"You're taped up like a mummy."
Finn turned his head carefully, the movement sending fresh waves of pain through his skull. He was in a large room with wood panel walls.
Vintage motorcycle parts hung like art. A framed photograph showed a group of men standing beside their bikes, vests gleaming in the sun, all of them grinning at the camera.
Another frame held a Hells Angels death's head rendered in intricate detail.
Sitting in a chair beside the bed was Cassandra Blackwell. Her left arm was bound in a black sling held tight against her chest.
But she looked fresh, clean. Her blond hair was washed and hung loose around her shoulders.
She wore a simple black T-shirt and jeans. No armor.
No battle gear. Just a woman sitting beside a bed holding a mug of coffee, watching him with warm concerned eyes.
"Where am I?" Finn's throat felt like sandpaper.
The words came out as a rasp.
"You're at the compound." Cass set her mug down and handed him a glass of water with a plastic straw.
"The Bakersfield charter clubhouse. Safest place on Earth for you right now."
Finn drank greedily. The cool water soothed his throat, washed away some of the cotton mouth fog.
He tried to piece together how he'd gotten here. The van, the medical equipment, hands working on him, voices, darkness, the men in the car.
"They're no longer a concern." The voice came from the doorway.
Deep, resonant, the kind of voice that didn't need to be loud to command attention.
Magnus Blackwell stepped into the room. He filled the doorway completely.
6 feet 5 inches of muscle and scar tissue and absolute authority. He still wore his vest, the president patch over his heart, the death's head on his back.
His blond beard was still braided. His gaze fixed on Finn with an intensity that made the boy want to shrink into the mattress.
Magnus walked to the foot of the bed, crossing his massive tattooed arms. He looked utterly exhausted, like he hadn't slept in days, but there was something else in his features, something that might have been satisfaction, maybe even pride.
"The men in the car belonged to a crew out of Vegas trying to muscle in on our territory. They won't be trying again."
Magnus glanced at Cass. A silent communication passed between them.
Years of marriage compressed into a single look.
"It turns out we had a leak in our own house. A man I trusted for a decade sold my wife out to the highest bidder."
"Because of that betrayal, Cass was supposed to die last night."
Magnus's tone hardened, became colder, more dangerous. "The only reason I am not burying my wife today is because a 17-year-old kid with nothing to his name stepped out of the shadows and tried to save her."
Finn swallowed hard. The weight of Magnus Blackwell's scrutiny felt like a physical pressure on his chest.
"I couldn't just watch. I couldn't."
The words came out small, inadequate.
Magnus slowly nodded. Something in his weathered, hard face softened.
Not much, but enough. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small object, stepped around the bed and held it out.
It was a pin, small, enamel, red and white, the number 81.
"In our world, loyalty and courage are the only currencies that matter. You don't wear the patch, Finn, but as of last night, you bled for it."