Chapter 9
The final hearing for Vincent Cross happened in Vegas.
I did not want to go.
Cal did.
“He connected to what happened,” he said over the phone. “I want to see the door close.”
So we went together.
He looked different in a clean shirt and school jacket.
Stronger.
Not because he had gotten bigger.
Because he stood like a man choosing his own ground.
Vincent entered court in cuffs.
Still slick.
Still smiling.
Until he saw me.
Then Cal.
Then Detective Morales from the Vegas case sitting behind the prosecutor.
His smile thinned.
The charges tied everything together.
Fight fixing.
Extortion.
Assault conspiracy.
Interstate trafficking routes.
Bribery.
Obstruction.
Vincent’s plea deal required him to name every officer, politician, and club contact tied to his network.
He looked bored while doing it.
That bothered me until Grace whispered, “Let him look bored. Prison loves men who think consequences are beneath them.”
Cal almost laughed.
When Vincent named Pike again, Cal’s jaw tightened.
I placed a hand on his shoulder.
He did not pull away.
After sentencing, Vincent was led past us.
He paused.
“Still playing hero, Jax?”
I looked at him.
“No. Just finished being useful to villains.”
His face twisted.
The marshal moved him along.
Outside, Cal breathed deep.
“Is it over?”
I looked at the courthouse.
The cameras.
The lawyers.
The men pretending systems had cleaned themselves.
“No,” I said. “But our part is.”
We drove back through the desert.
Halfway home, Cal asked, “What do you want now?”
I almost gave a joke.
A burger.
A nap.
A knee that didn’t ache when it rained.
But he deserved truth.
“I don’t know.”
“That scares you?”
“More than Reaper with a bottle.”
Cal smiled.
Then got serious.
“You could open your own garage.”
“I have a garage.”
“No. Yours. Not club. Not Silas. Not history. Yours.”
The idea stayed with me.
A clean shop.
Legal work.
Young riders learning engines without learning fear.
A place where a kid like Cal could have walked in at nineteen and been handed a wrench instead of a secret route.
By the time we reached Arizona, I had already named it.
Second Road Garage.
Silas did not fight me when I told him.
He looked sad.
Proud too.
“You leaving the club?”
“Not leaving the men. Leaving the business.”
He nodded.
“You earned that.”
“No,” I said. “I survived to choose it.”
Reaper came by the garage opening three months later.
He brought a toolbox for Cal.
Expensive.
Too nice.
Cal looked at me.
I shrugged.
“Your choice.”
Cal accepted it.
Then looked Reaper in the eye.
“You ever put my name in something again, I’ll break your other arm.”
Reaper smiled faintly.
“Fair.”
May you like
That was not forgiveness either.
But it was life moving.
