Page 69 of Priest

Because if Joker thinks he’s winning, he won’t come himself.

If he doesn’t come himself, maybe she still has room to choose who survives.

Sadie rests her hand on her stomach again, slower this time.

“I’m doing this for us,” she murmurs.

The lie settles easy.

That’s how she knows it’s already dangerous.

23

Priest

Church starts before I say a word.

It starts when the door closes and the clubhouse noise falls away behind us. It starts in the scrape of chairs, in the quieting of men who know this room doesn’t care about ego, temper, or excuses. Tonight, it starts with the patch burned into the center of the table and the empty chair where Deacon should be.

I don’t need to make it bigger than that.

The room already knows.

I let my gaze move over my brothers before I sit, not to check where they are or how they’ve settled in, but to remind myself who they are when one of us is missing. Graves would take the hit before he let anyone behind him bleed. Nomad has the road running behind his eyes, quiet as ever, but I know he misses Deacon in the way he handles most things that matter. Ledger keeps his numbers and patterns tucked behind a face that gives nothing away, while Rook holds still with the kind of patience that makes violence look disciplined instead of hungry.

Ink watches everything beside me, grief folded down so tight it looks like focus. Ghost isn’t here in body yet, but his voice waits on the speaker, still digging through shadows the rest of us can’t reach. Any one of these men would lay down his life for the man beside him, and none of them would make a speech about loyalty before doing it.

And Deacon’s chair still being empty has us all wanting blood.

I take my seat before that thought can get its teeth in too deep. Business comes first because grief doesn’t keep the lights on, and waiting doesn’t stop a leak from spreading.

“Retribution Auto is steady,” Graves says, voice flat. “No shortages. No heat.”

“Last Rite’s booked through the month,” Ink adds from my right. “Walk-ins slowed, but the books are solid.”

Ledger touches the edge of his notebook, though he still doesn’t open it. “The Bar’s clean. Cash flow is steady. No flags.”

“Red Mercy?” I ask.

Nomad gives a dry look. “Still printing money. Girls are happy. Customers are predictable.”

Ghost snorts over the speaker. “Everyone sins. They just feel better doin’ it there.”

A few mouths twitch, but nobody lets it turn into a laugh. Not fully. Not with Deacon breathing through machines and Dead Man’s Hand still sitting somewhere out there, waiting to see what we do next.

Rook leans forward, forearms settling on the table. “Next run’s got a problem.”

The room tightens around that, every man listening harder than he was a second ago.

“Talk,” I say.

“Fallen Angels,” he replies. “Spotted twice in the last week. Once near Dead Man’s Hand’s southern edge. Once closer to the old rail spur.”

That gets attention fast. Ink’s eyes narrow, and Graves shifts like his body is already preparing for trouble.

“That ain’t normal,” I say slowly. “Fallen Angels don’t circle. They stay neutral. Always have.”

“Exactly,” Rook says. “Which means they’re breaking pattern, or someone’s feeding them a reason to look like they are.”