Page 8 of Joker

Whatever the hell that means.

By the time I hit my room again, the irritation has burned down into something sharper and cleaner. Curiosity. Readiness.That quiet click in my head that happens when a job moves from abstract to real.

I set the mug on the dresser and grab what I need. Wallet. Knife. Phone. Charger. Extra mag. Hoodie. Boots.

I toss a duffel onto the bed mostly out of habit, though I have no idea if I’ll need it. If they’re sending me with a truck, whatever I’m bringing back might need more room than I think. I throw in a couple changes of clothes just in case and zip it shut. On my way back out, I pause long enough to grab the old pair of sunglasses off the shelf by the door and jam them in my pocket.

Blaze is waiting in the lot when I step outside, leaning against the truck with a paper sack in one hand and a coffee in the other. The truck itself is one of the club’s quieter workhorses, dark, clean enough not to draw attention, big enough to haul whatever needs hauling without looking too polished. Smart choice.

Blaze holds up the sack. “Told you. Snacks.”

I take it from him and look inside. Beef jerky. Chips. Two candy bars. Aspirin. “You packed this like a divorced dad.”

He looks offended. “That is premium travel planning.”

“It’s junk.”

“It’s useful junk.”

That part is true, so I toss it onto the passenger seat. He hands over the coffee next, and I take that too.

“You know anything I don’t?” I ask.

Blaze hooks his thumbs in his pockets. “Not much.”

That’s not a no.

I study him. “Meaning?”

“Meaning Logan told me enough to know you need to keep your head on straight and do exactly what he said.”

“So we’re back to threats.”

“Not threats. Advice.”

“From you?”

He grins. “I know. Strange times.”

I shake my head and open the driver’s side door. Before I climb in, Blaze sobers just enough to say, “Seriously, though. Don’t freelance this one.”

I pause with one hand on the frame and look at him over the roof. “You say that like I freelance for fun.”

He gives me a flat look. “You absolutely do.”

He’s not wrong, and we both know it.

I get in, toss the file onto the seat, and shut the door. The engine turns over smooth when I start it, the low rumble settling under my boots. For a second I just sit there with my hands on the wheel, letting the truck idle while the morning light stretches across the lot.

Shadow steps out onto the clubhouse porch as I’m pulling away. He lifts one hand in a lazy salute that could mean good luck or don’t die or go fuck yourself. With him, it’s usually some combination of all three. I return the gesture with less politeness and roll toward the gate.

The road out of Bartsville is familiar enough I could drive it blind, though I don’t because I enjoy living and Logan would probably dig me up just to kill me again if I wrecked the truck before I hit county line. The first part of the ride passes in a blur of trees, open stretches of road, and the last of the morning haze burning off under a climbing sun.

I stop for gas twenty minutes out, top off the tank, grab another coffee that tastes like regret, and get back on the road without lingering. Logan’s route keeps me off the more obvious cuts, steering me through a path that adds a little time but probably shaves off the chance of being remembered. Fine by me.

Once the miles start stacking up, my head goes where it always goes on long rides. Not to anything sentimental. Not really. Just the steady roll of possibilities, instinct poking at the edges of what doesn’t fit.

If this is a person, why all the secrecy?