The desert wind carried the smell of gasoline and smoke across the Iron Wolves' compound, mixing with the acrid scent of burning mesquite and the underlying funk of too many bodies pressed together in the heat. A bonfire crackled in the center yard, flames licking fifteen feet into the darkening sky as leather-clad men and women gathered around in a loose circle. The air was thick with beer breath, sweat, and grief that felt more like a performance than anything real—the kind of forced mourning that happened when fear dressed itself up as respect.
Jason stood at the edge of it all, boots planted in the hard-packed dirt, jaw locked tight enough to crack teeth. His father's memorial service. Three years too late, and it felt like a play staged for an audience of liars and cowards. A makeshift coffin sat near the fire—rough plywood painted black, adorned with the Iron Wolves' banner. Black cloth stitched with the snarling wolf insignia that had once meant something more than fear and money.
It wasn't his father's body inside. Just ashes scooped from the canyon where the Sportster had gone down, mixed with whatever desert sand and debris they'd found at the crash site. But it was supposed to be closure—a chance for the club to say goodbye to their fallen president and welcome their new one.
Jason didn't feel closure. He felt rage simmering under his skin like oil in a hot pan, ready to ignite at the first spark.
The ring Victor had given him sat heavy on his finger, the gold band feeling more like a shackle than an inheritance. He'd taken it because refusing would have been suicide—you didn't spit on a dead man's memory in front of his brothers, no matter who was offering the honor. But every time the metal caught the firelight, Jason was reminded that he was wearing his father's crown while the man who'd murdered him stood three feet away playing king.
Anna hovered near him, arms folded across her chest, eyes darting from face to face like she was cataloging threats. She hadn't said a word since the ceremony had begun, but her body screamed tension. Jason could see it in the way her shoulders stayed rigid, the way she kept close to him like maybe proximity could shield her from what was coming. She knew this was a powder keg, and Jason was holding the match.
The crowd pressed closer to the fire as the desert air cooled. Forty-three Iron Wolves and their families, representing every chapter from Vegas to Phoenix. Jason recognized most of them—men who'd bounced him on their knees when he was a kid, who'd taught him to ride and fight and keep his mouth shut when the law came around. Now they avoided his eyes, uncomfortable with the ghost at their party.
Victor Kane stepped up to the coffin, and the transformation was immediate.
Silence rippled through the crowd like water in a still pond. Conversations died mid-sentence. Beer bottles paused halfway to lips. Even the desert seemed to pause—cicadas fading, coyotes going quiet, as if the night itself bent to his presence. He looked the part of a leader—tall, broad-shouldered, commanding in a way that had nothing to do with volume and everything to do with certainty. His cut was immaculate, leather soft as butter and polished to a high sheen. Salt-and-pepper hair caught the firelight, giving him the kind of distinguished look that belonged on campaign posters or corporate boardrooms.
He raised his hands like a preacher about to deliver gospel to the faithful, and Jason felt his stomach turn. This was theater, pure and simple—Victor performing the role of grieving brother while positioning himself as the rightful heir.
"Brothers," Victor began, his voice smooth and practiced, carrying across the compound with the authority of someone who'd learned to command attention. "Sisters. Family. Tonight, we honor a man who gave everything to this club. Your president. My brother. Our blood."
Murmurs of agreement rumbled through the crowd like distant thunder. Heads bowed in practiced reverence. Beer bottles were lifted in quiet salute, the gesture synchronized as a military drill. Jason watched faces in the firelight—some showed genuine grief, others performed it, and a few couldn't hide their relief that the old guard was finally buried.
Jason's fists clenched until his knuckles cracked. He wanted to shout that Victor had killed the man they were supposedly honoring, wanted to tell them about the cut brake lines and the calculated murder that had put the throne up for grabs. But he stayed silent, jaw working like he was chewing glass. The time wasn't right. Not yet.
Victor continued his eulogy, pacing slowly in front of the coffin with the measured steps of a funeral director who'd done this a thousand times. "He built this brotherhood from dust and asphalt, from nothing but an idea and the will to make it real. He showed us the meaning of loyalty—real loyalty, not the cheap kind you buy with fear. He taught us about sacrifice, about putting the club before yourself, about family that's thicker than blood."
The words were perfect, each one calculated for maximum impact. Victor paused, letting them sink in, his eyes glittering in the firelight like chips of blue ice. "And when he was taken from us too soon—snatched away by fate and faulty machinery—I swore an oath over his broken body. I swore to carry his vision forward, to honor his memory, to make sure the Iron Wolves would never bow to anyone."
Jason felt bile rise in his throat. Faulty machinery. The lie came so smooth, so practiced, that Jason wondered how many times Victor had rehearsed it in front of a mirror. The man was rewriting history in real time, turning murder into tragedy and himself into the noble successor.
The crowd nodded along like puppets on strings. Some men slapped fists to their chests in the traditional show of respect. Others raised their bottles higher, liquid sloshing in glass containers that caught the firelight. The gestures looked genuine from a distance, but Jason could see the fear underneath—the careful way they measured their responses, making sure they showed enough grief to satisfy Victor without appearing disloyal to the new order.
Victor gestured outward with both arms, embracing the night and everything in it. "For three years, I have led as he would have wanted. Kept our name strong when others would have seen us scattered. Expanded our reach when smaller men would have retreated. Made sure no one—not the law, not rival clubs, not even the Mexican cartels—could challenge the Iron Wolves' supremacy."
Applause broke out, scattered at first, then building to a crescendo that echoed off the compound's concrete walls. The fire popped and hissed, sending sparks swirling into the dark sky like orange stars. Jason felt like he was watching his father's legacy being cremated in front of his eyes.
The old man would have spit blood before letting Victor run things like a corporate kingdom, treating the club like a business venture instead of a brotherhood. Jason's father had believed in honor among thieves, in codes that meant something even when the law didn't. Victor had turned the Iron Wolves into an empire built on fear and greed, using the club's reputation as a weapon to intimidate anyone who might question his methods.
Victor's voice dropped to an intimate whisper that somehow carried to every corner of the yard. "I see him in each of you tonight. His spirit rides in every mile we claim, every deal we strike, every fight we win. His ghost lives in the roar of our engines and the loyalty we show each other." He paused for effect, then spread his arms wide like he was embracing the entire world. "And though his body lies broken, he left us stronger than we've ever been. Together, we honor his legacy. Together, we ride eternal!"
The Iron Wolves roared back in unison, their voices joining in the traditional call-and-response that had ended every club meeting for twenty years: "TOGETHER WE RIDE!"
The sound hit Jason like a physical blow. Those words had meant something when his father spoke them—they'd been a promise, a bond, a sacred trust between brothers who'd die for each other. Now they were just noise, empty syllables shouted by men who'd forgotten what brotherhood actually meant.
The bonfire flared higher as someone threw another log into the flames, shadows twisting and dancing across leather cuts like living things. Jason glanced at Anna, catching her profile in the flickering light. Her lips were pressed into a thin line, her eyes glassy with unshed tears—not from grief, but from the weight of a truth she couldn't speak. She knew what Jason knew, carried the same burden of knowledge that made every word of Victor's eulogy feel like a knife between the ribs.
Victor stepped down from his impromptu pulpit, the performance complete. Immediately, he was surrounded by well-wishers—men clapping him on the back like he'd just delivered the Sermon on the Mount, women kissing his cheek and telling him how beautiful the service was. Everyone acting like he was the rightful heir to a throne instead of a usurper who'd climbed to power over his predecessor's corpse.
Jason saw it in their eyes—not love, not even genuine respect. Fear disguised as loyalty, submission dressed up as admiration. They were following Victor because the alternative was exile or death, not because they believed in his vision for the club's future.
Unable to stand the show any longer, Jason started forward through the crowd, his boots crunching on gravel and scattered bottle caps. He didn't plan to speak, didn't want to match Victor's theatrics with his own performance. He just wanted to stand near the coffin for a moment, to give his father something real in a sea of manufactured grief.
People parted before him like he was carrying a disease, conversations dying as he passed. Jason felt the weight of their stares, the nervous energy that rippled through the crowd whenever someone unpredictable moved through their midst. He was the wild card in Victor's carefully orchestrated play, the one element that couldn't be controlled or predicted.
He reached the coffin and touched the Iron Wolves banner draped over the rough plywood, the fabric warm from the fire's heat. Up close, he could see the careful stitching, the way his father's old lady had embroidered the wolf's head with hands that shook from arthritis and grief. Heat from the bonfire brushed his face like a fever, making the world shimmer and dance.
Jason leaned down, close enough that his whispered words would be lost in the crackle of burning wood. "I'll make it right, Dad. I promise. Victor's going to pay for what he did, and when he does, everyone will know the truth."
The words felt like an oath sworn on sacred ground, binding him to a course of action that would probably end with his own death. But some promises were worth dying for, and some truths were worth any price to reveal.
When he straightened and turned back toward the crowd, Victor was waiting.
The man stood five feet away, hands clasped behind his back, studying Jason with the interest of a scientist examining a particularly dangerous specimen. His smile was confident, almost paternal—the expression of someone who held all the cards and knew it.
"Beautiful service," Victor said, his voice pitched low enough that only Jason could hear. "Your father would have approved."
Jason's eyes dropped instinctively to the man's chest, and that's when he saw it.
The presidential patch.
Sewn into Victor's cut with fresh thread, bold and unmistakable against the black leather. A skull wearing a crown, surrounded by the club's colors and the words "PRESIDENT - IRON WOLVES MC" in gothic lettering. The same patch his father had worn like a badge of honor, the symbol of everything the old man had built and died for.
Now it stretched across the chest of the man who'd betrayed him.
Jason froze, his blood turning to ice water in his veins. The fire popped and hissed behind him. The crowd laughed and drank and played at being a family. But for Jason, the world narrowed down to that patch, that theft, that final desecration of his father's memory.
It wasn't just about power or position—it was about legacy, about the right to wear the symbols that defined what the Iron Wolves were supposed to represent. Victor hadn't just stolen the presidency; he'd stolen his father's identity, wrapped himself in the old man's authority like a grave robber wearing a dead king's crown.
Victor caught his stare and let his smile curve wider, the expression becoming something predatory and taunting. He knew exactly what Jason was seeing, knew the impact it would have. This was psychological warfare at its finest—a deliberate provocation designed to push Jason past the breaking point.
Jason's breath came slow and controlled, each inhalation a conscious effort to maintain discipline. His hands flexed involuntarily, fingers itching to tear the patch off Victor's chest along with whatever flesh came with it. Three years of planning, three years of preparing for this moment, and Victor was still finding new ways to twist the knife.
The urge to violence was overwhelming—a red tide of rage that threatened to wash away all rational thought. But Jason held himself in check, drawing on the patience he'd learned in federal lockup, the discipline that had kept him alive in a place where losing control meant losing everything.
Not yet, he told himself. Not here, not now, not in front of forty witnesses who would testify at his murder trial. But soon. Very soon.
The presidential patch glinted in the firelight like a target painted on Victor's chest, and Jason filed the image away for future reference. When the time came—and it would come—he'd remember this moment, this final insult, this last straw that broke the camel's back.
Victor was still smiling when Jason finally looked away.