The sound of the slap echoed like a gunshot.

Jax hit the linoleum floor hard, his jaw violently thrown to the side by the sheer force of Cole’s backhand. The younger biker scrambled, tasting copper, looking up at his Vice President in sheer terror.

Cole wasn't just angry; he looked ready to commit murder. The rest of the bikers in the back booths had shot to their feet, but one sharp hand gesture from Cole froze them in place.

"Get on your knees," Cole ordered Jax, his voice barely above a whisper.

Jax, trembling and clutching his bleeding lip, dragged himself up onto his knees.

Cole turned his back on his prospect and faced Martha. The towering, scarred biker bowed his head, his eyes glued to the scuffed boots on his feet.

"Mrs. Hayes," Cole said, the reverence in his gravelly voice shocking everyone in the diner. "My name is Cole. Vice President, Desert Valley Chapter. I was a prospect under Miller, who prospected under your husband. This boy is ignorant, and he will be dealt with."

Martha looked at the giant man bowing before her. Then, she looked down at Jax, who was currently staring at the floor, finally realizing the magnitude of his mistake. The blood had entirely left Jax's face.

"Frank always said the new blood was loud because they hadn't learned how to listen yet," Martha said softly, her eyes returning to Cole. "Teach him how to listen, Cole."

"Yes, ma'am. Consider it done." Cole didn't dare look up until Martha gave him a curt nod.

Cole turned to the diner at large. He pulled a thick wad of bills from his cut, peeled off a hundred, and set it gently on the counter next to Martha's teacup.

"For the tea, Brenda," Cole said to the waitress, who was trembling behind the register. "And for the disturbance."

He grabbed Jax by the scruff of his jacket, hauling the younger man to his feet like a misbehaving dog. "We're leaving," Cole barked to the rest of the crew.

They didn't make a sound. Twenty hardened bikers filed out the door in total silence, keeping their eyes respectfully averted from the tiny woman at the counter. Within moments, the deafening roar of the motorcycle engines flared up again, but this time, they didn't linger. The pack tore out onto Route 66, leaving a cloud of dust that settled quietly into the bleeding asphalt.

Inside Rusty’s Diner, the oppressive silence was finally broken by the gentle squeak of the ceiling fan.

Martha sighed, adjusting the heavy leather collar of Frank’s jacket. She picked up her spoon, gave her Earl Grey one last slow, steady stir, and took a sip.