The Harley rumbled beneath Jason like a caged animal finally set loose, its 1200cc engine growling with the kind of primal authority that made lesser machines step aside. Black paint chipped from years of hard riding, chrome dulled by desert sand and highway salt, but it was still his father's bike. Still the machine that had carried the De'Leon name through a thousand miles of desert highways, back-road deals, and blood-soaked club runs.
Anna had handed him the keys without a word, her face pale as old bone. The bike had been stored in a garage behind her apartment, covered by a tarp that smelled like motor oil and regret. When Jason had pulled the cover away, he'd found more than just a motorcycle—he'd found a piece of his father's soul, chrome and steel and memories that roared to life with the first kick of the starter.
Now Jason gripped the ape-hanger handlebars, the desert wind snapping at his face as he cut across Highway 95 toward the compound. The speedometer climbed past eighty, then ninety, the Sportster eating up asphalt like it was hungry for home. He could almost hear his father's voice in the roar of the straight pipes, that gravelly wisdom that had shaped him from boyhood: A man and his machine, Jase—that's the truest brotherhood you'll ever know. Iron don't lie, and it don't betray.
The irony wasn't lost on him. He was riding his dead father's bike to confront the man who'd killed him.
The Iron Wolves' compound rose from the desert like a fortress built by paranoid kings. Chain-link fences topped with razor wire circled the fifty-acre spread, the metal glinting in the afternoon sun like broken teeth. Guard towers stood at each corner—empty now, but Jason remembered when they'd been manned twenty-four seven during the drug wars of the early 2000s. Trailers and converted shipping containers stretched out across the hardpan like scars on the earth's surface, anchored by the clubhouse—a squat concrete building that looked like it could survive a nuclear strike.
Jason throttled down as the main gate came into view, the engine's roar dropping to a predatory growl. Two men in leather cuts leaned against the guard shack, faces hidden beneath the shadow of a corrugated metal overhang. Their patches identified them as prospects—the bottom feeders who did the dirty work and absorbed the beatings while hoping to earn their colors.
They froze when they saw the Harley approaching, their casual conversation dying mid-sentence. Eyes narrowed, mouths dropping open in recognition and disbelief. Jason could read their faces from fifty yards away—they knew that bike, knew the man who'd ridden it, knew he was supposed to be six feet underground.
One of them, a skinny kid with prison tattoos crawling up his neck, muttered something that looked like "No fuckin' way."
Jason pulled to a stop just outside the gate, letting the engine idle while he lit a cigarette. The flame from his Zippo illuminated his green eyes, cold and patient as a snake's. He took a long drag, exhaled smoke through his nostrils, and fixed the prospects with a stare that had made hardened killers step aside in federal lockup.
"Open it," he said, his voice carrying the gravel that came from three years of breathing recycled air and institutional disinfectant.
The prospects hesitated, glancing at each other with the nervous energy of men who'd been told their shift was boring and were suddenly realizing they might have to make decisions above their pay grade. They looked at Jason, then at the bike, then back at each other. The recognition was instant and terrifying—that Harley had belonged to the president, to a man they'd sworn to follow until death or federal indictment. And here it was, rumbling back into their compound with his son in the saddle like some kind of mechanical resurrection.
The gates screeched open on rusted hinges that screamed for oil. Jason dropped his cigarette, crushed it under his boot, and rolled inside.
The compound erupted into chaos.
Dozens of heads turned like sunflowers following the sun. Club members paused mid-drink, mid-laugh, mid-argument, their conversations dying as the sound of that unmistakable engine cut through the afternoon noise. Women in cut-off shorts and halter tops stopped hanging laundry and stared. Children playing in the dirt between trailers froze like deer caught in headlights. The sound of engines being worked on in the garage complex dulled into an expectant silence as Jason rode across the main yard, the Harley's growl filling the void like a challenge thrown down at God's feet.
Every eye followed him. Some with surprise—they'd heard rumors he was getting out, but rumors were cheap as dirt in a place where information was currency. Some with fear—Jason De'Leon had a reputation for violence that predated his federal vacation. And some with loyalty they weren't brave enough to show—men who remembered his father, who'd sworn oaths that meant something before Victor Kane had turned the Iron Wolves into his personal kingdom.
Jason cut the engine in front of the clubhouse, the sudden quiet pressing against his ears like water pressure at the bottom of a deep pool. He swung his leg off the bike with deliberate slowness, his steel-toed boots hitting the packed dirt with heavy finality. The sound echoed across the yard like a judge's gavel.
His father's ghost was everywhere here—in the scuffed porch steps where he'd held court on summer evenings, in the stained windows of the bar where he'd settled disputes with whiskey and wisdom, in the patched leather hanging from shoulders that had once bent to another man's will. Jason could feel the weight of history, the accumulated years of brotherhood and betrayal that had soaked into the desert soil like spilled blood.
And then Victor Kane stepped out of the clubhouse.
The man filled the doorway like he'd been born to it, shoulders broad enough to block out the sun. He was bigger than Jason remembered—not taller, but wider, carrying the kind of bulk that came from good living and protein powder. Salt-and-pepper hair perfectly combed back from a face that belonged on a politician's campaign poster, goatee trimmed with the precision of a man who paid attention to details. His cut stretched across a black Armani shirt that cost more than most of the brothers made in a month, the leather soft and supple as a second skin.
But it was the presence that really filled the space—Victor had the bearing of a man who expected the world to part for him, and most of the time it did. He moved with the calculated confidence of someone who'd never met a problem that couldn't be solved with money, violence, or charm.
Jason saw through it immediately. He'd been watching men like Victor for three years inside a federal cage—predators who thrived on fear and respect, who puffed themselves up with violence and charisma while their souls rotted from the inside. Victor was a bigger fish than the usual prison sharks, but the species was the same.
Victor's cold blue eyes flicked to the Harley first, lingering on the chrome and custom paint job like he was appraising stolen goods. Then they moved to Jason, and his lips curved into a smile that was all teeth and no warmth—the expression of a crocodile that had just spotted something small and tasty swimming too close to shore.
"Well, look at this," Victor said, his voice carrying across the yard like a preacher delivering salvation to the damned. "The prodigal son returns."
Some of the men chuckled nervously, the sound forced and brittle. Others shifted uncomfortably, boots shuffling in the dirt like they were trying to find solid ground on shifting sand. The tension was thick enough to cut with a knife.
Jason didn't smile. Didn't move. Just stood there with the patience of a man who'd learned to wait for the right moment to strike. "Victor."
Victor walked down the porch steps with deliberate slowness, each footfall calculated for maximum impact. He moved like a king descending from his throne to greet a returning knight—gracious, magnanimous, utterly in control. He spread his arms as if to embrace Jason like a long-lost brother, but Jason remained statue-still. The air between them was thick with three years of silence, one father's grave, and the weight of unspoken accusations.
"Hell of an entrance," Victor said, reaching out to pat Jason's shoulder in a gesture that was equal parts welcome and dominance display. Jason shrugged the hand off before it could settle, the rejection subtle but unmistakable. "Your old man would be proud. Riding his bike like you own the road."
Jason's jaw ticked, the only sign of the rage building behind his eyes. "That's because I do."
A ripple of tension passed through the gathered crowd like an electric current. Nobody dared laugh at that statement—Jason's voice carried too much conviction, too much threat. The prospects at the gate shifted nervously. Full-patch members exchanged glances loaded with meaning. Women pulled their children closer.
Victor studied him with the interest of a scientist examining a new specimen, then nodded slowly, like he respected the defiance even as he calculated how to crush it. But Jason caught it—that flicker in his eyes, the micro-expression that revealed the predator beneath the politician's mask. Victor was measuring him, testing him, looking for weakness.
Movement caught Jason's attention near the edge of the crowd, and his heart clenched like a fist.
Anna.
She stood half-hidden behind a cluster of club members, arms crossed tight over her chest like armor that wasn't quite strong enough. Her auburn hair was pulled back in the same ponytail she'd worn at the prison, but now it whipped in the desert wind with nervous energy. Her hazel eyes were wide and unblinking, fixed on the confrontation unfolding in front of the clubhouse.
But it was her face that stopped Jason cold. Fear. Not for him showing up—Anna had known this moment was coming since she'd handed him the keys to their father's bike. Fear for what his return would unleash, for the violence that would follow like thunder after lightning.
Jason's stomach twisted with guilt and protective rage, but he didn't let it show on his face. Prison had taught him to compartmentalize, to lock away emotions that could be used against him. He caught Anna's eye for just a moment, tried to communicate reassurance through a look, then locked his gaze back on Victor.
"You've been busy," Jason said, his voice carrying the weight of three years' worth of observations and conclusions.
Victor spread his hands in a gesture of innocent openness, walking a slow circle around Jason like a wolf appraising prey. The movement was designed to establish dominance, to make Jason the center of attention while Victor controlled the space around him.
"I had to be," Victor said, his voice taking on the tone of a man explaining difficult truths to a child. "Club needed a leader after the tragedy. Your father—well, God rest his soul—he left some mighty big boots to fill. Someone had to step up, keep the brotherhood together."
The words were perfectly crafted, designed to sound reasonable and necessary. But Jason heard the poison underneath, the subtle way Victor claimed ownership of everything that had once belonged to the De'Leon family.
Jason's voice dropped to the dangerous quiet that had made federal guards nervous during his stint in administrative segregation. "You cut the brake lines."
The words fell into the desert air like stones dropped into a deep well. Gasps rippled through the crowd. Boots shuffled nervously in the dirt. Men glanced at each other with expressions that ranged from shock to confirmation—some had suspected, but none had dared to voice it.
Victor froze for a split second, his mask slipping just enough to reveal the calculation beneath. Then he chuckled, shaking his head with the indulgent patience of a parent dealing with a child's wild imagination.
"Three years in federal prison, and your imagination's still sharper than a Damascus blade," he said, stepping closer until Jason could smell his cologne—something expensive that reeked of power and ambition. His voice dropped to a whisper that only Jason could hear. "Careful, son. This ground is holy. Words like that can get a man buried under it."
Jason didn't blink, didn't step back, didn't show even a flicker of intimidation. He'd faced down killers and rapists in federal lockup, men who'd gut you for a cigarette or a perceived slight. Victor Kane was dangerous, but he wasn't the worst thing Jason had ever stared down.
"Then maybe you'd better dig two holes," Jason said, his voice carrying the quiet certainty of a man who'd already accepted his own death.
Victor's smile flickered like a candle in a strong wind, then solidified into something harder and more predatory. He clapped Jason's shoulder harder than necessary, fingers digging in like talons, before turning back to the crowd with the practiced showmanship of a man who'd built his power on performance.
"Brothers!" Victor's voice boomed across the compound, carrying the authority of a commander addressing his troops. "Jason De'Leon is home! Let's show him the respect his name deserves!"
The men cheered, but Jason could hear the hollowness underneath the sound. It was loyalty to survival, not loyalty to any man or principle. They were cheering because Victor expected it, because not cheering might be noticed and remembered. The applause was mechanical, forced, the sound of men going through motions they'd stopped believing in.
Victor reached into his jacket pocket with the ceremony of a magician preparing his greatest trick. When he pulled his hand back, something caught the desert sun and threw it back in brilliant flashes. A ring. Heavy gold, etched with the Iron Wolves' insignia—a snarling wolf's head surrounded by crossed pistons and lightning bolts. Jason's breath caught in his throat.
His father's ring.
Victor held it out between two fingers, the gold catching the light like a trap baited with memory and grief. His voice carried across the suddenly silent yard with the weight of a funeral oration.
"He'd want you to have this."
The compound went dead quiet. Even the desert wind seemed to hold its breath. Anna's eyes widened with horror, fear cutting deeper lines around her mouth. Jason's chest tightened until he could barely breathe. Every instinct screamed that this was a trap, a test, a way for Victor to bind him publicly while positioning himself as the generous patriarch passing down blessing to the rightful heir.
But it was still his father's ring. The symbol of everything the old man had built, everything he'd died for. Jason stared at the gold band, feeling the weight of every watching eye, every held breath, every heartbeat in the sudden silence.
His hand trembled—barely perceptible, but he felt it in his bones. Victor had managed to turn it into a ceremony of submission disguised as inheritance.