Page 2 of Wings
"Ma'am, let me help with those."
Mrs. Patel startled, nearly dropping the recycling bin. Her eyes went wide when she saw my prospect cut—the bottom rocker that marked me as not-quite-Heavy-Kings, dangerous enough to fear but not enough to respect. Her knuckles whitened on the bin's handle.
"I'm fine," she said in accented English, tugging harder at the container that clearly wasn't budging. "No help needed."
"Please." I kept my hands visible, moved slow like approaching a spooked horse. "My mother would skin me alive if she knew I walked past without offering."
Something in my voice—maybe the mention of my mom—made her shoulders relax a fraction. She studied my face with eyes that had seen seventy years of hard work and harder choices.
"You're the one." Her expression shifted. "The soldier who fixed my grandson's bicycle last month. Dinesh. Red Schwinn with the broken chain."
I remembered. Kid couldn't have been more than eight, crying on the sidewalk over his busted ride while his grandmother tried to console him in rapid Hindi. Twenty minutes with my toolkit, and he'd ridden away grinning. No charge, despite Mrs. Patel trying to stuff bills in my pocket.
"Just needed a new master link," I said, taking the recycling bin's weight. Christ, no wonder she struggled. Thing was loaded with glass bottles and aluminum cans, probably sixty pounds easy. "How's Dinesh doing?"
"Good. Very good. He tells everyone about the nice soldier who saved his bicycle." She watched me reorganize her bins—recycling closest to the alley for easier access, garbage positioned where she could use the wall for leverage, compost bin elevated on a wooden pallet I found behind the dumpster to reduce the lifting distance.
"You're different," she announced, like she'd solved a puzzle that had been bothering her. "Not like the others who come here."
Heat crept up my neck. "We're not all bad, ma'am."
"Hmm." The sound contained decades of judgment, softened by what might have been approval. "Wait here."
She disappeared into the restaurant's back entrance, leaving me standing among the reorganized bins like I'd been summoned for inspection. Through the kitchen window, I caught glimpses of industrial woks and steam tables already prepped for the lunch rush.
Mrs. Patel returned carrying a brown paper bag spotted with grease. The smell hit me—green chilli and garlic and comforting pastry.
"Samosa. For luck," she pressed the bag into my hands, brooking no argument. "Important day, yes? I see how you check your watch, how you stand so straight. Military standing. Important day needs good breakfast."
"Mrs. Patel, I can't—"
"You can. You will." Her fingers were surprisingly strong as she closed my hands around the bag.
It felt like a blessing. When was the last time someone had made me breakfast? Not grabbed from a drive-through or microwaved from frozen, but actually made with care?
"Thank you," I managed through the tightness in my throat.
She patted my arm. "Good luck!"
The chapel smelled like brotherhood—leather, gun oil, and cigarette smoke. I stood to attention while Duke, Thor, and Tyson arranged themselves behind the carved oak table like a tribunal of fate.
Standing still was its own kind of torture. Movement I could handle—riding, walking, even running with the blade attachment. But standing? That's when the prosthetic reminded me it wasn't really part of me. The socket pressed against scar tissue. Phantom pain crawled up nerves that didn't exist anymore. My weight shifted imperceptibly, trying to find that sweet spot where carbon fiber pretended to be flesh and bone.
Duke opened a manila folder thick with incident reports, ride assessments, and whatever intelligence they'd gathered on Gabriel Moreno, prospect. His steel-blue eyes scanned pages with the intensity of a commander reviewing battle plans.
"Tell us about the Delgado family incident."
Straight to it, then. No warmup, no small talk. I respected that.
"Three nights ago, 2247 hours. I was returning from the Eugene run via Route 27." My voice came out steady, clipped to military brevity. "Spotted a disabled vehicle approximately two miles inside Serpent territory. White minivan, hazards on, hood up."
The memory crystallized with perfect clarity. The van listing to one side—blown tire or suspension. Steam rising from the engine compartment. Two small faces pressed against the rear window, eyes wide with the particular fear children have when their parents can't fix something.
"Protocol says keep riding in hostile territory," I continued. "But I recognized the occupants. Miguel Delgado, his wife Rosa, their kids. They run the corner market on Hawthorne. Heavy Kings territory."
Thor leaned forward, ice-blue eyes narrowing. "So you stopped."
"Yes, sir."
