Page 125 of Claimed By My Biker Daddies
I post the back, the part men forget to counterfeit.
I tag it with an inside phrase that says the Jackals remember.
The board replies faster than I like.
A user named Crow gives me a string of numbers that match our run, then adds one sentence any man who lived through our split can hear in the original voice. “Tell Saint his ghost sells buttons.”
There is more.
Crow shares a throwaway link with a single image.
It shows a man in a leather coat not of our cut, sitting in a diner that serves coffee hot and habits warmer.
The man wears a winter badge on the lapel as a joke, not a memory.
The face is older, meaner, but the mouth still sneers on the right.
Jonah Pike.
Our former road captain.
He walked out during the charter war and tried to take men with him.
He failed.
He did not come home.
He was always proud of the way he could bypass a south camera without touching a wire.
He taught that trick to anyone who paid cash and gave him someone else to blame.
Now he drinks coffee with Nico.
Crow took the photo because he hates sloppy work.
He sent it to me because he knows I value structure.
I run the plate on the car parked outside the diner.
It comes back to a rental company and an account funded by that same shell LLC linked to all this mess.
Nico buys lunches he cannot afford with money he does not own and pays ex-Jackals to teach him how to scare women in houses that deserve better than fear. It fits.
The anger that arrives is quiet. I do not throw my cup. I do not swear. I list what needs closing, then I close it.
First, the money.
I call the friend who sent the payout exports.
He owes me a second favor because I fixed his fence post last summer and never let him pay for the cedar.
I give him a list of account numbers and ask him to freeze any duplicate payouts in queue.
He tells me he needs a legal pretext.
I tell him suspected identity theft, documentation pending.
He gives me a secure link for the uploads and a clock.
