Chapter 9
I wake to the sound of nothing.
No boots on the stairs. No voices through the walls. No engine rumble from the lot. Just silence—heavy and wrong, like the compound's holding its breath.
Gray light bleeds through dirty blinds, cutting stripes across the concrete floor. The steel bed frame creaks when I shift, the metal protesting under my weight.
The canvas bag sits on the floor beside my duffel. Twenty-five thousand dollars. I stare at it from the bed, one arm behind my head, breathing shallow in the quiet.
Got you tomorrow.
I sit up slow, my feet hittin’ the cold floor.
The shock of it travels up through my bones, waking me fully.
I dress in jeans and a t-shirt. Then I pull the Glock 19 from under my pillow.
The grip fits my palm like it was molded there.
I check the magazine—fifteen rounds staring back at me, then chamber a round with a metallic click that echoes in the small room.
The sound is honest.
I tuck the gun in my waistband at the small of my back, under where my cut will hang so it won't print. Hidden but accessible. I've carried it this way a thousand times, but today feels like all of those moments collapsed into one.
I shoulder into my cut. Enjoying the way the leather settles across my shoulders, weight distributed the way it's supposed to be. The Badlands patch is visible in the mirror beside my bed—skull wrapped in barbed wire, rising from cracked earth. My demon name stitched below it in white thread.
I sigh, then look away from my reflection. Don't need to see what I already know.
Then I pick up the money bag. Loop the drawstring around my wrist. It's a prop. Theatre. Something to carry so my hands look occupied, so they think I'm playing along.
I'm not paying the fine.
I leave my room.
The door closes behind me with a soft click.
I walk down the hallway, then the stairs, then outside.
The compound spreads out before me, the morning sun already hot.
With every step, the dust rises, coating my boots in fine powder as I take in the nomad bikes all lined up in formation near the church entrance.
Brandy follows me out, plants herself on the porch, and leans against a railing with a phone against her ear. Spyin’ on me, I guess. Not even tryin’ to hide it.
I don't acknowledge her. Don't even let my eyes linger. She's a Fed, or she's handling Brick, or she's both, and none of it matters because in ten minutes she'll be irrelevant.
I notice other details as I walk.
No prospects. No hangarounds. The usual morning traffic of women, and workers, and members grabbing breakfast—nothin’. The compound feels emptied out in a deliberate way.
I reach the heavy steel church door, pausing at the threshold.
I take one breath. Hold it. Let it out slow.
This is instinct now. No plan. No speech rehearsed. Just action. Pure and simple.
The way it's always been with me.
I step inside.
The room comes into focus in one sweep.
Brick at the head table, center position.
Gray beard. Cold eyes downcast, looking at the papers spread in front of him like he's conducting legitimate business.
Roach to his left—twitchy hands already drumming on the table.
Ledger to his right, glasses reflecting fluorescent light, calculator face giving nothing away.
Officers flanking. Patched members in their seats arranged in rows. Everybody’s early, it seems.
Weird.
But I’m beyond carin’.
The nomads are grouped at the back. Standing. Hands in their pocket’s or crossed in front of their chests, like they belong here.
Like they own the place. Because they do. Have for two years now, according to Diesel.
Brick looks up from his papers. Eyes lock on mine. Expression unreadable—not surprised, not angry, not pleased. Just waiting. Calculating.
"Right on time," he says. Voice casual but eyes sharp. "Got something for me, Demon?"
I walk forward. Slow. Deliberate. The money bag swings slightly in my left hand with each step.
Men turn to watch me pass. I notice positions without looking directly at anyone.
Diesel sittin’ next to Ledger at the front. Havoc in the middle of all the other patched members. His eyes track me, but his face is blank. Chains and Ratchet are together on the left.
I reach the table, five feet from Brick. Close enough to see the gray threadin’ through his beard and the calculation in his eyes. His fingers rest flat on the papers, all casual and controlled like this isn’t a fuckin’ set up to ruin my life.
I set the bag down on the scarred wood. Don't let go of it yet, just let it rest there between us.
Brick reaches for it.
My right hand moves to my back. Smooth. Practiced. No hesitation. No thought between intention and action. I find the grip, my fingers closin’ around it, and I pull the gun out in one fluid motion.
I draw, raise, extend, sight, breathe.
Then I shoot Brick between the eyes. Point-blank range. Maybe four feet. Can't miss at this distance even if I wanted to.
The sound is massive in the enclosed space. A deafening crack that punches through my eardrums and keeps echoing, bouncing off the cinderblock walls.
Brick's body snaps backward. His head whipping back so hard, I hear vertebrae crack. There’s a small entry wound—just a dark hole punched through his forehead, almost neat.
The back is another matter altogether. Skull fragments.
Brain bits. Blood spray painting the memorial photos on the wall behind him.
Then he drops. Just collapses like someone cut his strings. His chair goes over backward, his body hits the concrete, and… that’s it.
Over.
The room freezes.
Total silence except for my ears ringing. Half a second that stretches into eternity. Every man stunned into stillness, their hands frozen mid-gesture, their mouths open and eyes wide. Cigarettes burn between fingers, forgotten.
Nobody breathes.
I pivot. Gun already tracking. My body moving on autopilot. I find the nearest nomad. The one with the shaved head and tribal tattoos snaking up his neck. He's reaching for his weapon. Too slow. Way too slow.
I fire. Center mass. Double tap. Two rounds punched through his white T-shirt before he clears leather. Red blooms across the cotton like flowers opening. He staggers backward, his mouth workin’ like a fish as he tries to breathe through punctured lungs. Then he goes down with a crash.
Chaos erupts. Everyone moves at once. Chairs scrape against the floor, shouts are overlapping—warnings, curses, names being screamed. The unmistakable sound of weapons being drawn from leather, slides racking, safeties clicking off.
Men look around wildly.
Guns out but nobody knows who to aim at. We're all wearing the same patch. Same cuts. Same colors. Same fucking brotherhood that Brick sold to the Feds two years ago.
Confusion in every face.
Which is exactly what I need.
I find the second nomad—the one with the goatee and the custom leather gloves. He's faster than the first. Gun already out. Raising it. Finger on the trigger.
I shoot him in the head. Clean shot. Top of the skull. He drops before his gun finishes its arc upward. His body crumples as skull fragments scatter across concrete like shrapnel.
A gunshot explodes up front.
I turn. Diesel.
He's standing, gun drawn, face set in that expression I've seen before—the one that says he made his choice before walking in this room.
Takes down the third nomad before anyone processes what's happening.
Chest shot. Dead center. The nomad spins from the impact.
Falls across a chair. Doesn't get back up.
Another shot—Havoc.
Standing now. Braced against his chair. Fourth nomad drops. Throat shot. Blood sprays in an arterial arc across two rows of seats. Choking sounds. Hands clawing at his neck as he goes down, trying to hold his life inside and failing.
Chains and Ratchet open up simultaneously.
Synchronized like they planned it. Like they talked about this. Like they knew.
Someone tries to run for the exit. Big mistake. It’s a younger guy, younger than me, who doesn’t live here. Only came in for the vote.
Probably another fuckin’ Fed. He makes it three steps before taking a bullet in the shoulder from Chains. It spins him around, then he takes another from Ratchet, it spins him back.
Time is movin’ in fragments now.
Diesel shooting. Havoc shooting. Chains and Ratchet. Nobody hesitating. My people knew. They were ready. They made this choice before the door even opened.
All the rats drop in seconds.
The room goes quiet again. Just for a heartbeat. Just long enough for everyone to realize what just happened. Heavy breathing. Gunsmoke hanging thick in fluorescent light. The chemical taste of burnt powder coating my tongue.
Then Ledger moves.
His chair crashes backward and then he's on his feet, aimin’ at me. His finger’s on the trigger and his face is twistin’ with rage, or fear, or calculation—can't tell which.
Diesel shoots him before he can fire.
Ledger's shoulder explodes. Red mist. Bone fragments. He spins from the impact, gun dropping from nerveless fingers. Goes to his knees. Mouth open. Eyes wide and shocked like he can't believe his own brother just shot him.
"Diesel—" he starts.
Nobody lets him finish.
Roach lunges for cover behind the overturned table.
Scrambling. Desperate. He reaches for a gun on the floor—Brick's gun, dropped when he fell. His fingers are stretching for it when Chains shoots him from the side.
Back of the head. Clean shot. No drama. Roach goes limp mid-reach. Body settling against the table leg like he's just resting. Blood pools under his cheek.
Club members start choosin’ sides in real time.
Some dive behind overturned chairs. Some freeze completely, caught between loyalty and survival. Some raise weapons and fire. The room divides along invisible lines everyone suddenly understands—Brick's people versus Legion's people. Traitors versus loyal. Feds versus Badlands.
The real Badlands.