Page 54 of Priest

His mouth tightens, but he nods. “Tonight.”

I stop at the door, turning back once more. “No freelancing. No private justice. Dead Man’s Hand took a shot at one of mine, and they’ll answer for it. But they’ll answer when I know who opened the gate, and they’ll answer to us all, as a unit.”

Goddammit, someone opened the gate, and we need to find them now, before Dead Man’s Hand comes walking through it again.

It could be a prospect trying to earn his bones the wrong way. It could be a brother who’s grown sloppy. It could be a hanger-on who heard something they shouldn’t have and sold it cheap.

What I know is this:

Someone thought they could bleed us and walk away untouched.

They’re wrong.

18

Priest

Church empties slower than it filled.

The common room settles into a low hum as men push back from tables, voices muted and movements purposeful. No one’s lingering to bullshit. No one’s cracking jokes. Deacon’s laid up in a hospital bed, and every man in this building feels it like a pulled tooth.

I step out of Church and into the open space, rolling tension out of my shoulders as I go. The smell of oil, leather, and old wood hits me, familiar enough to ground me for half a second. This place breathes with the men who built it.

“Graves,” I call.

He looks up from where he’s moved near the bar, arms crossed, posture as solid as ever. “Yeah.”

“Deacon’s bike. What’s left of it. Get it hauled to the shop.” I pause, picturing the twisted metal, the wreckage, all the damage Deacon would read in one glance if he woke up and saw it like that. “I want it stripped, rebuilt, cleaned up. That’s the first damn thing he’s gonna ask about when he wakes up.”

Graves nods once. No questions. No commentary. Just acceptance. “Already handling it. Won’t look like it got dragged through hell.”

“It did,” I say quietly. “But he doesn’t need to see that part.”

Graves’s jaw tightens.

He understands.

I turn and catch Ink just as he’s pulling on his jacket, fingers already moving like his brain’s two steps ahead of the rest of him, reaching for his keys. “Ink. You’re with me to the hospital.”

His brow lifts. “Was planning on going anyway. Shop’s closed today.”

I nod.

Something sharp flickers behind his eyes. Concern, maybe. Or the same restless pressure chewing through all of us since Deacon went down.

The rest of the officers are already moving, filtering out with the quiet efficiency of men who don’t need micromanaging. “You all know what to do,” I say, not loud and not for effect.

It isn’t about bikes or schedules or keeping the bar running. It’s about eyes open. About listening harder than usual. About brothers watching brothers without letting on that they are.

No one asks questions.

They already know what we’re hunting, and they already know what happens when we find it.

Ink falls in beside me as we head toward the door, and that’s when Sadie steps into my path like she’s been waiting for the opening.

“Priest,” she says gently, eyes warm, hand resting low on her stomach. “You heading to see Deacon?”

“Yeah?”