When They Broke My Brother, I Took Charge

Chapter 2

Luke pressed his unbroken hand to my shoulder, trying to pull me back.

“June, take the back door—go first—”

“Brother, let go.”

“I’m fine. Just my fingers—”

I glanced at his three black-and-purple fingers.

I pulled his hand off my shoulder and set him on the tire pile.

“Sit. Don’t move.”

Forty crowbars closed in, boots crunching glass.

Mom held Dad, eyes closed.

Dad gripped her hand, but his gaze never left me.

I pulled the team radio from my pocket.

A cartoon dinosaur sticker was still stuck on it—apprentice screwed it on three times, never clean.

Rex sneered. “Calling a tow truck?”

“Crazy.” Someone muttered nearby.

I pressed the talk button.

“Go live.”

Three seconds. One word back: “Here.”

Signal cut.

Rex’s smirk lingered.

He raised his hand; the crowbars all lifted.

First, a low vibration underfoot.

Then the wrenches clanging on the tool wall.

Headlights lit up both ends of Highway 89.

Thunder rolled into the yard—but it wasn’t thunder.

Fifty Harley motorcycles rolled in, lined up bumper to bumper, engines roaring.

Two heavy tow trucks followed, lifting Rex’s pickup like a dead fish.

Every rider jumped off wearing leather vests embroidered with a spreading vulture, chains wrapped around forearms.

Leading them, a scar-faced bald man, pipe wrench in hand—The Priest, Wasteland Vultures’ weapons master, carrying seven bullets in thirty years for the crew.

He strode up to me, right fist pounding his left chest.

“President.”

He handed me a folded leather vest from his back.

I put it on in front of my family.

The vest sat on my shoulders, heavy as armor.

Inside the garage, quiet except for fifty engines growling outside.

Top patch: Wasteland Vultures.

Left chest: President.

And the diamond-shaped 1%—only true outlaws earn this.

Mom covered her mouth.

Rex dropped his cigarette.

I lifted my chin at the Rattlesnake crew.

The Priest signaled.

Three minutes later, forty men lay face down on cement, chained in a row.

Rex leaned against the doorframe, phone at ear, lips moving silently.

I read the words:

Crowley, save me.

I didn’t stop.

A fish bites only when it sees the bait.

I crouched by Luke, using a caliper and electrician tape to splint his fingers.

Every touch made him gasp.

“Bite down.” I folded a clean towel into his mouth.

He clenched, forcing out the words:

“June… that day at the fair…”

“I let go.” His voice cracked.

“Just to buy an ice cream… I’m sorry I spent twenty years looking for you…”

“Brother.”

“Yeah.”

“Does it hurt?”

“Yes.”

“Then hurt a little longer.” I wrapped the final layer of tape.

“Bones first. Guilt later.”

He chuckled through tears, crushing the towel.

Mom watched, hands over her mouth, silent.

Outside, horns, engines, and shattering bottles mixed into chaos.

A male voice yelled through the gate:

“What wild bird’s flapping in my county?”

I stood up.