Page 36 of Property of Booker

I track the SUV as it pulls away, watching the old ladies haul Elodie and little G home so they can unpack and find some peace from the long road trip back from West Texas. I salute them as they pass by earning a wave from each of them.

Rip kills the engine first, and the silence that follows is sudden and absolute. He swings his leg over the saddle but sits there for a beat, head bowed, before reaching for his helmet. Icer and Indiana hit their kill switches a second later. None of them look ready to rejoin the living world yet. They’re still lingering in the memory of the fresh earth they just moved when they placed Pokey in his final resting place. I walk across the lot to meet them as they dismount. Rip looks up, his eyes hollowed out with dark circles bruising the skin beneath them. He gives me a curt, stiff nod. “It’s done,” he rasps, his voice sounding like it’s been raked over gravel. “He’s in the ground.”

“Good,” I reply, the only word that feels right. I don’t offer hollow platitudes—they wouldn’t want them anyway. “You guys ready for what’s next?”

Rip finally pulls off his helmet and runs a hand through his matted hair. He looks toward the clubhouse, then shifts his gaze to the entrance of the underground levels of the cemetery that sits just below one of the tombstones. We all know we can’t keep prisoners there indefinitely. It’s a liability we can’t afford, a loose end that’s already beginning to fray.

“We need to settle this,” Rip orders. “Get the others together. We’re holding church.”

I nod and head toward the main entrance. Inside, the clubhouse is another world. It’s quiet, the air still clinging to the scent of stale beer and old cigarettes. I track down the brothers who didn’t go on the ride, passing the word. Within ten minutes, every seat at the table is filled. The tension in the room is thick enough to choke on. Every man knows why we’re here. We’ve spent months chasing the Dragons, dodging bullets, and fighting for every scrap of ground we hold. Jerome and Patrick are the architects of that misery. They are the reason we’re standing in this storm. Rip takes his place at the head of the table, Slayer sitting directly beside him. He doesn’t waste breath on rituals or business that can wait. He sits, places his hands flat on the scarred wood, and scans every face in the room.

“We buried Pokey,” he starts, his voice dropping into a low rumble. “We laid him to rest because of the rot that stole him from us. We’re all tired. We’re all hurting. But the workday isn’t finished.” He pauses, letting the weight of his words settle. “We have Jerome and Patrick in the catacombs. They’re waiting for us to decide their fate. They think they’re leverage. They think there’s a negotiation coming. They’re wrong, we don’t make deals with terrorists who’ve set their sites on our club.”

I lean against the wall, listening as my mind drifts to Kolter. I think about how he flinched at the oven door yesterday and the roadmap of bruises his own father carved into his skin. My hands ball into fists at my sides. I stay silent, waiting for Rip to say the words I already know are coming.

“Jerome has forfeited his right to breathe,” Rip continues, his voice devoid of emotion. “He isn’t just a traitor or an enemy. He’s a monster who did the unthinkable to his own blood. And Patrick was the hand that helped him do it.”

Icer shifts his weight, leaning into the dim light. Usually stoic, his features are set in a stone harsher than any I’ve ever seen. “We hashed this out on the ride,” he states, his voice cold. “Leaving them in that hole isn’t a strategy. Bringing in the law just hands them a map to our own secrets. We handle our own business. It’s the only way this ends.”

Indiana nods, his expression grim. “They need to disappear. Not just from here, but from the world. We can’t have them coming back, and we can’t have the Dragons rising from the ashes like they’re damn phoenixes. The catacombs are a start, but a grave is the only permanent solution.”

“I agree,” I declare, my voice steady despite the rage. “Jerome destroyed his own son. He tried to kill the spirit of a child. If we let him live, we’re saying that’s acceptable. We’re saying the club doesn’t care. I can’t live with that.” I don’t have to bring up Kendall, we all know the sacrifices she had to make and the beatings she suffered from at Jerome’s hands, but only a select few of us saw Kolter once he was rescued and know the shape he was in.

Rip looks at me, searching my face. He sees the clarity behind the anger. “You’ve seen the boy, Booker. You know what he’s suffered.”

“I’ve seen him,” I confirm. “And I’m telling you, Jerome needs to be removed from the equation. Permanently.”

The table goes silent. This isn’t a vote anymore—it’s a consensus. We're not talking club justice, we’re talking about an execution. It’s the kind of act that stains the soul, even for the right reasons. But looking at my brothers, I don’t see hesitation. I see grief and exhaustion, but mostly the grim determination of men who are done being hunted.

“It’s settled,” Rip declares. He isn’t gloating, he’s just stating a fact. “We do it tonight. We take them to the back cell of the crypt where the drain is so we can wash their filth down it. Use the incinerator in the ossuary to make sure there’s nothing left. I want it done clean, and I want it done fast.”

The air in the catacombs tastes like rusted iron and wet earth. It feels like a tomb before the killing even begins. I lead the way, hand gripping the cold steel of my piece. Icer and Indiana fall in behind me, their heavy boots thudding against the uneven stone steps. Shadows stretch and reach out as we pass, the flickering LED of my light barely slicing through the gloom. We reach the holding cell. Jerome is awake, propped against the damp wall, tracking us like a predator. He isn’t surprised; he’s been waiting. Beside him, Patrick is a shivering mess, face buried in his knees, shoulders heaving with sobs.

“Has the clock finally run out, Booker?” Jerome taunts, his voice scraping against the silence. “Come to see if you’re actually ready to get your hands dirty? You’re trembling, man. I don’t think you have the stomach for this.”

I stop in front of the bars. “Shut your mouth, Jerome.”

“Or what?” he laughs, the sound grating on my nerves. “You’ll kill me? Good. Do it. At least I won’t have to look at your pathetic face. You play at being kings, but you’re just small men in a miserable hole. You’re nothing more than court jesters. You think you’re better than me? I built the Dragons while you were playing dress-up with your pathetic patches. I took what I wanted while you all buried your heads in the sand. You’re just a dog, Booker, waiting for Rip to tell you when to bite.”

Patrick looks up, face slick with snot and tears. “Please,” he wails, his voice high and frantic. “I didn’t know! I just did what he said! I’m not a killer like him!”

“You’re a coward,” Icer grunts. He reaches in, grabs Patrick by the shirt, and yanks him toward the gate.

Patrick starts screaming, a shrill, unending sound. He claws at the stone floor. “No! I’m sorry! I’ll leave! I’ll never come back, I swear!”

“You don’t have a life anymore,” Jerome sneers, watching his partner scramble like a wounded animal. “You’re weak, Patrick. That’s why I kept you around. You were easy to break.”

I grab the keys from the hook on the wall and unlock the gate. Icer drags Patrick out, tossing him onto the cold stone like a sack of trash. The man curls into a ball, shaking too hard to breathe. Jerome stands on his own, arrogance still plastered on his features even as his eyes go wide. He knows there’s no way out, but he refuses to let us see him break. “Is this the big finish?” Jerome taunts, stepping out with his chest puffed. “Drag me to a room with a drain? How poetic. Just like the rat you are.”

I don’t waste my breath on him. I motion for Indiana to handle Patrick, who’s still blubbering, calling out names of people I don’t know. It’s the pathetic sound of a man with no soul left to save. I raise my gun, aiming directly at Jerome’s chest. He doesn’t blink. He stares down the barrel, lip curling. “Do it. You’ll still be the same pathetic man tomorrow, Booker. You need a leader because you can’t stand on your own feet. You think this cleans your hands? It just stains them deeper.”

I refuse to give his taunts the satisfaction of a reply. Instead, I let my weapon do the talking. The gunshot is a violent roar in the small chamber, vibrating through the tomb's foundations. The round catches him center mass, the impact throwing him hard against the stone. He slumps, leaving a crimson streak on the rock as he slides into a broken pile. His eyes stay wide and empty, that arrogant sneer etched into his features even as the life drains out of him. “I might spend my days at a desk,” I mutter, my voice cold and final, “but I don’t need a permission slip to put down a dog that only knows how to give others rabies.” Rip’s hand settles on my shoulder, a heavy, silent acknowledgement that he approves of me taking matters into my own hands instead of waiting for him to give the word to end it.

The shrill, unending cries from Patrick suddenly cut off, replaced by a sickening, wet rattle. Indiana lunges, his movement a blur as he connects with a savage kick that jars the man’s skull against the unforgiving stone. Patrick’s frame collapses, a final, violent tremor racking his limbs before he settles into an unresponsive heap of skin and bones. Life hasn’t left him yet, but he’s completely unconscious. A dark, humorless chuckle escapes my throat at the realization that we’re about to turn him into ash—the bastard earned a much more agonizing exit than this. I feel a twinge of regret for not prolonging Jerome’s suffering, but there’s no reversing the clock on his fate now, so I simply offer a small shrug and accept that this will have to be enough.

As a unit, we drag the assholes through the tunnels to the incinerator at the back of the mausoleum. It’s a hulking beast of iron and steel built into the wall. I pull the thick latch, the iron screaming as it swings. The heat inside is immense, a blast of furnace-dry air that makes my eyes sting.

“Get them in,” Rip tells Icer and Indiana.