The iron gavel felt heavier in Dax’s hand than it ever had when it belonged to his father. He sat at the head of the long, scarred mahogany table in the inner sanctum, the light from the industrial chandelier glinting off the polished silver of his new President’s patch. I stood by the door, leaning against the cold stone wall, watching him. To the rest of the room the twenty bikers who had survived the violent purge of the old guard I was the club’s secret weapon, the Ghost who had outrun a legend. To Dax, I was the only thing keeping his soul from tethering to the darkness of the chair he now occupied.
"The feds are officially finished with the foundry," Dax announced, his voice echoing with a new, somber authority that made the younger members sit straighter. "Marcus and Snake are bein
