Jack rubbed the back of his neck slowly before answering.
“A woman was hurt tonight.”
A ripple of anger moved through the riders.
“That’s not something we do,” one man muttered.
Jack nodded.
“You’re right.”
He looked around at the group again, his expression filled not with anger but something closer to sorrow.
Randy noticed it.
“Who did it?” he asked.
Instead of answering immediately, Jack reached down and picked up a pair of black motorcycle gloves lying near the barrel.
Several riders recognized them instantly.
Randy’s voice dropped.
“…Those are Luke’s.”
Luke Mercer.
Jack’s son.
Twenty-six years old and a member of the club for five years.
At that moment, the weight of the situation became clear. If the gloves belonged to Luke and the police were on their way, then something terrible had happened.
Soon the sound of approaching vehicles drifted across the desert road.
Police cruisers arrived one by one, their red and blue lights flashing silently in the night. Officers stepped out and looked over the large group of bikers standing under the floodlights.
No one ran. No one tried to leave.
Jack walked calmly toward the officers.
The sheriff approached him.
“What happened tonight?” he asked.
Jack handed him the gloves.
“You sure about this?” the sheriff asked quietly.
Jack nodded.
Then a motorcycle engine suddenly roared into the lot.
Everyone recognized it immediately.
Luke’s Harley.
Luke rode in quickly but slowed when he saw the police cars. He removed his helmet, confusion spreading across his face.
“Dad?” he said.
He looked at the officers, the riders, and the burned barrel.
“What’s going on?”
The sheriff’s deputies stepped forward.
Jack spoke calmly.
“The sheriff needs to talk to you.”
Luke frowned.
“About what?”
No one answered.
The deputy explained that a woman had reported being assaulted outside a bar earlier that night and that witnesses had seen Luke’s motorcycle nearby.
Luke turned back to his father, disbelief spreading across his face.
“You called them?” he asked.
Jack met his eyes.
“Yes.”
“You called the police on me?” Luke shouted.
“You’re my father!”
Jack didn’t look away.
“And you’re responsible for what you did.”
The entire club remained silent.
Luke glanced around at the other riders, hoping someone would defend him.
But no one stepped forward.
Because everyone there understood something important.
Brotherhood means loyalty, but loyalty doesn’t mean protecting wrongdoing.