You like carving? Dutch asked. You want to take off a patch? Jax stared at the knife. He was shaking.
Dutch, please. Take the knife, Jax. Jax slowly reached out and took the handle. Dutch pointed a massive finger at Jax's chest, right at the Hell's Angel's death head stitched over his heart. Start cutting.
Dutch commanded. Take the patch off your own chest now before I do it for you and take the skin with it. The diner's air conditioner rattled in the window, a pathetic mechanical heartbeat against the heavy silence. Jax stood frozen, holding the folding knife. The blade was dull steel, scuffed from cutting zip ties and fuel lines, stained dark near the hinge.
It felt heavy in his hand. Too heavy. He looked at Colby. He looked at Rock. Colby stared at the floor tiles, his broad shoulders hunched, suddenly very interested in the scuff marks on his boots.
Rock was backed up against the piecase, chewing his toothpick so hard it splintered. Neither of them met Jax's eyes. Brotherhood had a hard, fast limit, and that limit was Dutch. You didn't cross the old guard. You didn't stand between a legend and his wrath.
Dutch, Jack said, his voice cracked. The arrogant swagger was entirely gone, replaced by the naked panic of a man watching his identity evaporate. I've been patched for 4 years. I did my prospect time. I bled for this club in Reno.
You can't just I am not taking your patch, Dutch said. His voice was a low, even rumble. He didn't move. He stood like an oak tree in the center of the room. You are because you proved you aren't heavy enough to wear it.
You put your hands on a widow. You insulted the dead. You cut it off. Or you leave here in an ambulance. Then we take it anyway.
Choose. Jax's chest heaved. Sweat beaded on his forehead, rolling down his temple and tracing the outline of the spiderweb tattoo on his neck. He knew Dutch wasn't bluffing. The four men blocking the door hadn't moved a muscle.
They were relaxed, hands resting comfortably on their belts, waiting. It was just business to them. Jax looked at Amelia. He wanted to blame her. He wanted to direct his fury at this tired woman in the green flannel shirt.
But when he looked in her eyes, he found nothing to fight against. There was no triumph there, no gloating. She just looked incredibly weary. With a shaking hand, Jax brought the knife up to his own chest. He dug the point of the blade under the thick white border of the death head patch.
The leather of his cut was tough. The heavy nylon thread used to sew the patches on was designed to survive asphalt slides at 80 m an hour. It didn't give easily. Jax gritted his teeth and pulled the blade upward. Snap.
The sound of the first thread breaking was louder than a gunshot in the quiet diner. Jax swallowed hard. He dug the blade in again. He soared back and forth. Snap.
Snap. Reap. It was a slow, agonizing process. He had to angle his chin down, fighting the awkward angle, pulling the fabric tort with his left hand while he soared with his right. He was dismantling his own armor.
Every broken thread was a severed tie to the only family that had ever made him feel like a god. Without that patch, he wasn't Jax of the Hell's Angels. He was just another angry guy with bad tattoos and a loud motorcycle. Keep going, Dutch said flatly. Jax cut down the right side of the skull.
The heavy stitching fought him. He slipped, the blade slicing into the leather of the vest itself, scoring a deep, ugly line across the chest. He let out a frustrated, humiliated breath that sounded dangerously close to a sob. 10 minutes passed. 10 minutes of nothing but the rattling AC unit and the wet, tearing sound of thick thread giving way.
Finally, he cut the bottom edge. The large patch hung by a few threads at the top left corner. Jax grabbed the heavy embroidered fabric and ripped it free. He stood there breathing hard. The front of his cut looked naked, scarred by the leftover threads and the clean, unweathered leather where the patch used to be.
He didn't hand the patch to Dutch. He dropped it on the lenolium floor between them. Dutch looked down at it. Then he looked at Colby and Rock. Get him out of my sight, Dutch said.
He rides back to Reno alone. You two ride to Oakland. We're going to have a conversation about who sponsored you. Colby and Ro scrambled. They didn't look at Jax.
They pushed through the front door, the bell choking again. Jax stood there for a second longer, staring at the patch on the floor before turning and walking out. His posture was broken. A moment later, three engines fired up. One roared off aggressively, screaming down Highway 95 toward Reno.
The other two pulled out slowly, turning west toward California. Dutch watched them go through the dusty window. He let out a long, heavy sigh. The tension in his broad shoulders dropped a fraction of an inch. He bent down with a wse, his bad knee popping, and picked up the severed patch.
He shoved it into his back pocket. He turned to the waitress who was still standing entirely still behind the counter. Betty, Dutch said. Betty blinked, surprised he knew her name. Yeah.
Bring a fresh pot of coffee to the back booth and whatever she was having. He reached into his pocket and tossed a crumpled $50 bill onto the counter for the floor show. Betty looked at the money, then at the massive biker. She nodded slowly. Black coffee coming up.
Dutch gestured toward the back booth where Amelia had originally been sitting. You got a minute? Amelia pulled her sleeve down over the Oakland tattoo and buttoned the cuff. She ran a hand over her graying hair, smoothing it back into its tight knot. "I've got nothing but time, Dutch," she said.
They slid into the booth opposite each other. The vinyl groaned under Dutch's weight. The four other veterans didn't sit with them. One went outside to stand by the bikes. Two sat at the counter, their backs to the room.
The last one, a guy with a scarred lip named Grady, stood near the door. They were giving Dutch privacy but securing the perimeter. It was muscle memory. Betty brought over two heavy ceramic mugs and a fresh steaming pot. She poured in silence, left the pot on the table, and retreated to the kitchen.
Dutch wrapped his thick hands around the mug. He stared into the black liquid for a long time. "You look good, Amelia," he finally said. Amelia let out a short, dry laugh. "Don't lie to me, old man.