The humidity in the bayou always felt like a physical weight, but inside the garage of the Midnight Riders’ compound, the air had turned brittle and freezing. The scent of motor oil and old iron, usually a comfort to Jolene, now felt suffocating.
She held the photograph between her thumb and forefinger like it was a piece of live ordnance. It was a high-resolution gloss of a gala—champagne flutes, silk dresses, and political power. In the center stood Senator Elias Thorne, the man who had effectively owned the state’s soul for thirty years. To his left was a young man with a blinding smile, a sharp jawline, and eyes that held a terrifyingly familiar intensity.
Vance.
Vance didn't move. He was leaning over the engine block of a dismantled '69 shovelhead, a wrench still gripped in his gre
