gotten dicey since the Martinez crew had expanded their reach. The kind of job that required careful planning, multiple contingencies, and absolute trust in your team.
The kind of job that had gotten Danny killed.
I stood in Dutch’s office at the clubhouse, maps spread out before me, routes marked in red and blue. I’d been over the plan a dozen times, checking and rechecking, looking for weaknesses, potential ambush points, anything that could go wrong.
“You’ve been staring at that map for an hour.”
I looked up to find Dutch leaning in the doorway, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
“Just being thorough.”
He walked over and stood beside me, studying the routes I’d marked. “This is good work. Solid planning. Multiple backup routes, check-in points, the whole nine.”
“But?”
Dutch was quiet for a moment. “You good for this? After Danny?”
The question hit me somewhere deep. A year ago, it would have triggered a spiral of guilt and self-doubt. Now, I could hear it for what it was—genuine concern from a brother who cared.
“I’m sure,” I said. “I’ll ask if I’m not.”
Dutch studied my face for a long moment, looking for cracks. Apparently he found none, because he nodded slowly.
“Good. That’s what I wanted to hear.” He clapped me on the shoulder. “Let’s go over the plan with the others.”
I did things differently this time.
Instead of trying to control every variable myself, I delegated. Gave Colt responsibility for scouting the route ahead. Put Handful in charge of communications. Trusted Glitch to have our digital backs, monitoring police channels and traffic patterns.
I took extra precautions—more check-in points, shorter intervals between them, a clear protocol for what to do if anything felt off. And I made sure everyone knew that if their gut told them something was wrong, they were to speak up. No silent following of orders.
“You’re different,” Colt observed as we geared up for the ride. “More… open. Less like you’re trying to carry the whole thing yourself.”
“Had to,” I said.
“Took you long enough.”
I almost smiled. “Yeah. It did.”
I took the first turn out of the compound and the road opened up and my shoulders locked.
I knew these roads. I’d planned them. I knew every turn, every juncture, every point where the sight lines narrowed.
I also knew exactly where Danny had been riding when it happened — my body knew before my mind caught up, a tightening in my chest, the hypervigilance pushing at the edges.
I breathed through it. Kept my hands steady.
Kept the formation tight. Let the road come.
The run went smoothly.
No ambush. No complications. Just a clean delivery, a clean exchange, and a night in Reno before the ride back.
Two days on the road, and nothing went wrong.
When we rolled back into the compound the next evening I sat on the bike for a moment after the engine cut — hands still on the grips, just breathing.
Feeling my own pulse settling back to something normal.
Relief without guilt.
The brothers headed inside to celebrate — beers and whiskey, and the noise of a job well done. A couple of the club girls had turned up for it, the way they always did after a clean run. I followed them in. Muscle memory. The automatic pull toward the bar, the release.
Handful was behind the counter pouring for the brothers.
When I got to him he didn’t reach for a bottle.
Just set a water down in front of me, already open, and kept pouring for the next man.
No pause. No look. He’d clocked it months ago — what I drink now — and folded it into the routine without making it a thing.
I picked it up and drank half of it standing there. “I’m heading out,” I said.
Handful glanced up. “Group tonight?”
“Every Tuesday.”
He nodded, wiped down the bar. “You need someone to go with you?”
“Dutch is coming.”
“Good.” Handful slid a beer to the next brother without looking. “We’ll save you some food. Might even be warm by the time you get back.” The grin was there — quick, easy — but underneath it was something steadier than people gave him credit for.
Walking back out felt heavy. More than I expected, after a run that had gone clean. Maybe because it had gone clean — the stress with nowhere to go. The bottle wasn’t calling — it hadn’t for a while — but the habit of reaching was still there, like a phantom limb.
The meeting was at the community center on Maple Street, same as always — folding chairs in a circle, bad coffee in the corner, Gillian already setting up.
Dutch took the chair next to mine. He didn’t say anything, just settled in and crossed his arms. He’d never been to group before.
I knew why he was here — partly to have my back, partly to make sure I didn’t say anything I shouldn’t after two days on the road with no sleep.
I didn’t mind. That’s what a president does.
“Would anyone like to share?” Gillian looked around the circle. Her eyes landed on me. “Holden?”
I took a breath.
“I went on a long ride this week. First one like that since Danny died.” I looked at my hands.
“Same kind of roads. Same distance. I’ve been avoiding it for over a year — letting other people take the lead, finding reasons not to be in that position again.
Because I was afraid I’d freeze up. Afraid someone else would get hurt. ”
The room was quiet.
“What changed?” Gillian asked.
“I couldn’t avoid it forever.” I paused. “So I did it differently. Trusted the people around me instead of trying to control every detail myself.”
“How did it go?”
“Fine. No problems. Everyone came home.” I met Gillian’s eyes. “And I came here after instead of the bar.”
I felt Dutch shift beside me. Not a word. Just a slight nod that I caught at the edge of my vision.
Dutch drove us back. The truck was quiet for a while. “You did good in there,” he said eventually. “Kept it vague enough.”
“Had a good babysitter.”
He almost smiled. “Somebody’s got to make sure you don’t start telling civilians about shipping routes.”
“I was tired, not stupid.”
“Tired and stupid are closer together than you think.” He glanced over. “I’m proud of you, brother. Two days on the road and you walked into a bar full of whiskey and walked right back out again.”
The words hit harder than I expected. “Still feels like I’m white-knuckling it sometimes.”
“That’ll pass.” He pulled into the compound and cut the engine. “You heading inside for food?”
“Nah. I’m dead on my feet.” I rubbed my face with both hands. “Going to Lindsay’s tomorrow to fix her fence.”
“I’ll send a couple of prospects to help.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I’m sending them.” Not a question. He drummed his thumb on the steering wheel once. “Get some sleep first. You look like shit.”
I laughed. “You were on the same ride, Dutch.”
“Yeah, but I look like this all the time.”
I opened the door and got out, then leaned back in. He was still sitting there, hands on the wheel, engine idling, not moving. “You coming inside?”
He shook his head. His mouth twitched — not quite a smile, but close. “Nah. Heading home. Indira wants to make a baby.”
I stared at him. He didn’t blink. “Get some sleep, Holden.”
He pulled out of the lot. I stood there for a minute in the cold, Dutch’s baby comment still landing, then went inside.