I joined them, studying the kid.

“He’s one of Marsh’s,” I said. “Bought his first bike a few weeks ago.”

Pic sighed, running a hand through his hair.

“Kid, you have no fucking idea what you’ve gotten yourself into here,” he said, and his voice wasn’t unkind. “Here’s the best offer you’ll get tonight—hand over your colors, get on your bike, and leave. Your president and his friends are locked up and they’re gonna stay that way for a while. The club you signed up for isn’t going to exist anymore after tonight, and you aren’t ready to prospect anyway. Learn to ride your bike, grow up a little, and give it another shot in a few years. We won’t hold this against you.”

Cody had never struck me as one of the brightest, although he seemed like a decent-enough kid. Now I could practically see the hamster running frantically on the wheel in his head, desperate for escape.

Get on the bike, kid. Get out of here.

“I’m not giving up my colors, sir,” he said, and while his voice trembled, he didn’t blink. “I’ve been told to stay out here and watch these bikes, and that’s what I’m gonna do. You’ll have to take them off me.”

Jesus. Christ.

“You’ve been watching Sons of Anarchy, haven’t you?” Pic asked, sighing heavily. Cody swallowed, then nodded. “Fucking show. Whole damned world thinks they’re Jax Teller. Pat him down and bring him inside.”

In an instant, Horse and Ruger had him up against the wall, checking him for weapons. I watched as they pulled off one small pocket knife, and I do mean small. Little red Swiss Army, with the tweezer and toothpick.

Pic and Hunter shot me incredulous looks, and I shrugged. Wasn’t like I hadn’t warned them.

The club had fallen to shit.

Pic nodded at me to lead the way into the clubhouse itself. Always fun being point, but it made sense, seeing as the men inside already knew me. I pushed the door open to find Cord and four others waiting for us. Cord took in my newly restored colors in one quick glance, and if he was surprised he kept it to himself. Pic and Hunter followed me in, as others surrounded the building.

“Welcome,” Cord said, nodding toward Picnic. “I’m Cord. We’ve met before—rally a few years back. I’m more familiar with Rance, the Bellingham president. Been expecting a visit for a while now.”

“Rance is busy,” Pic said shortly. “Asked me to come in his place. This is Hunter. He’s president of the Devil’s Jacks, out of Portland. I’m assuming you’ve guessed why we’re here?”

“Marsh Jackson ran this club into the ground, didn’t pay his tax, and now you’re here to figure out what went wrong.”

Cord had never struck me as stupid, and I guess my instincts hadn’t been entirely off.

“I’m Gage,” I said, meeting his gaze head-on.

“Nice colors,” he said, the faintest hint of a sneer in his voice. “Funny. Last time I saw you, you weren’t wearing them. Wasn’t aware the Reapers were afraid to wear their own colors in Washington State.”

“Needed to find out what was happening here in town,” Pic said, his voice casual. “We heard the club was too easy to penetrate. Figured we’d investigate for ourselves, and damned if it wasn’t.”

Cord’s mouth tightened, and a tense silence fell between us.

“Let’s just admit that none of this went down the normal way,” Hunter broke in, nodding toward Cord. “Call it what it is—we know you reached out through Pipes. He talked to our men on the inside, and the Reapers responded. They wanted to see what was happening, they saw, and now we’re here talking to you because we know you’re solid men. Men who can be trusted. Let’s find a way to resolve this issue and move forward.”

“And you’ve got a stake in this because . . . ?” Cord asked, sarcasm in his voice.

“The old man is my father-in-law,” Hunter replied, nodding toward Pic. “He gets pissy, she gets pissy. Then I get no head. It’s a serious issue, bro. We gotta make this right.”

“Pussy-whipped?” Cord asked, cocking a brow.

Hunter shrugged. “Priorities. It is what it is. Can we sit and talk this through? Nobody here wants to fight today. The Nighthawks had a problem. The problem’s in jail now, which means it’s time to regroup.”

Cord nodded slowly.

“That’s the truth,” he admitted. “You guys want a drink?”

“After,” Pic said. “We should talk first. Why don’t you start by introducing your brothers to all of us?”

“This is Wanker, Charlie Boy, and Tamarack,” he said, nodding to the three men wearing full colors next to him. “Those two are Cody and Fuckwit. They’re Marsh’s prospects. Guess Cody missed the excitement because he had the stomach flu, and I gotta admit, Fuckwit’s growing on all of us. I think he might be all right.”

“Your boy Cody seems to be taking things very seriously,” Pic told him. “When we pulled up outside, we told him to get out while he still could. Refused to hand over his colors.”

Cord looked surprised, glancing at Cody sharply.

“Huh.”

Cody stood blank faced, although I saw a tremble in his hands. Damn, the kid really wanted this.

“Okay, prospects outside,” Pic said. “You watch the bikes with some of our brothers to keep you company. Think things over—you leave tonight, it’s no harm, no foul, no judgment. The grown-ups are going to talk now. Where’s your chapel?”

We let Cord lead the way to the meeting room, followed by me, Pic, Hunter, Ruger, Bam Bam, and one of Hunter’s brothers named Taz. Pic took the president’s chair without objection from Cord. Made sense—the Reapers were over the Nighthawks. Always had been, always would be. They owed us their respect regardless of the circumstances.

“Here’s how I see it,” Pic started out. “There’s essentially been two clubs in this town, the old Nighthawks and the new Nighthawks. The old Nighthawks were our allies, and you’re their leader. Sound about right?”

“That’s a fair assessment,” Cord said, his face like stone. “Most of my real brothers are in prison, serving hard time. You should know all about that—your boys might be with them right now if we hadn’t kept our mouths shut when the cops swept us up.”