The club returned with Spike’s body strapped to the back of Knox’s bike. The mood in the yard was heavy, even among the members who had distrusted him. No one spoke much as we killed the engines. The smell of exhaust and gunpowder still clung to our clothes, mixing with the damp morning air.
Dad stood on the porch, face drawn. He looked at Spike’s still form for a long moment. “Despite everything,” he said quietly, voice rough, “he died wearing our patch. We bury him with honors. No questions. Not tonight.”
The words hung in the cool dawn light. Brothers nodded, some reluctant, others grimly respectful. I watched as they carried Spike inside, the weight of his final words pressing on me like stones in my chest.
*She wasn’t the first…*
*The ledger… under the cross…*
I couldn’t stop rep
