Page 36 of Tiny's Testament
“For me,” I remind myself, holding on to both of us. “Not for him.”
But when I finally turn and head to the kitchen, I’m already counting minutes to the sound of engine noise, listening for the sound that means they’re on their way back, or the one that signals the next chapter has just started.
Outside, the sun burns hotter. Somewhere south, a road runs toward the border.
And the man who kissed me like a promise is riding straight into it.
9
TINY
The road heading south hums beneath us, a steady growl that sinks into your bones if you let it. The sun is high enough to bake the asphalt, and the sky is too clear to trust.
Los Angeles’s skyscrapers fade away in the mirrors, replaced by open highway and dust. It should feel like freedom, but it doesn’t. The silence between us sits heavy on my chest.
I lead the formation, Dagger rides on my six, his dark hair whipping out from the back of his helmet. Torch and Trigger flank wide, and Bones covers the van driven by our prospect, Knight, while Red’s voice crackles through the comms from the base. Capone’s orders were simple. Eyes only. Confirm movement. No heroics.
But fifteen miles out, something shifts. Not a sound. Not a sight. Just a wrongness in my gut that makes my shoulders tense and my grip tightens on the throttle.
“You feel that?” Dagger’s voice is raspy in my ear.
“Yeah,” I reply. “Wind’s changed.” It’s a lie. The wind hasn’t changed, but something has.
“And it’s quiet. Quiet is where the monsters hide.” He says it like a joke, but he’s not wrong.
Torch laughs over the comm. “Monsters don’t hide, man. They wear cuts and drink our whiskey.”
“Speak for yourself,” Trigger cuts in. “I sleep just fine.”
“Yeah, because you don’t have a soul,” Bones fires back.
Their low, rough, brotherly banter echoes in my ears. It’s the kind of noise that keeps you human when the world smells like gunpowder and ghosts.
The landscape starts to look familiar in a way it shouldn't. Old highway markers. A tilted fence post leaning to the left like a drunk. A service road that curves just so, the kind of curve you lean into without thinking because your body remembers the angle.
These aren't roads I've ridden for the Royal Bastards.
These are roads I rode as a Hellhound.
My pulse kicks up. I tell myself it's a coincidence. Lattimer's crew could be anywhere. This stretch of desert sees traffic from a dozen clubs. Iron Disciples, Los Demons, and smaller independents running guns or powder.
But my hands remember steering this route. My body remembers the weight of a different cut on my shoulders. My lungs remember the taste of desert air mixed with spray paint and gasoline and the specific kind of adrenaline that comes from marking territory that isn't yours yet.
The scar on my right palm starts to throb. It shouldn't hurt anymore, but it does.
We ride hard until scrub and wire fences appear. Desert wind hits like dry fire against my face. A rusted sign flashes by reading: 214 South – Last Gas 20 Miles.
Dagger’s voice is steady. “Trigger’s two clicks behind. Red’s watching the feed. You think we’ll actually find something?”
“Don’t jinx it,” Torch mutters. “Every time you say that, something explodes.”
“Only if you’re driving,” Dagger fires back.
“Bite me.”
“Later. Candlelight dinner first.” Laughter filters through the comms, grounding us. It’s stupid. It’s perfect. It’s life.
Capone called it a simple recon. Confirm movement, mark it, ghost out. But the way my stomach’s been knotting since dawn tells me this isn’t gonna be simple.
