With one violent, tearing motion, Kellen ripped both shirts straight down the middle.
CHAPTER 3
The fabric of my flannel and t-shirt gave way with a loud, distinct tearing sound. The buttons popped, pinging harmlessly against the gravel.
The desert wind hit my bare chest.
I didn’t flinch. I didn’t pull away. I simply knelt there in the gravel, completely still, letting the shirts fall open to expose my entire torso to the blinding Arizona sun.
Kellen froze. His hands were still clutching the torn edges of my shirts, but his eyes were completely locked on my chest.
Spanning the entire expanse of my pectoral muscles and ribcage was a massive, pitch-black tattoo. It wasn’t a faded, amateur piece of ink. It was deeply etched, thick, and brutally clear. A massive, stylized judge’s gavel was depicted slamming downward, completely crushing a human skull into fractured pieces. Wrapping heavily over the top of the gavel, inked in rigid, gothic block letters, was the designation: JUDGE - 01.
There were other marks too. The deep, jagged scar tissue of a knife wound that bypassed the liver. The perfectly round pucker of an old bullet wound near my collarbone. But the tattoo dominated everything.
For three long, agonizing seconds, the parking lot was completely silent.
Then, Kellen burst out laughing.
It was a loud, braying sound of pure disbelief. He let go of my shirt, taking a step back and wiping a tear of mirth from his eye. He pointed at my chest, looking back at his crew.
“Are you kidding me right now?” Kellen howled, clutching his stomach. “Look at this guy! You’re about to drop dead from old age, and you’ve got a cosplay tattoo? The Judge? What is this, a comic book? Who exactly are you judging, you delusional old dog?”
A few of the younger bikers chuckled, feeding off their leader’s confidence.
But Tank didn't laugh.
I shifted my gaze to Tank. The massive man had taken two distinct steps backward. His face, normally flush with the heat and anger, had drained of all color. He was staring at the tattoo, then at the specific configuration of my Indian Scout, and finally at the heavy silver ring on my left hand that was now resting on my knee.
“Kellen,” Tank whispered. The sheer terror in his voice was so palpable it made the hairs on my arms stand up. “Boss. Boss, stop.”
“Stop what?” Kellen scoffed, rolling his eyes. He stepped back toward me, raising his boot, preparing to kick me directly in the chest. “He’s a joke. He bought that ink in some back-alley shop trying to look like a badass.”
“He’s not a joke,” Tank interrupted, his voice cracking into a high pitch of panic. Tank’s massive hands were visibly shaking. He backed away from me as if I were a live grenade. “That’s the First Arbiter. Kellen, you idiot, that’s The Highway Judge.”
Kellen paused, his boot hovering in the air. He frowned, glancing between Tank and my chest. “The what? Tank, you’re losing your mind. The Judge is a myth. A bedtime story the old charters use to scare pledges.”
The Syndicate was massive. It spanned the entire country, a network of violent, deeply territorial charters. Decades ago, the infighting became a plague. To stop it, the founders established the Council, and the Council created a singular role. An impartial executioner. A man who held zero loyalty to any specific club, who answered to no one, and who possessed the absolute authority to terminate any member, president, or entire charter who broke the foundational laws.
There was only ever one. Number 01.
Me.
I looked at Kellen. “He’s right, Kellen. I’m a myth.”
Before Kellen could process my words, a faint vibration began to resonate through the soles of my boots.