Sirens wailed somewhere beyond the tree line—too late, too far—while the Pit Stop lot swam in red and blue. Sons and Saints formed a ragged cordon, shoulders squared, jaws locked, daring any uniform to push past the line. Silas stood in the middle of it all, blood drying on his hands, the night air cutting like glass in his lungs.
The medical examiner slipped through the wall of leather with quiet, practiced apologies. A white sheet unfurled. Silas’s vision tunneled.
“That’s my father,” he rasped, stepping forward. “He’s not—he’s not some body you cart off.”
Brick’s arm hit his chest, iron-hard. “Brother—”
Silas surged again, and this time Lawrence caught him from the side, grip steady as a vice. “Let them do their job, son.” The words held no softness. Only respect. Only the truth.
T
