— Holden —
The 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.
