Couldn't speak past the tightness in his throat. He got on his Harley. The engine roared to life. The sound echoed off the buildings in the pre-dawn darkness. Phoenix was quiet at this hour.
The city holding its breath between night and day. Jack rode through empty streets, past darkened buildings, past the lives of people still sleeping. Unaware that in a few hours the news would break about a 50-year-old conspiracy finally coming to light. El Lobo appeared ahead. The parking lot was empty except for one vehicle.
A black Mercedes. Expensive. Well maintained. Marcus Webb was already there. Jack pulled into the lot.
Parked his Harley 20 feet from the Mercedes. Killed the engine. The silence was absolute. For a long moment, neither man moved. Sat in their vehicles.
Two strangers connected by blood and history preparing for a conversation that would change everything. Then Marcus Webb opened his door. Stepped out. And Jack Morrison did the same. They stood there in the empty parking lot as the first light of dawn began to break over Phoenix.
Two men. Two families. 50 years of secrets between them. And one question. What happens when the truth finally comes out?
Jack was about to find out. Dawn broke over Phoenix like a promise the city couldn't keep. Jack stood in the parking lot of El Lobo watching the sky turn from black to purple to the pale blue of morning. The bar looked different in daylight. Smaller, shabbier.
The kind of place that needed darkness to maintain its mystique. Graffiti on the walls. Broken glass in the gravel. The desperate architecture of a business that survived on things people wanted to forget. His Harley ticked as the engine cooled.
He'd arrived 20 minutes early. Old habit. Never walk into a meeting blind. Never give the other man the advantage of familiarity with the terrain. The street was empty.
Too early for traffic. Too late for the people who'd been out all night. That liminal hour when the city held its breath between what had been and what would be. Jack's phone showed 5:58 a.m. 2 minutes. He thought about calling Wyatt.
Telling him the plan had changed. That Jack was meeting Webb alone against everything they'd agreed. But Wyatt would just argue. And Jack didn't have the energy for arguments. Not anymore.
This was between him and Marcus Webb. Between past and present. Between two men trying to understand the fathers who'd shaped them. At exactly 6:00 a.m., a black Mercedes pulled into the lot. Expensive.
Well maintained. The kind of car that announced success without shouting about it. The driver's door opened. A man stepped out. Marcus Webb looked nothing like Jack had imagined.
No scar. No obvious menace. Just a man in his early 50s wearing jeans and a button-down shirt moving with the careful precision of someone who'd learned early that the world was dangerous and preparation was survival. He was tall, lean. Silver hair cut short.
Eyes that assessed Jack from 30 feet away with the kind of intelligence that couldn't be faked. They stood there for a moment, two men in an empty parking lot measuring each other. Webb spoke first. Mr. Morrison, thank you for coming. You said we needed to talk.
We do. Webb gestured to the bar. Inside. Out here is fine. Webb nodded, accepted it, walked closer but stopped a respectful distance away.
10 feet, far enough that neither could reach the other without telegraphing intent. Close enough to talk without shouting. I know who you are, Webb said. Iron Wolf, Hells Angels, 1980s through early 90s. Left the life after your mother's accident, went straight, opened a garage, stayed clean for 32 years.
You did your homework. I always do. Webb's eyes were steady, unafraid. I also know about the locket, about what my men did to your mother. I'm sorry for that.
Jack's jaw tightened. Sorry doesn't fix a broken hip. No, it doesn't. Webb took a breath. They were supposed to take the purse, nothing more.
Quick grab, no violence. When I heard what actually happened you did what fired them, turned them in. I sent them away, told them never to come back to Arizona. Webb's voice was flat. It's not enough.
I know that, but it's what I could do without making things worse. Jack studied him, looking for the lie, for the manipulation. Found only something that looked like genuine regret. Why? Jack asked.
Why target my mother? Why that purse? Webb was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke his voice was different, softer, more human. Because I've been looking for that locket my entire life, and I didn't know it was around your mother's neck until 3 days ago.
How did you find out? My mother died 6 months ago, Linda Webb. She left me a letter. Final confession she called it. Webb's hands clenched and unclenched.
She told me everything, about my real father, about how he died, about the evidence he'd gathered, about the locket. Jack felt something shift in his chest. Confirmation. Franklin Morrison. Webb's eyes widen slightly, surprised.
You know? My mother told me last night she remembered Linda being pregnant at Franklin's funeral. My mother lied to everyone, said she lost the baby, moved to Tucson, raised me under her maiden name. Told me my father was a man named James Webb who died when I was young. Marcus laughed bitter.
Turns out James Webb was my grandfather, Colonel US Army. And according to my mother's letter, one of the men Franklin Morrison was investigating. So you grew up thinking that my grandfather was a hero, a decorated officer, a man who served his country with honor. Marcus's voice cracked. I built my whole identity on that.
Military school, ROTC. Almost joined the army myself until my mother begged me not to. I didn't understand why at the time. Jack could see it now, the weight Marcus had been carrying. The foundation his life had been built on suddenly revealed as sand.
The microfilm, Jack said. You wanted to see how it was true, if your grandfather was really corrupt. I wanted to know who my father was, my real father, Franklin Morrison. Marcus looked at Jack directly. I wanted to know if he was the hero my mother described in her letter, or if he was just as dirty as the men he was investigating.
I wanted to know the truth. The honesty of it hit Jack like a physical thing. This wasn't about covering up crimes. This was about a man trying to understand his own blood. I have the locket, Jack said.
Marcus went very still. I know. How? Because my men brought me your mother's purse. I tore it apart looking for the locket.