Brix relaxed.
The Riders were surrounding the shop.
Not because Reed had asked.
Because word had spread.
The boy who had fixed Cormac's motorcycle was one of theirs now.
And the club did not abandon its own.
Saturday morning arrived with a strange mixture of excitement and dread.
The memorial ride would begin Sunday.
The Shovelhead was ready.
Mechanically, it was perfect.
Emotionally, however, it had become the center of something much larger.
Odom brought official investigators to the shop.
The ledger was copied.
Brix gave a statement.
Reed gave one too.
Every detail about Mercer was recorded.
But there was still no certainty that the man would be arrested before the ride.
And that uncertainty weighed on everyone.
At noon, Brix made a discovery.
He was cleaning the Shovelhead when he found a small folded receipt tucked behind the battery.
It was dated six years earlier.
Cormac had purchased a storage unit.
The receipt contained an address outside town.
Odom recognized it immediately.
“Old Route 14 storage.”
“What's there?” Reed asked.
“Twenty-four units.”
They drove there with Brix in the truck.
Unit 117 required the brass key.
The door rolled upward.
Inside was a motorcycle lift, three old toolboxes, and a wooden chest.
Brix stood perfectly still.
“My mother knew.”
Reed looked at the chest.
There was no lock.
Inside were photographs, handwritten notes, legal documents, and a small voice recorder.
Odom picked up the recorder.
The batteries were dead.
Reed found replacements.
A recording began.
Cormac's voice filled the storage unit.
“Reed, if you're hearing this, something happened before I could explain.”
Reed closed his eyes.
His brother continued.
“I found a ring stealing motorcycles and reselling the parts. Mercer is involved. Mara helped me document it. If anything happens to either of us, the evidence is in the engine of the Shovelhead.”
Reed looked at Brix.
“I didn't know where else to put it,” Cormac said. “I trusted the bike because nobody steals a man's history when they think it's worthless.”
Brix pressed a hand over his mouth.
Cormac's recording continued.
“If Mara's boy ever reaches you, help him. He's smarter than he knows. And tell him his mother never stopped fighting for him.”
The recording ended.
Brix began to cry.
Reed put his arms around the boy.
Brix resisted for only a second before collapsing against him.
“My mom knew I would come here.”
“Yes,” Reed said.
“She knew you.”
“Yes.”
“She trusted you.”
Reed's voice broke.
“I wish I had known.”
The discovery changed everything.
Now they had evidence.
They had the ledger.
The recording.
The storage unit.
The original documents.
Odom called authorities immediately.
A warrant request was underway.
But Mercer moved faster.
That evening, an explosion rocked the edge of town.
A storage building burned.
It was not Unit 117.
But it belonged to one of the people named in the ledger.
The message was obvious.
Someone knew evidence existed.
Someone was destroying it.
Mercer disappeared.
His truck was gone.
His phone was disconnected.
The investigators warned everyone to stay alert.
Reed turned to Brix.
“You're not going outside alone.”
“I know.”
“You're not leaving the shop without telling me.”
“I know.”
“You're not taking risks.”
Brix looked at him.
“I know.”
Then he smiled slightly.
“You sound like my mother.”
Reed smiled back.
“I'll take that as a compliment.”
“It is.”
Late that night, Brix stood beside the Shovelhead.
He rested his hand on the fuel tank.
“Tomorrow you lead the ride.”
Reed shook his head.
“No.”
Brix looked at him.
“You don't think it will start?”
“It will start.”
“Then what's wrong?”
Reed looked toward the old photograph of Cormac.
“I don't know whether I'm ready to watch his bike ride without him.”
Brix was quiet.
Then he said,
“Maybe that's not what tomorrow is for.”
Reed raised an eyebrow.
“What is it for?”
“To let everybody know he was here.”
Reed stared at the boy.
Fifteen years old.
Homeless two days earlier.
And already understanding grief better than many grown men.
Reed rested his hand on Brix's shoulder.
“Tomorrow,” he said, “you ride with us.”
Brix froze.
“I don't have a motorcycle.”
“You don't need one.”
He pointed to the passenger seat of Cormac's old truck.
“You ride with me.”
Brix smiled.
Outside, engines were beginning to gather.
The memorial ride was hours away.
So was the confrontation.
Neither man knew it yet.
Sunday began beneath a cloudless sky.
By six in the morning, motorcycles filled the parking lot.
Black leather.
Chrome.
Flags.
Memorial patches.
Helmets.
Hundreds of headlights.
Brix stood near Reed's truck wearing clean jeans, a black jacket, and a pair of work boots June had bought him.
He kept looking at the crowd.
“I've never seen this many motorcycles.”
Reed smiled.
“Cormac would've complained that there weren't enough.”
Brix laughed.
The Shovelhead stood in the center of the lot.
The club had polished it until the chrome reflected the morning sun.
A small photograph of Cormac was mounted beneath the headlamp.
Eighty-three riders.
Two hundred miles.
One memorial.
At seven-thirty, Odom approached Reed.
“Police are watching the route.”
“Any sign of Mercer?”
“Nothing.”
Reed glanced at Brix.
“Then we keep him close.”
Brix nodded.
At eight, the engines started.
The sound rolled through town like thunder.
Reed felt something break open inside him.
Cormac's motorcycle came alive.
The exact engine note.
The exact vibration.
The exact rhythm.
For a second, Reed could almost believe his brother was still there.
Then he looked at Brix.
The boy was staring at the motorcycle with tears in his eyes.
“You okay?”
Brix nodded.
“Yeah.”
The procession started.
For the first twenty miles, everything was peaceful.
The mountains rose around them.
The road curved through open country.
Wind pulled at jackets.
Engines drummed beneath the riders.
At mile twenty-three, Reed's radio crackled.
Odom's voice.
“Vehicle behind the support truck. Black pickup. Won't keep distance.”
Reed looked in the mirror.
A black pickup was several cars behind.
He could not see the driver.
“Can you identify?”
“Not yet.”
The pickup vanished at the next turn.
Five minutes later, a roadblock appeared.
Police vehicles.
The riders slowed.
Odom approached the officer.
“What happened?”
“Loose livestock. We're clearing it.”
The group waited.
Reed noticed something.
The officer was not wearing standard Wyoming Highway Patrol insignia.
He was county sheriff.
Wrong jurisdiction.
Odom noticed too.
He walked back.
“Move the group.”
The motorcycles started again.
Brix watched the rear mirror.
The black pickup returned.
This time it accelerated.
Reed's heart jumped.
He hit the radio.
“Everyone stay together.”
The pickup pulled beside the support truck.
A window lowered.
A man leaned out.
Then the truck accelerated again.
The memorial ride kept moving.
At the next stop, Odom gathered the lead riders.
“It wasn't an official roadblock.”
“What was the point?”
“Delay.”
“For what?”
Odom's eyes moved toward Brix.
“To separate us.”
Brix felt cold.
“They're trying to get me alone.”
Odom nodded.
“That is my guess.”
Then another motorcycle approached.
A stranger.
Not wearing a club patch.
He stopped beside Odom.