Page 3 of Wings
"In Serpent territory. Alone. At night." Each word dropped like a hammer on an anvil. "Exposing yourself, your bike, and potentially club routes to enemy surveillance."
"With respect, sir, I assessed the tactical situation first." I kept my eyes fixed on the Heavy Kings emblem carved into the wall behind Duke's head. "No Serpent activity visible. Multiple egress routes available. The greater risk was leaving civilians stranded in hostile territory."
"Tell us what happened," Duke ordered, his expression unreadable as carved stone.
"Radiator hose had split. Common failure on that model Sienna. I carry basic repair supplies—electrical tape, zip ties, JB Weld. Temporary fix took twelve minutes." I remembered Rosa Delgado's tears, the way she'd clutched her rosary while Miguelheld a flashlight with shaking hands. "The kids were wearing St. Mary's Elementary uniforms. That's three blocks from King's Tavern. Our neighborhood, our people."
"Our people when it's convenient," Thor growled. "What if it had been a setup? Serpents love using civilians as bait."
"Then I would have handled it." The words came out harder than intended. I moderated my tone. "Sir, our code says we protect the innocent. Those kids—Maria and Carlos, ages eight and six—they didn't choose to break down in Serpent territory. They were scared. Their parents were scared. I couldn't ride past that."
Tyson spoke for the first time, his voice calm but probing. "And after the repair?"
"I escorted them to the I-5 onramp. Made sure they were clear of Serpent territory before breaking off." I allowed myself a small smile. "Miguel tried to pay me. I told him Heavy Kings don't charge for protecting our own."
Duke made a note. "Speaking of payment—let's discuss your military service. Three tours, Night Stalkers. Bronze Star with V device. Tell us about the mission that earned it."
The chapel suddenly felt too small. My chest tightened. Here it came—the part where they dug into the hero narrative and found the broken truth underneath.
"Classified, sir. But the basics—" I forced breath into my lungs. "Medical evacuation under fire. Provincial governor's daughter caught in an ambush. We inserted despite heavy RPG presence."
Don't think about the sound. Don't think about Jorge's hand reaching for me as his guts spilled out.
"Successfully extracted the principal and her security detail. Took casualties on exfil."
"Casualties." Duke's tone suggested he knew exactly what that sanitized word covered. "Your crew."
The names lined up in my mind like headstones. "Specialist Rodriguez. Sergeant Turner. Specialist Ramirez." Jorge, who'd joined on his eighteenth birthday to pay for his sister's college. Who'd shown me pictures of his newborn nephew the morning he died. "Good men, sir."
"And you blame yourself." Not a question. Tyson watched me with eyes that saw too much.
"I was crew chief. Their lives were my responsibility." My prosthetic throbbed with phantom pain. "I failed them."
"By getting hit with an RPG?" Thor's voice held something that might have been understanding. "That's not failure, prospect. That's war."
"I understand that intellectually, sir. Still working on believing it."
"Fair enough." Duke closed the folder. "Anything else you want us to know?" He asked, his expression still unreadable as a poker player holding pocket aces or total garbage.
A hundred things crowded my throat. That I'd die before I failed another brother. That I needed this—not just wanted but needed with the desperate hunger of a drowning man for air. That the Heavy Kings were my last shot at being part of something bigger than my own ghosts.
"No, sir. My record speaks for itself."
"Yes," Duke said slowly. "It does."
They dismissed me to the main bar but not from the building—purgatory with beer taps and classic rock bleeding from blown speakers. I needed something to do with my hands before they started shaking, so I found an empty table and began field-stripping my Glock 19.
The weapon came apart like poetry. Magazine out, press-checked to confirm empty chamber, slide locked back. The takedown lever rotated with practiced ease. Slide forward and off, recoil spring assembly free, barrel sliding out smooth as silk.Each component hit the table in precise order—the same way I'd done it a thousand times in Syria, in VA parking lots, in my apartment when sleep wouldn't come.
The familiar ritual steadied my nerves. Cleaning rod through the barrel, patches coming away grey with residue. The sharp smell of Hoppes No. 9 solvent cut through the bar's atmosphere of stale beer and leather.
Some guys meditated.
Some prayed.
I maintained weapons.
"Shit, prospect, you do that blindfolded?"
