I made the decision Monday morning, standing in the garage with my phone in my hand and Zoey's note in my pocket.
Friday, the sheriff's office. A complaint against the club. A lawyer and a plan and a family that thought it could squeeze my new life until it broke.
They'd given me notes. They'd given me a bike. They'd given me spray paint and broken glass.
Today, I was going to give something back.
Mike found me at the workbench, rereading the note for the fifth time. He took one look at my face and set down his coffee.
`You're going to do something,'' he said.
`I'm going to do something.''
`You want backup?''
`I want you to hold down the shop.''
He studied me for a long moment. Then he nodded. `Be careful, Max. People like the Whitfields don't lose gracefully.''
`Neither do I.''
