Page 23 of Property of Whiskey

“That Wren’s safe.”

“That ain’t what she wants to hear.”

“Then she can hang up.”

Holler drags his thumb through a smear of gravy on his plate, staring at it like the answer might be hiding there. “She ain’t gonna quit.”

“Neither am I.”

He looks ready to keep arguing, but Legend steps through the doorway before he gets the chance.

Every man still breathing inside the bar straightens. At least a little. The prospect beneath the stairs even opens one eye before apparently deciding consciousness ain’t worth the effort.

Legend wears his cut over a black thermal shirt, beard trimmed and eyes already mean. He doesn’t have to raise his voice to quiet a room. Being Prez handles that.

“Church.”

Holler looks mournfully at his breakfast. “Now?”

Legend doesn’t answer.

Holler shoves half a biscuit into his mouth and stands.

I finish the bourbon in one gulp.

The bunny watches from the far end of the bar as I leave the glass where it sits and follow the brothers into the back.

Church is held in what used to be the county arrest-records room. The Kings ripped out most of the filing cabinets years ago, but the concrete walls and barred window stayed. Now club maps, old photographs, and a framed list of brothers who ain’t coming back cover the walls.

The room carries that faint damp stink every building this old seems to have no matter how much money gets dumped into it.

Legend takes the chair at the head of the scarred table. Royal drops into the seat on his right looking irritated with the world, drags it back with one boot, and settles in like somebody woke him before he finished being an asshole for the night. Oaks takes the other side. Rye, our sergeant-at-arms, takes the chair nearest the door because the bastard likes seeing everybody who comes and goes. Derby pauses near the barred window before sitting under it. Bullet claims a chair across from me, stretches his legs beneath the table, and takes a pull from a vape even though Legend has told the bastard twice not to smoke that fruity shit during church.

He even got out a Sharpie and made it official, scribbling ONLY REAL SMOKES ALLOWED along the edge of the worn table. Holler drops beside me and starts picking biscuit crumbs from his beard.

Vandal comes in with the last of the patched brothers and takes the chair nearest the back wall. Tail gunner. Man spends enough miles watching everybody’s six that he looks wrong anywhere but the rear. Prospects stay outside unless Prez calls one in.

Then the door closes.

Legend looks around. “What’ve you got?”

“Not much,” somebody says through a yawn.

Royal leans back. “That why we’re here before breakfast?”

“You’re up.”

“Barely.”

“I forget you’re allergic to sunlight?” Legend gives him a look.

Royal shuts up.

I open the folder slid in front of me. There’s one photograph inside.

Kaylee Quill.

Nineteen years old. Brown hair. Green eyes. Missing six days.