“He’s an old vagrant,” Bear announced loudly, ensuring the entire yard could hear him. He forced a dismissive chuckle that didn't reach his eyes. “Probably found a piece of garbage in the alley and stuffed it in there to cushion his head. Ain't no threat to the Hounds.”
A murmur of confused agreement rippled through the mechanics.
Jax blinked, caught completely off guard. “Bear, you’re just gonna let him walk? You saw what was in that lid. We need to find out who—”
“I said I’m handling it,” Bear interrupted, stepping directly into Jax’s personal space. At six-foot-four, Bear loomed over his oldest friend, casting a long, dark shadow across Jax’s face. “You questionin' my call in front of the crew, brother?”
Jax swallowed, the Adam's apple bobbing sharply in his tanned throat. He took a tiny half-step backward. “No, boss. Just lookin' out for you.”
“Good,” Bear rumbled. He turned to Tiny, the club’s enormous Sergeant-at-Arms, who was standing quietly by the open garage bays. “Tiny. Take our new friend into the back office. Get him a glass of water. Give him twenty bucks from the register for his trouble, and let him catch his breath.”
Tiny nodded, his expression completely blank, and stepped toward Arthur.
Jax looked panicked. “Bear, bringing him inside is a mistake. What if he’s contagious? What if he’s a rat?”
“He’s just an old man who made a bad choice,” Bear said, keeping his eyes locked onto Jax. “I want him out of the heat. And Jax?”
“Yeah?”
“Go take my bike to the wash bay,” Bear instructed, his tone entirely casual. “It’s covered in dust from yesterday’s run. Scrub it down. Don't leave until the chrome shines.”
It was grunt work. Work for a prospect, not a vice president. Bear watched closely to see how Jax would react.
If Jax was innocent, he would argue. He would curse, complain about his status, and tell Bear to make one of the new kids do it. But Jax didn't complain. He just looked relieved to have an excuse to get away from the smashed helmet.
“You got it, Bear,” Jax said quickly, turning toward the gleaming motorcycle.
Bear watched him go, feeling a deep, agonizing fracture opening inside his chest. Jax had been by his side for twenty years. They had built this club from a broken-down garage into the most respected organization in the state.
Bear walked toward the back office, clutching the broken helmet against his ribs. The red light continued to blink quietly against the black foam. The pressure in the yard had dispersed, but the real war had just begun. He needed to know exactly what Jax had been planning, and he needed the proof before he tore the club apart.
He pushed open the heavy wooden door to his office and stepped inside, locking the deadbolt behind him.
Arthur was sitting on the edge of a leather sofa, clutching a paper cup of water in both hands. He looked up, his eyes wide with apprehension.
Bear set the helmet gently onto his massive oak desk. He pulled the blinds down over the glass window that looked out into the garage.
“Alright, old timer,” Bear said softly, pulling up a heavy steel chair and sitting across from the trembling man. “You’re safe now. But I need to know exactly what you saw last night, minute by minute. And I need to know why my best friend wants me in federal prison.”
Chapter 2: The Judas Patch