“CHAPTER 5: The Mirror and the Mask
The room was in chaos. The socialites were sobbing, trying to call for Ubers that couldn’t get through the wall of motorcycles blocking the streets. Julian was on his knees now, but not because anyone forced him. His legs had simply given out.
“”You can’t do this,”” Julian whimpered. “”I have… I have contracts. I have power.””
“”You have an algorithm, Julian,”” Bishop said, standing over him. He looked down at the CEO, and for a second, he saw the mirror. He saw a man who had traded everything for a feeling of power, just like Bishop had traded his life for Sarah’s approval. They were both fools. But Bishop was a fool who knew how to bleed.
Sarah walked over to Bishop. Her face was a ruin of makeup and terror. “”Mal, please. We can fix this. I’ll leave him. I’ll go back to the road with you. I’ll wear the denim. Just… stop the bikes. Tell them to go away.””
Bishop looked at her. He felt a profound sense of grief, not for the woman standing in front of him, but for the girl he’d met in Yakima. That girl was long gone.
“”The denim wouldn’t fit you anymore, Sarah,”” he said softly. “”And the road doesn’t want you.””
He turned to the window. Below, the street was a river of leather and chrome. The Apostles had arrived. They weren’t shouting. They weren’t Revving. They were just… there. A silent, terrifying wall of loyalty.
The elevator chimed.
The doors opened, and Big Mack stepped out. He was six-foot-four, covered in tattoos, and wearing a faded leather vest with the Outlaw Apostles’ patch on the back. He looked at the room of terrified socialites, then at Bishop.
“”The perimeter is secure, Bishop,”” Mack said, his voice like grinding stones. “”The authorities are ten blocks out. We have the transport ready for you.””
Bishop nodded. He looked at Julian, who was staring at Mack like he was an alien.
“”Julian,”” Bishop said. “”Keep the shoes. You’re going to be doing a lot of walking where you’re going.””
CHAPTER 6: The Road Ahead
Bishop walked out of the penthouse. He didn’t take anything with him. Not the art, not the electronics, not even a coat. He just had the clothes on his back and the locket in his pocket.
The elevator ride down was silent. Big Mack stood beside him, a pillar of muscle and history.
“”You okay, boss?”” Mack asked.
“”My hands itch,”” Bishop said.
“”They always do when the weather changes.””
They stepped out into the lobby. The rain was cold and sharp. The street was packed with bikes. As Bishop emerged, a low, guttural cheer went up. It wasn’t a roar; it was a growl of recognition.
A young man pushed a classic 1978 Shovelhead toward him. It was Bishop’s old bike. The one he’d sold to pay for Sarah’s first office lease. The Apostles had found it. They’d rebuilt it. It was pristine, the chrome gleaming even in the dark.
Bishop ran his scarred hands over the handlebars. The cold metal felt right. It felt like the only truth he had left.
He climbed onto the seat. He kicked the starter. The engine roared to life, a violent, beautiful explosion of sound that drowned out the sirens in the distance.
He looked up at the 50th floor. Sarah was standing at the window, a small, pale ghost against the glass.
Bishop didn’t wave. He didn’t look back.
He kicked the bike into gear and twisted the throttle. The weight of the glass cage fell away, replaced by the weight of the wind.
He had lost his wife, his home, and his “”respectability.”” But as he led the pack out of the city, the rain washing the Seattle grime off his skin, Malakai felt the throne of broken glass shatter behind him.
The road was dark, and the scars were deep, but for the first time in ten years, the King was back on the move.
The full story of what happened to the Vane-Tech files—and the bloody night that followed—is waiting in the darkness of the highway.
“
