Porter didn't sleep at the clubhouse last night. His room was dark when I walked past at two in the morning. His bike was in the garage, but his massive Dodge Ram 3500 was gone.
The man whose wife vanished with another man is out there somewhere on frozen roads, and nobody stopped him because some pain can't be contained inside four walls.
"Ruger wants you to present this in Church." Krypton stands, cracks his neck. "Today. Full table."
My pulse doesn't spike. It steadies. "I'll be ready."
Church convenes at noon.
Every patched member at the table. Every chair filled except one.
Porter's chair is empty. His cut is draped over the back of it, which means he came in at some point this morning, hung his leather on the chair, and left without sitting down.
Nobody comments on the empty seat. Nobody looks at it either. The absence fills the room louder than any man's presence could.
Ruger nods at me from the head of the table. "Take a seat, Prospect."
The words land in my chest like a thunderclap.
I look at the table. At the chairs.
At the men in them—Bloodhound, Ounce, Coin, Bracken, Maddox, Decorum, Daemon, Wraith, Satyr, Krypton. Every face I've served coffee to, washed bikes for, taken orders from for three years.
There's an empty chair at the far end. Not Porter's. A chair that's always been there, always been empty, always been waiting.
I sit down. The wood is cool under my palms.
The table is scarred and scratched, initials carved into the underside by men who've sat here for decades. I can feel the history of it through my fingertips.
"Rookie, I was going to have you present. But, Krypton I want you to run through this." Ruger flattens his palms on the table. "Floor's yours."
Krypton runs through the technical side. The intrusion history, the tripwire system, the proxy traces, the Fairmont misdirection, the Clarksburg resolution.
He gives the data the way he always gives data. Clean, precise, no filler.
Then he stops and looks at me.
"For the record, Prez," Krypton turns to Ruger. "I built the hardware. The prospect built everything else."
He folds his arms. "The tripwire was his design. The trace program was his code."
He looks at me. "The IP resolution that led us to Skaggs was his work. I was the wrench. He was the engine."
The room absorbs it. I don't react. Compliments from brothers aren't something you wear on your face.
Ruger nods. "The network threat has been identified and neutralized. Skaggs is in the wind. Sarah Boyd is unaccounted for. Those matters will be addressed separately."
He pauses. His gaze moves around the table, landing on each man in turn. "We have another matter."
My breathing changes. I don't let it show.
Ruger stands. "This prospect has served this club for three years. He came in as Vulture’s kid cousin from Chicago with something to prove. He made mistakes."
Bloodhound shifts in his chair. The faintest shadow of a smile.
"He leaked information to a woman who used it against us. He owned it. He took the consequences. And then he spent the next three years earning back every inch of trust he lost."
Ruger looks at me.