Title: A Loud Christmas to Remember
It was 12:00 a.m. on Christmas morning when Lincoln Loud quietly rolled out of bed, careful not to wake the woman sleeping peacefully beside him — Hannah Marie. Her dark hair spilled across the pillow, her breathing soft and steady. Lincoln smiled, brushed a strand from her face, and slipped out of the room.
Tonight wasn't just any Christmas — it was their first one together. And Lincoln had big plans.
Downstairs, the house was silent except for the hum of the oven preheating. Lincoln walked into the kitchen, bare-chested, the "Reaper" tattoo across his back stark in the glow of the stove light — the mark of his motorcycle club, the Sons of Anarchy Royal Woods chapter. He stretched his shoulders, cracked his neck, and started working on the main event: a turducken — turkey, duck, and chicken all in one.
By dawn, the kitchen smelled like heaven and chaos at once. Pots clattered, gravy simmered, and Lincoln stood over the counter in sweatpants and an apron that read "Kiss the Cook (If You Dare)."
Hannah woke up to the smell of roasting turkey. She came downstairs wrapped in a blanket.
"Babe, it's five in the morning. You've been at this all night?" she asked, amused.
Lincoln turned, smirking. "You only get one first Christmas together. Gotta make it count."
By noon, the Loud house was packed — Hannah's parents and little brother, Lincoln's mom, dad, and grandparents, and half the Sons of Anarchy chapter, all crammed into the dining room. Even Lily and her girlfriend Mia were there, sitting close together, both looking nervous.
As the plates were passed around, Lily cleared her throat.
"Mom, Dad… me and Mia wanted to tell you something."
Rita and Lynn Sr. looked at each other, curious.
Lily took Mia's hand. "We're together."
There was a heartbeat of silence — then Rita smiled softly.
"Honey, we know. We just wanted you to be ready to tell us yourself."
Lynn Sr. chuckled. "As long as she treats you right, that's what matters."
The girls both exhaled, smiling in relief. Lincoln watched from across the table, proud. His family had come a long way.
Dinner went perfectly — until the sound of gunfire shattered the laughter.
"Down!" Lincoln shouted, flipping the table as a drive-by tore past the front yard. Windows shattered, guests screamed, and the roar of a bike engine faded down the street.
Lincoln rushed outside, his heart pounding. One of his brothers — Reaper Jr. — was down, bleeding from his side.
"Hang on, brother, hang on!" Lincoln yelled, ripping his shirt off to press against the wound.
Then he saw movement — the shooter crawling from behind a truck, pistol still in hand. Lincoln drew his sidearm, fired once — the bullet struck the man clean in the leg, spinning him to the ground.
Lincoln stormed over, kicked the gun away, and zip-tied the shooter's hands behind his back.
"You just ruined Christmas, pal," Lincoln growled.
He grabbed his phone and called 911.
"This is Sergeant Lincoln Loud of the Royal Woods SOA. We've got a shooting victim and the suspect detained."
Within minutes, sirens filled the night. Paramedics loaded Reaper Jr. into an ambulance as Lincoln stood there, blood on his hands, shirtless in the cold. Hannah came up behind him and wrapped a blanket around his shoulders, her eyes glassy with worry.
"Is he gonna make it?" she whispered.
Lincoln nodded slowly. "Yeah. He's tough. We all are."
As the police took the shooter away, Lincoln looked back at the house — shattered window, dinner gone cold, family huddled together. It wasn't the Christmas he planned. But it was real — messy, loud, and full of love.
Later that night, when things finally calmed, Lincoln and Hannah sat on the porch, a cup of hot cocoa in each hand. Snow began to fall softly.
Hannah leaned on his shoulder. "Next year, let's skip the chaos."
Lincoln chuckled, kissing her forehead. "With my family and the club? That's never gonna happen."
And in that quiet, snowy moment, surrounded by family, love, and loyalty — Lincoln couldn't have asked for a better Christmas.
---
Would you like me to write a part two where Lincoln visits his wounded club brother in the hospital and uncovers who ordered the drive-by?
Title: A Loud Christmas to Remember — Part 2: Blood and Brotherhood
The next morning, snow blanketed Royal Woods, hiding the chaos that had erupted the night before. The yard still bore scars — shattered glass, police tape, and the faint outline where the shooter had fallen.
Lincoln Loud stood on the porch, sipping black coffee, his Reaper tattoo half-hidden beneath a flannel shirt. His eyes were tired, but focused. He'd barely slept.
Behind him, Hannah Marie stepped outside, wrapping her arms around his waist.
"You've been up since dawn," she said softly.
"Couldn't sleep," Lincoln admitted. "Reaper Jr. took a bad hit. I need to see him."
Hannah nodded, understanding. "Be careful, okay?"
Lincoln kissed her forehead, then grabbed his cut — the black leather vest marked Sons of Anarchy, Royal Woods Chapter. He swung a leg over his Harley, kicked it to life, and rode through the snow-slick streets toward Royal Woods Medical Center.
---
Inside the hospital, the smell of antiseptic filled the halls. The club had gathered in the waiting area — Tig Jr., Ghost, and Hammer — all looking grim.
"Lincoln," Ghost said, standing. "Doc says he made it through surgery. Lost a lot of blood, but he's stable."
Lincoln nodded. "Good. Any word on the shooter?"
"Cops got him locked up downtown. Won't talk yet."
Lincoln's jaw tightened. "He'll talk."
He walked down the hall, pushed open the door to Reaper Jr.'s room. Machines beeped steadily beside the bed. Reaper Jr. looked pale, bandaged from ribs to hip, but he managed a weak grin.
"Boss… you saved Christmas," he croaked.
Lincoln chuckled quietly. "Nah, brother. You did that by surviving."
Reaper Jr. coughed, wincing. "They… they weren't aiming at me. They were aiming at you."
Lincoln froze. "What?"
"Guy said something before he fired. Said, 'Message from Charming.'"
Lincoln's eyes darkened. Charming — the mother charter of the Sons of Anarchy.
If someone from there wanted him dead, it meant bad blood was brewing between charters — and that was serious.
He squeezed Reaper Jr.'s hand. "Rest up, brother. I'll handle this."
---
That night, Lincoln sat in his garage, the cold air swirling around him. The lights of the Christmas tree inside flickered through the window, faint but warm. Hannah came in quietly, wearing one of his hoodies.
"Hospital okay?" she asked.
"Yeah," he said, staring at the floor. "But it wasn't random. It was a hit."
Hannah's eyes widened. "On you?"
Lincoln nodded slowly. "Something's wrong between Royal Woods and Charming. I'm gonna find out what."
Hannah placed a hand on his arm. "Lincoln, it's Christmas. Can't this wait?"
He looked up, the fire in his silver eyes reflecting the weight of a man caught between love and loyalty.
"When one of my brothers bleeds, it doesn't matter what day it is."
She didn't argue. She just wrapped her arms around him, resting her head on his chest.
Outside, the snow kept falling. Inside, Lincoln's phone buzzed.
It was a message from Tig Jr.:
> "Found out who ordered the hit. Not from Charming. From inside Royal Woods."
Lincoln stared at the screen, his pulse quickening.
A traitor in his own charter.
He stood, grabbed his cut, and slung it over his shoulder.
Hannah caught his wrist. "Lincoln—where are you going?"
He looked back at her, calm but deadly serious.
"To find out which one of my brothers just sold us out."
---
Would you like me to continue with Part 3, where Lincoln uncovers who betrayed the club and what they were paid to do it?
Title: A Loud Christmas to Remember — Part 3: The Traitor Among Us
Snow still covered Royal Woods the next night, but the warmth of Christmas had long since faded. The lights on Lincoln Loud's porch blinked faintly, forgotten, while he rode through the frozen streets toward the SOA clubhouse — the hum of his Harley echoing in the quiet night.
Inside his jacket, the Reaper patch glared like a silent promise.
He wasn't riding for holiday cheer anymore.
He was riding for answers.
---
When Lincoln rolled into the lot, half the club was already there — bikes lined up, engines still warm. Tig Jr., Ghost, and Hammer waited near the doors, their faces grave.
"You sure about this?" Ghost asked.
Lincoln nodded. "Yeah. Whoever set up that drive-by is one of us. And tonight, we find out who."
Inside the clubhouse, the air was thick with tension. The smell of whiskey and motor oil filled the room, but nobody was laughing, nobody was talking.
Lincoln slammed his helmet down on the table.
"Somebody tried to have me killed yesterday," he said, voice steady but cold. "They shot Reaper Jr. instead. Cops got the triggerman, and he sang enough to tell me one thing — he was paid by a brother wearing this patch."
A murmur went through the room. Lincoln's silver eyes swept over each face — men he'd ridden with, bled with, trusted.
"Now, I don't want to believe that. But I'm not letting a snake sit at my table."
He nodded to Tig Jr., who stepped forward and tossed a small envelope onto the table.
"Found this in the shooter's car," Tig Jr. said. "Five grand in cash. Note inside."
Lincoln opened the envelope and read aloud:
> "End the White Dragon. Payment on delivery."
The nickname hit him hard. White Dragon — the name his brothers gave him after the Stardust Dragon mural he'd painted on his old semi-truck.
Lincoln's voice dropped to a low growl. "Someone here tried to end me."
The room went silent… until a shaky voice spoke up.
"I didn't mean for it to go that far."
All heads turned. It was Cody, one of the newer prospects. Barely in the club six months.
Lincoln stepped forward slowly. "Say that again."
Cody swallowed hard. "It was supposed to be a scare. That's all. They paid me to pass along a location — said it'd just be a warning shot."
"Who paid you?" Lincoln asked.
"I—I don't know his name! He said he was ex-SOA, from Charming. He wanted proof I could deliver."
Lincoln's hands clenched. "You took money to sell out a brother?"
Cody's eyes welled up. "I didn't think—"
"You didn't think, period." Lincoln grabbed him by the vest and slammed him against the wall. The other members stood, ready to step in if it went too far.
"You put a bullet in Reaper Jr., you brought cops to our doors, and you brought shame to this patch," Lincoln hissed.
Cody trembled. "Please, boss—"
Lincoln let go, stepping back. "You don't call me boss anymore."
He turned to Ghost. "Take his cut."
Ghost nodded grimly, pulling the vest from Cody's shoulders. The boy sobbed, knowing what that meant — he was excommunicated. Out of the club. For good.
"Get him outta here," Lincoln ordered. "And if that guy from Charming reaches out again, tell him Lincoln Loud's coming for him next."
---
Hours later, the clubhouse was quiet again. The fire crackled low, and the tension had eased — but only a little.
Lincoln sat alone at the bar, staring at a glass of whiskey he hadn't touched. Hannah's name flashed on his phone. He answered.
"Hey, baby," she said softly. "You okay?"
"Yeah," he said after a pause. "We handled it."
"You're not coming home tonight, are you?"
"Not yet. I've got one more call to make."
She sighed, knowing what that meant. "Be safe, Lincoln."
"Always," he said, hanging up.
Then he dialed another number — one he hadn't used in years. The call rang twice before a gruff voice answered.
"Who is this?"
"This is Lincoln Loud, Sergeant-at-Arms, Royal Woods Charter," Lincoln said flatly. "Someone from Charming just tried to kill me. I'm coming down there to find out who."
A long silence. Then the voice replied:
"Come ahead, brother. But you won't like what you find."
Lincoln ended the call, stared at the Reaper patch on the wall, and whispered,
"Then I'll bring hell with me."
He put on his cut, grabbed his helmet, and walked out into the cold, the Harley's engine growling to life under the pale moonlight.
---
Would you like me to write Part 4, where Lincoln rides to Charming and confronts the ex-SOA member behind the hit — leading to a brutal showdown between charters?
Title: A Loud Christmas to Remember — Part 4: Blood in Charming
The next morning, the sky over Michigan was steel gray, snow melting into slush on the cracked roads.
Lincoln Loud stood by his Harley in the clubhouse yard, the White Dragon decal on his gas tank catching what little light broke through the clouds.
He tightened his gloves, slipped his cut over his hoodie, and looked once more at the house across the street — his home. Hannah stood in the doorway, arms folded against the cold.
"You don't have to do this," she called.
Lincoln swung his leg over the bike. "I do."
"Then promise me something," she said, her voice trembling. "Promise you'll come back."
Lincoln met her eyes, gave a faint smile. "You know I always keep my word."
Then he twisted the throttle, and the Harley roared to life — the Reaper's hymn echoing down the frozen road as he rode south.
---
Eighteen hours later, he crossed into California — Charming, the birthplace of the Sons of Anarchy. The town was quiet, older, and meaner than he remembered. He pulled up to Teller-Morrow Garage, where the original charter once ruled.
A few bikes were parked out front. He recognized the patches — SOA Charming — same Reaper, different bottom rocker.
As he shut off his engine, a tall, grizzled man stepped out of the shop, gray beard under his cut, tattoos winding down his arms.
"Long way from Royal Woods, ain't ya?"
Lincoln took off his helmet, revealing the streak of white hair that earned him his nickname. "Looking for someone. Name's Marcus Dales. Used to wear your patch."
The man nodded slowly. "Marcus doesn't ride with us anymore."
"Yeah," Lincoln said coldly. "I heard."
The man squinted. "You're Lincoln Loud. The one they call White Dragon."
Lincoln's stare hardened. "That's right."
"Then you'd better know, kid — Marcus is poison. Got kicked out two years ago. Been running guns through Nevada under the Reaper's name ever since."
Lincoln crossed his arms. "And he sent someone to kill me."
The older biker's eyes widened slightly. "You sure about that?"
Lincoln nodded. "He paid a Royal Woods prospect five grand to set me up. He missed, but one of my brothers almost died."
The man exhaled, pulling off his gloves. "Then I guess you're here for payback."
Lincoln's answer was simple. "I'm here for justice."
---
Night fell over Charming, and Lincoln followed the lead to an old warehouse on the edge of town — rusted steel doors, no lights, only the low hum of a generator inside.
He parked his Harley in the shadows and slipped a pistol into the back of his jeans. The cold air stung his bare forearms as he moved quietly through the snow.
Inside, voices murmured. Marcus Dales was there — lean, tattooed, with a faded SOA patch still on his vest, though the bottom rocker was torn off.
"You don't send a message to Royal Woods," Marcus was saying to a few men around a table. "You erase it. That kid, Lincoln? He's soft. He forgets what the Reaper stands for."
Lincoln stepped into the doorway.
"Funny," he said evenly. "I was about to say the same thing."
Marcus turned, smirking. "Well, look who it is. The White Dragon himself."
Lincoln took another step forward. "You sent a gunman into my home on Christmas. Shot one of my brothers. You're done."
Marcus laughed, spreading his arms. "You think you're some kind of hero? You and your 'family dinners'? You made the club weak, Loud."
Lincoln's eyes burned with fury. "You don't know a damn thing about family."
Marcus drew his gun — but Lincoln was faster. One sharp crack split the air, and Marcus's pistol clattered to the floor as a bullet tore through his shoulder.
The room froze. Lincoln kicked the weapon away, yanked a zip tie from his belt, and restrained Marcus against a support beam — same as he had done to the shooter back home.
"You don't get to wear that patch anymore," Lincoln said, ripping the torn SOA vest from Marcus's chest. "You betrayed the Reaper."
Marcus spat blood, sneering. "You think this ends with me?"
Lincoln leaned close, his voice cold. "No. It ends when every brother you sold out gets justice."
He called the Charming charter. "Got your problem wrapped up in a bow," he said simply.
Minutes later, the sound of bikes filled the night. The Charming Sons arrived, faces hard, ready to finish what Marcus started.
The gray-bearded man from Teller-Morrow stepped forward. "We'll take it from here, brother. Appreciate you bringing him in alive."
Lincoln nodded, turned toward his Harley. "He's not worth a bullet. But he's worth remembering."
---
As dawn broke over Charming, Lincoln rode out of town, the rising sun glinting off the chrome of his bike. He stopped once at a ridge overlooking the valley, where the wind carried the faint echo of engines below.
He took out his phone and called Hannah.
"It's done," he said quietly.
"You're coming home?" she asked.
"Yeah," Lincoln said, smiling faintly. "Christmas isn't over yet."
He started the engine, the White Dragon roaring back to life, and turned east toward home — toward family, peace, and the promise of a quiet night that might finally stay quiet.
But deep down, Lincoln knew the Reaper never truly slept.
---
Would you like me to write Part 5, where Lincoln returns home and the club holds a memorial ride for Reaper Jr., bringing closure and peace back to Royal Woods?
Title: A Loud Christmas to Remember — Part 5: The Ride for Reaper Jr.
A week had passed since Lincoln Loud rode back from Charming.
The snow had melted into clear winter roads, and the Royal Woods Sons of Anarchy clubhouse was quiet again. Christmas lights still hung along the roof — half burnt out, but still glowing softly, a reminder of both chaos and family.
Lincoln stood beside his Harley, polishing the White Dragon's gas tank, the Stardust Dragon decal gleaming under the morning sun. He wasn't dressed for battle this time — just jeans, his cut, and a heavy heart.
Today wasn't about revenge.
Today was about honor.
---
Inside, the club gathered — Tig Jr., Ghost, Hammer, and the rest — all wearing black armbands with white stitching that read:
> Ride in Peace, Reaper Jr.
The clubhouse was silent except for the sound of Lincoln setting a photo on the bar. It showed Reaper Jr. smiling, beer in hand, a brother to them all.
Lincoln took a deep breath. "He didn't go down running. He went down protecting family. And that's something the Reaper will never forget."
The men nodded quietly. Tig Jr. spoke up, his voice rough. "You think he'd want us to do a full ride?"
Lincoln looked toward the window, where sunlight broke through the clouds. "Yeah. One last ride — for him."
---
An hour later, twenty bikes lined the Royal Woods main road. The sound of their engines thundered through the town, people stopping to watch as the Sons rolled past in perfect formation — black cuts, polished chrome, and Reaper patches glinting in the light.
At the front rode Lincoln, the wind whipping his white hair beneath his helmet. Beside him, Ghost carried Reaper Jr.'s cut, draped over his handlebars.
The convoy headed toward the lake — the same lake where the Royal Woods charter first formed years ago. When they arrived, they parked in a semicircle, engines idling softly.
Lincoln dismounted, pulled off his gloves, and set Reaper Jr.'s patch on a wooden post near the water.
"This club's had its wars," Lincoln said, voice steady but full of emotion. "We've lost brothers to the road, to bullets, to life. But every time we ride, they ride with us."
He looked up at the sky, then down at the calm water. "Ride free, Reaper Jr. You've earned your peace."
The men bowed their heads. Then, one by one, they revved their engines in salute — a roar that echoed through the trees like thunder.
Lincoln stayed behind a moment longer, watching the reflection of the bikes ripple in the lake. Hannah and Lily arrived soon after, standing at his side.
Lily slipped her hand into his. "He'd be proud of you, Lincoln."
Lincoln smiled faintly. "Maybe. I just wish it didn't cost him so much."
Mia put an arm around Lily's shoulders, whispering something that made her smile through the tears. Hannah leaned against Lincoln, her voice soft.
"You did what you had to do, babe. Now let it rest."
Lincoln nodded slowly. "Yeah. It's time."
He turned back to his brothers. "Let's ride him home."
---
The convoy rolled out again, heading back toward town. The White Dragon led the way, the Reaper patch on Lincoln's back shining under the cold winter sun.
When they passed through downtown Royal Woods, people stopped to watch — some raising their hands, others just standing silent as the sound of the club filled the streets.
By the time they reached the clubhouse again, it felt like the weight of everything — the blood, the fear, the betrayal — had finally lifted.
Lincoln parked, killed the engine, and stood beside Hannah as the club dismounted one by one. Ghost clapped a hand on Lincoln's shoulder.
"You did right by him, brother."
Lincoln nodded. "We all did."
They went inside, poured a round of shots, and lifted their glasses high.
"To Reaper Jr.," Lincoln said. "Forever in the wind."
"Forever in the wind," they echoed.
They drank, laughed, and told stories until the sun dipped below the horizon — not as outlaws or soldiers, but as brothers.
And as the night settled over Royal Woods, Lincoln looked around the room — at his family, his club, his home — and finally felt something he hadn't in a long time.
Peace.
---
Would you like me to write a Part 6 where Lincoln and Hannah take a quiet winter getaway after the chaos — giving him a chance to finally rest, and maybe talk about the future together?
Title: A Loud Christmas to Remember — Part 6: Rise of the White Dragon
The new year dawned cold and quiet over Royal Woods, but change was in the air.
The clubhouse lot, once a place of noise and chaos, now stood lined with gleaming Harleys — freshly polished, engines silent. Inside, the Sons of Anarchy Royal Woods Chapter gathered for a meeting that would mark the end of one era… and the start of another.
Lincoln Loud stood at the head of the table, hands resting on the worn wood scarred by years of brotherhood and blood. His cut — still marked Sergeant-at-Arms — felt heavier than ever.
At his right sat Ghost, acting VP, and across from him, the chair where Reaper Jr. once sat, now draped in his old cut and black armband.
The room was silent until Tig Jr. cleared his throat. "Brothers… we all know why we're here."
Lincoln glanced at him, then at the others — Hammer, Ghost, Torque, and the rest of the patched members. Every face looked to him with the same steady respect that had been earned, not given.
Tig Jr. continued, "We've been through hell these past months — betrayal, bloodshed, and loss. But through all of it, one man stood tall. One man held this club together when it was falling apart."
He turned toward Lincoln. "Brothers, I nominate Lincoln 'White Dragon' Loud for President of the Royal Woods chapter."
A murmur swept the table, followed by Ghost standing. "Seconded."
Lincoln straightened. "Brothers… I didn't ride for a title. I rode for loyalty, for family. For the Reaper. But if you think I'm the man to carry that, I'll give this club everything I've got — my time, my blood, my life."
Tig Jr. grinned. "All in favor?"
Every hand around the table went up.
The gavel came down.
And just like that — Lincoln Loud became President of the Sons of Anarchy, Royal Woods Charter.
---
After the meeting, the men filed out to the yard. Ghost handed Lincoln a fresh patch — the black and white emblem gleaming in the cold morning light.
"Prez," Ghost said with a nod. "It's yours."
Lincoln took the patch, his chest tightening as he replaced the old one. He looked down at the Reaper logo — now stitched above the word President — and felt the weight of every mile, every scar, every fallen brother behind it.
Then, from the gate, a familiar voice called out:
"Mr. President!"
Lincoln turned — and there was Hannah Marie, bundled in a leather jacket with a smile that could melt snow. She walked up and kissed him on the cheek.
"So it's official?" she asked.
"Yeah," Lincoln said, still stunned. "Guess it is."
She smirked. "I always knew you'd end up running the place."
The brothers cheered from behind them, raising beers, and Tig Jr. shouted, "Long live the White Dragon!"
Lincoln chuckled, shaking his head. "You guys are never gonna let that nickname die, huh?"
"Not a chance," Ghost said with a grin. "You earned it."
---
That night, a bonfire roared behind the clubhouse. The club stood around it, glasses raised high under the stars.
Lincoln stepped forward, holding his beer aloft.
"This patch ain't just leather and thread," he said, voice carrying through the cold air. "It's the bond that keeps us together. It's the fire that burns in every one of us. We've lost brothers, but we ride on — for them, for each other, for the Reaper."
"Reaper forever, White Dragon leads!" Ghost shouted.
The crowd roared back, engines revving in unison until the night was filled with the thunder of loyalty.
As the flames danced, Lily and Mia arrived, smiling proudly. Lily hugged her brother tight. "President Loud. Has a nice ring to it."
Lincoln laughed. "Don't you start."
Mia smirked. "You gonna need a First Lady for the club now?"
Hannah looped her arm around Lincoln's. "Already taken."
Lincoln looked around — at his brothers, his family, his woman — and felt something rare in the life of an outlaw: peace, pride, and purpose.
He turned toward the open road beyond the clubhouse gates, the orange glow of the fire reflecting off his bike's chrome.
"Tomorrow," he said quietly, "we ride to honor what's left… and protect what's ours."
Hannah smiled up at him. "And tonight?"
He grinned. "Tonight, we celebrate."
The roar of Harleys filled the air once more, echoing through the sleeping town as snow began to fall again — soft, slow, and peaceful.
Lincoln Loud, President of the Sons of Anarchy Royal Woods Chapter, stood at the center of it all — the White Dragon reborn, leading his brothers into whatever came next.
---
Would you like me to continue with Part 7, where President Lincoln leads his first official club run — a peace mission to another charter that might not want peace at all?
Midnight came and went like a dare. Lincoln woke to the quiet of the house — the hum of the refrigerator, the soft tick of the oven clock — and the warm weight of Hannah Marie at his side. He blinked, pushed the blanket aside, and padded into the kitchen barefoot, shirtless by habit and arrogance, the cream of his chest catching the low light and the faded ink of his Reaper tattoo visible across his ribs. The tattoo felt like a map of promises and debts; tonight it felt like armor.
Hannah followed, hair a rumpled halo, laughing at him. "You're making Christmas dinner at midnight, Lincoln?"
"You don't make a turducken by accident," he said, opening the fridge like it was a treasure chest. "You do it with purpose. And with stuffing. Lots of stuffing."
She shook her head, smiling, and slipped an arm around his waist. "You're ridiculous. I love you."
"I love you too," he said, kissing her temple. Then his voice dropped, softer. "And I love your family coming."
He had invited everyone — Hannah's grandparents and cousins, his own grandparents, the Sons of Anarchy Royal Woods chapter he still moved with, and the handful of friends who were as close as brothers. It was supposed to be a loud, messy, messy night where two very different families could meet over something impossible to ruin: an oversized, overstuffed bird.
They worked in the kitchen together until the house smelled like butter and sage. Lincoln basted and carved, Hannah chopped and tasted, Lily and Mia — who'd arrived early with matching nervous grins and a jar of honeyed sweet potatoes — set the table. Lily's hand found Mia's when no one was looking; it squeezed, the quiet battery of courage between them. They'd been practicing this kind of courage for months now.
When Lincoln's grandparents shuffled in — spectacles low, hands full of pies — they stopped short at the sight of his tattoo. For a second everything in the kitchen froze, like a photograph hung mid-flash.
"Lincoln?" Grandma Jean's voice was gentle and small. She reached up and, without a hint of scandal, ran a fingertip over the ink. "Well, it's... quite an artwork."
His grandfather, with a mouth that never softened, chuckled. "You always were dramatic. Did you get into a motorcycle club or something?"
Lincoln shrugged, the easy grin he used to deflect hard things in place. "Something like that, Grandpa."
Conversation spilled into comfortable laughter. Tonight was supposed to be stitches and flour and gravy and stories of bad Christmas sweaters. It was supposed to be proof that he could blend the noisy edges of his life into something softer — that his club, his family, and Hannah's family could share the same table without tearing the room apart.
Then the night cracked.
They were halfway through dinner, the turducken gone to heroic stubs, the kids trading stories, when the first sound came: three distant pops that could have been a fireworks knockoff, a car backfiring. Lincoln's head snapped up; every muscle in him tightened like a sprung wire. He'd been a bounty hunter long enough to know the sound of danger, to read the way light fell on chrome and to hear the spaces between heartbeats.
The second volley came faster, closer. Glass chimed — not the crystal kind in his grandma's hands, but the sharp rattle of a windshield taking a hit. The room went chaotic. Hannah's cousins ducked under the table. Mia pushed Lily behind her chair like a shield. His brother-in-arms — Jax, a quiet man with a laugh that hid iron — shouted something and bolted for the door.
Lincoln was moving before his brain finished the sentence. He grabbed a shotgun off the wall — a safety now, a relic of the life that sometimes sat next to him on late rides — and tore for the front hall. Outside, the night was a flash of taillights and the smell of burnt rubber. A dark sedan peeled away, its back end staining the pavement with sparks.
Jax lay splayed on the porch steps, a pale bloom of life where there had been color a second before. Lincoln swore, the sound ragged, and dropped to his knees. Blood warmed his hand and it was too much and not enough — a living hurt that felt like betrayal. Jax's grip on Lincoln's forearm was thin. He tried to smile. "Don't—" he started. "Don't let them—"
"Shh," Lincoln said, furious, helpless. "Stay with me, man." But Jax's breath thinned, and the world narrowed to the small, impossible task of keeping him alive. The medics arrived in a chorus of lights and command. They worked like machines until the machines stopped.
When the coroner took Jax away, it felt like the house itself had gone mute. Plates still sat on the table, half-eaten potatoes cooling in sorrow. Lily's face was white. Mia's hand trembled in hers. Hannah's jaw was set like someone had cast it in iron.
Lincoln stood in the doorway and looked at everyone — at his grandparents who had watched him grow up into every choice he'd ever made, at Hannah whose family had just become his by bloodless marriage of trust, at Lily and Mia who had spent the evening hoping to be seen — and he felt the old, necessary hunger coil under his ribs.
"He was family," Lincoln said finally, voice raw. "He didn't deserve that. Nobody does."
Hannah stepped up beside him. She didn't ask him to stop. She didn't try to talk him out of what he already knew was coming. Instead she reached up and kissed him, a brief, fierce press that tasted of salt and steadiness.
"I need you to keep Lily safe tonight," Lincoln told Hannah's father before he could argue. "Will you—? Take her with you. Keep her with your folks. Make sure she's safe."
Hannah's father opened his mouth, then shut it. He'd seen the look in Lincoln's eyes before — the one that belonged to men who carried a ledger of wrongs and a willingness to balance it. "Of course," he said. "We'll take her. We'll keep her."
Lily hugged Lincoln like a small animal clinging to shelter. "Be careful," she whispered.
"I'll be careful," he lied, and she smiled as if she believed him.
Later, after the house had emptied and Hannah's family and his own had retreated into the safety of other cars and other stories, Lincoln packed what he needed. He checked his guns with a practiced hand, loaded his wallet with old IOUs and newer contacts, and pulled out a battered notebook that listed names like prayers. Bounty hunting had taught him to read people like maps; it had taught him where enemies hid and how they left crumbs — a pawn at a diner, a license plate traced to a garage. It also taught him that sometimes the law moved like honey while violence moved like a knife.
"I have to do this," Lincoln told Hannah when she pressed her palms to his face, feeling the tremor of his promise. "I'm not asking for permission. I'm saying I'll bring him justice — with or without the cops."
Hannah's eyes were steady and terrible in their love. "Just don't lose yourself," she said. "Come home."
He nodded. He could almost taste the ache of it — the cost of turning vengeance into action. But Jax had been family. Blood could be shed for love, and Lincoln had always been a man who paid his debts.
Outside, his bike waited like a shadow. He climbed onto it, the tattoo on his ribs a familiar map against the cold. He took a breath of the night, and the smell of pine and leftover pie and gun oil braided together.
"Vengeance will be served," he told the empty street, a promise forged in grief. He revved the engine, and the sound that answered was like a war drum.
Hannah watched him go until the taillight vanished. Lily watched from the doorway of the car that would take her away. Mia squeezed Lily's hand and kept her eyes on the house where Lincoln had left a part of himself.
Inside, the table stayed set. The turducken sat half-carved, a testament to the life they tried to stitch together in one night. It would be there the morning after, a thing to bring them back to each other if he came home. If he didn't, it would be an altar for a man who loved too fiercely and too carefully.
Lincoln rode into the night not as a man without fear, but as a man who had learned to make fear useful. The names in his notebook glowed like coals; the map in his head rearranged with every mile. He would use every skill he had learned — the patience of a hunter and the relentlessness of a man with nothing left to lose.
Some debts, he knew, could only be paid in the coin of answers. And he intended to collect until the balance read even.
They didn't even give him ten miles before the blue lights folded the highway into stripes.
Lincoln felt the engine purr down the same way a muscle tightens before a strike. He'd been expecting trouble — he'd been born training for it — but not this: not the sudden, official kind that smelled of regulation and paper and the slow, bureaucratic teeth that could close around a man and chew.
A patrol car eased up behind him, then another. Headlights cut through the night, painting his leather in cold white. A microphone crackled somewhere in the distance. Lincoln killed the bike and let the world compress to the rasp of tires on tarmac and the beating of his own blood in his ears.
Two officers approached, hands on their belts. One of them — a younger cop with a face that had seen too many things for his age — gave Lincoln a hard look, while the other, older and slow to react, kept his eyes on the street like he already knew the calculus of the night.
"License and registration," the younger one said.
Lincoln fished the papers from his jacket the way he always did — mechanically, carefully. "What's this about, officer?"
The younger cop's jaw worked. "Multiple calls about a bike matching your description leaving the scene of a shooting. Witnesses say they saw you on the property."
Lincoln's mouth tightened. "I was at my house. There were shots. One of my patch brothers — he's dead."
The name in his voice changed the air. The younger officer glanced at his partner like a needle had been thrown; the partner's expression folded into something colder.
"Step off the bike," the older cop said. "Hands where I can see them."
Lincoln did as he was ordered. He did not make sudden moves. He'd been cuffed before — not by mistake but by men who wanted to know the limits of his patience — and he knew how to behave so he didn't give them extra reasons to hate him.
They patted him down. They found a wallet, a ring, gum, and a folded bandana. They found nothing illegal on his person but they took his keys without apology, and one of the officers — the younger one — walked the bike while the older one put Lincoln against the hood and clicked metal around his wrists.
Being cuffed was always a raw, small humiliation — but it was also an information moment. The officers were curious, nervous. Lincoln could smell the difference between routine and set-up; the way the older cop's eyes lingered on his tattoo, on the patch on his jacket, on the way his jaw worked. He knew that look. It wasn't about enforcing the law. It was an interrogation wrapped in uniform.
"Are you on your way to… chase them?" the younger cop asked, like he was fishing for permission-slash-judgment.
Lincoln met his eyes. "I was leaving to follow leads. If you have something to say, say it. If you're stopping me because you want to stall me — I have a duty to an injured man."
The older cop smiled in a way that didn't reach his eyes. "Duty and the law aren't the same thing. There are procedures you should be aware of, Mr. Loud."
At that, one of Lincoln's old instincts — the patient predator's patience — flared. He knew every step of this dance. He'd worked with and against lawmen enough to know that the easiest way to lose time was to argue. So he played another card: sincerity.
"Listen," he said low. "If you think I'm leaving the scene to run and hide, you're wrong. But if you think I'll run if I'm free — I won't. Jax deserves better than a rush job because someone wanted my hands bound. I'll cooperate. I'll help. But don't mistake cooperation for a leash."
The younger cop hesitated. Lincoln watched the hesitation like a hawk. It was the crack he needed. "Who are you working with?" the cop demanded suddenly, voice small.
Lincoln's lips curved. "My family. My club. People who would like answers."
"Club," the cop repeated like sympathy and contempt in the same syllable. "You realize some of your... associates have outstanding warrants? You realize this whole place is a powder keg?"
Lincoln's chest tightened. "I realize one of my men is dead tonight. I also realize that hiding a man who will look into it is not the same as hiding the truth."
They took him to the cruiser. In the back, the cold metal bench felt like a promise of delay. A camera mounted on the headliner blinked, capturing the grin on his face and the set of his jaw. Lincoln watched them watch him through the glass. He was being boxed in, but the box was transparent — he could see the world moving outside.
At the station he sat on a plastic chair under a light that hummed like a bee. Questions came at him in small waves: where had he been, who had he spoken to, what did he know about a rival crew seen driving a dark sedan. Lincoln answered each one with selective truth. He did not lie, but he also did not hand them the whole ledger. He knew how to protect the living and the ones who would hunt for the truth.
Hours passed. Hannah's phone calls went to voicemail. Lily's questions were answered by Hannah's father — "She's safe," he said, and Lincoln felt the invisible thread between them pull taut.
Then a lieutenant arrived — the kind of man whose presence bent the temperature of a room. He was older, with a slow, measured voice and a badge the size of a small plate. He looked at Lincoln like he'd been read a complicated book and was only now on chapter three.
"Mr. Loud," he said. "You're a known quantity. There are things happening right now. We have reason to believe your ride may be involved with more than this night. For everyone's safety — including yours — we're going to need to hold you overnight. You can contact a lawyer."
Lincoln felt his stomach drop, but he kept his face neutral. "You suspect me of Jax's death?"
The lieutenant's eyes were flat. "We suspect everyone connected to the scene until we know otherwise."
It was a slow, polite arrest. Cuffed again for transport. The lights of the station blurred into the metal of the cruiser. Lincoln thought of the house emptying, of Hannah's hand pressed to her mouth, of Lily's small shoulders hunched like someone carrying a secret cross. He thought of Mia and the way she'd pushed Lily behind her. He thought of all the small, private things that could be wrecked by time and paperwork.
In the cell, the world was reduced to a concrete square and the distant murmur of radios. He sat on the cot and let his head fall back. It didn't matter who put the cuffs on — it mattered why. Someone had pushed the cops into his path, and that was the detail that stung like cold metal: a setup had fingerprints on it, and they weren't necessarily the ones in uniforms.
At dawn, the lieutenant came back. Paperwork had shuffled. A phone call cut through the morning. New witness statements, a lead that pointed the detectives in another direction — not his. They uncuffed him with a flat apology and an order to stay in town. "We'll need you for questioning," the lieutenant said. "Don't leave."
Lincoln walked out into a gray sky that tasted like the ashes of last night. He'd been delayed. The cops had stopped him, slowed him, maybe even saved him from walking into an ambush — or they had been a part of the trap. Either way, he'd lost hours that could not be bought back.
Hannah was waiting by his bike when he wheeled it into the driveway. Her eyes were ringed in exhaustion but burning with the same terrible steadiness she'd had the night before. Lily stepped out of the car with Mia at her side; they both looked hollowed, older than twelve and nineteen should let them be.
"What happened?" Lily's voice was a small, raw thing.
"They stopped me," Lincoln said simply. "Cuffed me. Held me overnight. Somebody wanted me out of the way."
Hannah reached up and took his face, thumb tracing the edge of the scar near his jaw. "You missed something."
He pressed his forehead to hers for a fraction of a second. "Or I walked out of a trap," he said. "Either way, this just got uglier. Someone used the cops tonight — either by mistake, or on purpose. I won't fuck around. I'll follow every thread, but I'm not doing it blind. From now on, I do this my way and with people I trust."
Lily's hand found Mia's, and their fingers braided like a promise. "We'll help," Mia said, voice steadier than her knees felt. "We'll tell you everything."
Lincoln looked at them all — at family and chosen family, at the people who made him human — and he allowed himself one small, reckless hope: that he could balance the ledger without losing the table where they'd eaten the turducken. But he also understood the new math: being stopped by the cops had cost him time, and time now had a body count.
He slid on his helmet and started the bike. The engine roared to life like a vow. "Keep them safe," he told Hannah. "No more surprises."
"You come back," she said, the edge in her pleading clear.
"I always come back," he answered, and this time his voice was quieter, darker — a promise that sounded, in the morning light, like a warning.
Lincoln found him before sunrise, where the city still kept its secrets warm — a river-front warehouse with broken windows and a neon beer sign that buzzed like a trapped bee. He'd followed small things: a license plate traced to a tow yard, a bar patron who remembered a laugh, a pawn shop receipt for a jacket. The paper trail smelled like cigarette smoke and bad decisions, but it led somewhere real.
He parked two blocks away and walked the last stretch, leather soft against his palms. The warehouse door hung open like a mouth. Voices echoed inside, careless and loud. Lincoln eased in and let his eyes adjust, reading the shapes by memory — a low table, a pool of spilled beer, a rusted forklift. The man he wanted stood by the far wall, sleeves rolled, a scar bisecting his left eyebrow. He was laughing at something someone else had said, the kind of laugh that meant he'd never seen the bad thing he'd done in another man's face.
For a moment Lincoln just watched. Jax's face flashed across his mind like lightning — the brother who'd been taken from their table. Anger flared, hot and immediate, but something steadier moved under it: a decision. He could have walked in with a gun and a storm and taken his pound of retribution there and then. He had the skill, the right, and the kind of fury that could make men barter their souls. Instead, he reached for his phone.
He dialed.
His voice was a low, controlled thing when he spoke to dispatch. "This is Lincoln Loud. I need units to 47 Sable Wharf. Warehouse three. I've got a man here who fired on my property last night. I can point him out. Please advise — I'm staying on scene."
He gave the address, a concise description, the sound of his voice steady enough that the dispatcher even asked if he was safe. He lied — "I'm safe" — because the only thing more reckless than walking into a hornet's nest alone was telling someone you weren't. He moved like a shadow through the dim building, positioning himself so the neon sign edged his silhouette.
The man with the scar saw him then and straightened. "Lincoln?" he said, surprised and pleased, as if recognizing an old rival at a poker table. "You got a death wish, Loud?"
Lincoln didn't answer. He waited for the officers — the chorus of sirens he'd ordered — but sirens take time to find distance and then to cut through brick. In the interim the scarred man's smile hardened into something resentful and quick. He called for backup and two other men rose, palms going to belts. The air tightened.
"Don't," Lincoln said low, watching their hands. "You made your choice. You can make another."
One of the men laughed and reached for a pistol tucked into the back of his pants. Lincoln moved first. It was a clean, practiced motion: a step forward, a sweep of the forearm that knocked the assailant's hand aside, the tip of his boot catching the man's ankle and sending him skidding into crates. He didn't strike to kill. He struck to control. The warehouse filled with the sound of a scuffle and the spit of beer on concrete.
At the edge of his hearing, a distant squeal of tires grew — the patrols were close, exactly where he'd placed his call to bring them. The scarred man scrambled, rage making him reckless. He lunged for Lincoln with a crowbar. Lincoln's forearm took the blow; pain flared white-hot, but he twisted, grabbed the weapon, and snapped it from the man's fingers. He held the bar like a stake between them.
"Don't make me do this," Lincoln said, and for the first time the man looked small. The two backup men hesitated; the taste of a real fight was suddenly bitter on their tongues.
A flashlight blade cut through the dim and blue uniforms flooded the doorway like daylight. "Police! Hands where we can see them!" an officer ordered. The men around the table froze under the sudden legal gravity. Lincoln saw the scarred man's shoulders slump — the defiance burned out of him by something heavier than fear. He was a man who'd counted on chaos to cover his tracks; orderly blue light was a thing he had not accounted for.
Officers swarmed, efficient and brisk. Lincoln stepped back into the darker corner and let them take control. He pointed the scarred man out — the witness, the shooter — and watched as police cuffed him and read him his rights. There was a small, private satisfaction in hearing the words "you're under arrest" land where a gunshot had once landed.
One of the detectives who arrived knew Lincoln by reputation and by the way he carried grief. He shot Lincoln a look that mixed annoyance and respect. "You did the right thing calling us in," the detective said, quietly, as they took statements and dusted for prints. "Even if it isn't the old way."
Lincoln let the sentence sit. The old way had felt cleaner in blood, but it had also burned bridges into ash. He watched the officers work, cataloging shards of the night and folding them into a case folder. The scarred man shouted accusations — names, rivals, intended diversions — but the police had him on the clean evidence Lincoln had brought: the bar he'd used, a witness who'd seen a car leave the scene, a jacket with a sale tag matching the pawn slip Lincoln had unearthed.
When the paperwork started to feel like it might actually turn into charges, Lincoln felt a slow loosening inside his ribs. Calling them in had not been an act of surrender; it had been a choice. He'd done it for Jax, for the turducken left waiting under the kitchen lamp, for Hannah and Lily and Mia and the tangle of lives that meant more than one man's appetite for punishment.
The detective clapped a hand on Lincoln's shoulder — a quick, firm pressure. "You did good," he said, and Lincoln believed him a little.
By the time the sun spat pale light at the warehouse's broken windows, Lincoln had given three statements, left fingerprints, and watched the suspect hauled away. He stayed until the last officer walked back through the doorway and the lot felt like it had been swept clean by someone else's broom.
He called Hannah from the curb, voice thin with tiredness. "They're taking him in," he said. "We got him."
Hannah exhaled on the line like he'd been holding her breath for miles. "You came back," she said.
"I came back," he replied. It was the truth and the promise both. He walked away from the warehouse toward the bike, toward the road that led home, feeling for the first time in days like the ledger might tip toward balance — not completely evened, never that, but nearer than it had been.
At home, the kitchen light was on. The turducken was still wrapped in foil and a little steam curled from its breast as if the house had waited in vigil. Lily and Mia stood at the counter, eyes red but steady. Hannah wrapped her arms around him and didn't ask questions he couldn't answer.
"You did the right thing," she murmured into his jacket. "We needed that."
Lincoln tasted the truth of it like a bitter candy — right didn't always mean simple, but tonight it meant less blood on the porch and more chance for the living to heal. He kissed her without ceremony and let himself fold back into the warmth of the kitchen, where plates would be washed and stories retold and the dead would be named.
Outside, the city moved on, and in the morning the ledger would be a stack of police reports and court dates and the slow machinery of justice. Inside, at a table that had nearly been stained with tragedy, people sat together again. Lincoln pulled a chair out and took his place. He had found the man, called the cops in, and for tonight — for Jax, for Hannah, for Lily and Mia — that had to be enough.
Charming looked like a bruise against the night — all low-slung buildings, neon bleeding into puddles, the smell of oil and old beer hanging thick between parked trucks. Lincoln coasted in on the highway like a shadow and killed his engine two blocks out, letting the town breathe him in before he walked toward it. He had Jax's blood in his mind and a map of rumors in his pocket. Charming was where answers hid under bad instincts and loud laughter; it was also where men who owed favors kept them.
He checked his phone once — no movement from Hannah's number, no texts from Lily. He tucked it away and walked like a man who belonged there, shoulders even, jaw set. The Reaper patch on his cut was invisible beneath his jacket; he wanted his work to be deliberate, not loud. Bounty hunting had taught him patience. Revenge had taught him that patience had a half-life.
His contact in Charming was a man named Rico, a small-time fence who owed Lincoln for a payday once recovered and a secret kept. Rico ran the back room at an auto shop on Third and Vale, a place that smelled of transmission fluid and old regrets. Lincoln pushed through the door and let the warmth and the noise wash over him. Men glanced up; Rico was at the counter polishing a glass like he'd been doing it the last twenty years.
"Lincoln," Rico said without surprise. "Heard about your porch. Sorry, man."
"Who'd you hear about it from?" Lincoln asked, cutting past the condolences.
Rico shrugged, eyes flicking from face to face. "Friends. Enemies. Same thing sometimes. You looking for the shooters?"
"Yeah." Lincoln's voice was simple. "Any names? Plate numbers? A car? Garage?"
Rico leaned in, the smell of cigarettes and coffee strong. "There's been talk. A crew out of the northern side — a few kids with a grey sedan, plates that swap fast. Word is they run for a bunch of guys upstate. Heard they were paid to send a message to your club."
"Who paid?" Lincoln asked.
Rico tapped his temple. "That I don't know. But I heard one name. 'Marcos.' Small-time enforcer, works for a contractor out of Charming's east end. If he's the shooter, he's sloppy — runs with a cigarette and a trigger-happy mouth."
Lincoln's jaw tightened. Marcos. He filed the name and felt the map shift.
"Where?" he asked.
"Last I saw him was at Ray's — bar on the corner of Monroe. He liked the jukebox and people asking dumb questions he could answer with a knuckle. He's been trading stories with a man named Vega. If you want leads, start there."
Lincoln downed the rest of his coffee and left Rico with cash and a warning look. Ray's was louder than Rico's shop, a place where men measured each other in drinks and scars. The bouncer didn't stop him; a nod was enough. Inside, smoke threaded through the air and country music scrapped the ceiling like a promise.
He moved through the crowd, scanning. Vega was too obvious — a broad-shouldered man in an embroidered jacket, laughing too loud at a joke he hadn't made. Marcos was at the end of the bar, a nervous constellation of tattoos and a cigarette that arched and flared. Lincoln watched him — watched the way his fingers trembled when the smoke shifted, the way his eyes slid to the door as if he was waiting for approval.
Lincoln took a seat two stools down and ordered a beer he didn't drink. "You meeting someone?" he asked Marcos casually, letting the tone be lighter than his intent.
Marcos glanced, jaw working. "Maybe," he said. "Why?"
"No reason," Lincoln said. "You look like a man with someone's money in his pocket tonight." He let the words sit there until the cigarette smoke wrapped around them. "Who for?"
Marcos laughed, nervous. "You don't want to know. It's dirty. Real dirty."
"Try me," Lincoln said.
The man's laugh thinned. "Look, man— I don't want trouble. I'm a kid, alright? I—"
"You shot a man on someone's porch tonight," Lincoln said softly. Not blackmail; it was a fact. A shove. Marcos went white.
"What? No— I didn't—" Marcos stammered. "I was just— I was told—"
"By who?" Lincoln asked.
Marcos swallowed, eyes sliding to Vega's reflection in the bar mirror. "Vega. He owed some people, someone got to him. They said 'send a message' — told me to follow the car, fire a couple rounds. I didn't think—"
"You didn't think?" Lincoln repeated. "That a man could die?"
The place went quieter in the space between the words. Vega's laugh stopped. The jukebox seemed to catch its breath.
Marcos' fingers danced at the rim of his beer. "I didn't know the porch was full. I didn't know— Jax—"
Lincoln felt the rage, familiar and terrible, become a tool. "You're going to tell me the name of the man who gave the order," he said. "Right now."
Marcos looked like he wanted to flee. He looked like he wanted something else. "Vega. And—there's a number. He works for someone named Cruz. Cruz runs security for the docks. That's where the money comes from."
Cruz. The docks. The map tightened until it was a cord he could follow. Lincoln paid his tab and left Marcos with a promise that sounded like a benediction: "You come clean, you might live with the rest of your life intact."
Outside, the cold hit him like a slap. Charming's night hummed on — strangers, lovers, the mundane churn of a town with secrets stacked on top of more secrets. Lincoln pulled his jacket up and walked toward the docks, toward cargo cranes that rose like sleeping beasts. The harbor lights painted the water in broad strokes; the air smelled of salt and diesel.
He'd come this far. He'd use every name, every favor, every lesson he'd learned hunting people who wanted to stay lost. He had a route in his head now: Vega to Cruz to whoever in Charming had the money to order a hit on his club.
There would be blood ahead. There would be choices — whether to pull them into the light and let the law do its teeth, or to make them answer in a language courts wouldn't learn. Lincoln thought of Hannah's face, of Lily tucked away with her new in-laws, of Jax's last breath. He thought of the promise that had started it all.
He was in Charming now. Answers were close enough to taste. The night was long, and the hunt had only just begun. Would vengeance be clean? Maybe not. Would it be necessary? In his bones, yes.
He checked his phone again, then finally texted one word to Hannah: Coming back. Then he turned the message off and walked deeper into the harbor shadows, a man with a name to collect and a ledger to close.
Charming smelled like oil and orange blossoms — a strange, sweet tang under the grit. Lincoln eased the Harley into a long shadowed lot where bikes clustered like crows. The mother charter's clubhouse sat squat against the rising sun, a squat building that had seen a thousand storms and survived every one. Flags hung from the porch. Men and women moved like tides in and out of the doorway, half-awake, all watchful.
He pulled his cut tighter against the morning chill and walked up the steps, each footfall steady. He'd ridden a long damned way for answers. He had a name, a plate traced to a chop shop two towns over, and a bullet that fit a gun he'd seen in a dealer's hands — and that was enough to knock on their door.
Inside, the clubhouse was a map of relics: trophies for rides long past, photographs of men who'd once been whole, an altar of sorts to the code they lived by. A man with hair like winter and eyes that had seen too much — Jax Teller — rose from the head of the table. He looked like someone who'd been born inside the club, had never learned to be anything else, and wore the tired grace of command the way other men wore coats.
"Lincoln Loud," Jax said, standing. His voice was even, but the room shifted at the name — respect first, curiosity after. "Royal Woods. Figured you wouldn't cross county lines for a holiday."
"I don't cross them for holidays," Lincoln said. He kept his gaze level. "I cross them when someone shoots my brother."
Jax's jaw tightened. He sat back down but pointed to a chair. "Talk."
Lincoln told the story bluntly — the dinner, the turducken, the laughter, the launcher of glass, the blood on his porch. He left out nothing about Jax's last words. When he was done, a silence fell like a hand over the room.
"You want them found?" Jax asked finally.
"Yes," Lincoln said. "I want the men who did it — found, named, and made to answer. And I want to know why they crossed into our patch to do it."
The room absorbed his words and spat out a hundred smaller questions at once. The mother charter had a long memory and a longer interest in who brought violence into the open. Jax folded his hands.
"You know how it is," Jax said. "There are people who think they can take shots at our people and hide behind other colors. Doesn't matter if it's one of ours or one of yours — you tac it on our soil, we don't let it stand."
A woman at the far end of the table — an older member with a voice like gravel and a laugh she used like proof — leaned forward. "We don't protect cowards. But we also don't leave our own to bleed if it can be stopped."
"Then help us find them," Lincoln said. "Not just for Jax. For any kid who thinks the night is theirs to take. I'll do the work. I'll pull the threads. But I need eyes where I don't have them. I need your contacts in and out of California."
Jax studied him, weighing the cost and the oath. "You're asking us to back a man whose chapter answerable to us, who's got a reputation for burning bridges when things get ugly."
Lincoln's voice dropped. "I don't want bridges burned if we can help it. I want the shooters brought to light. But if they resist? I won't let them walk."
A slow exhale moved around the table. This was the exact kind of calculus the club had been making for generations: weigh the cost of action against the cost of inaction.
"All right," Jax said at last. "We'll help. But you play it our way when you're on our streets. No lone wolves. No fireworks that'll spill blood in front of folks who don't deserve it."
Lincoln nodded. "Deal."
They set the plan across a map that lived on the table like an old, stained bible. The shooter's car had been seen near a mechanic named Cruz's — a place that handled a lot of gray-market work. Cruz answered to a fence who'd worked the border nodes between local gangs and out-of-state muscle. The trail moved like water through the folds of shady deals and crooked cops. Jax's people had ears there; they could put pressure where Lincoln couldn't.
"You going to do this alone?" Jax asked. "Or you bringing Royal Woods' muscle with you?"
Lincoln's mouth twitched. "I'm not going to bring half my chapter into someone else's backyard without clearing it. But I won't do it ghost-hunter style either."
"Then you'll operate with a pair," Jax said. "Two from Royal Woods, two from here. We move clean. We move hard. We don't start a war over a grudge. We collect facts, and if facts lead to a face, then we take our face to that man."
Lincoln thought of Hannah's face that morning, the hard press of her lips, of Lily's small hand. He nodded. "Okay. Two from Royal. Two from Charming."
They chose names with quiet efficiency. Mia, who could read the smallest cues on a mark's face, volunteered without fuss. Lincoln picked his vice, a man named Ortiz, steady and unobtrusive. From Charming came Roarke — a man who did not flinch — and Keri, a woman with an eye for plates and back alleys.
Before they left, Jax pulled Lincoln aside, the two of them standing in the doorway while the sun carved their shadows long across the dirt.
"You know the risk, Lincoln," Jax said. "You go looking for these men and they'll look back. We'll have your back where we can, but you keep your head. I don't want to bury more brothers because someone wanted to settle a debt with a shotgun."
"I don't want to bury anyone," Lincoln said. "But I won't leave what happened unreturned."
Jax nodded. "Then let's make sure return means justice, not a pile of bodies."
They rolled out as a tight unit, four bikes like a single beast. The ride to Cruz's shop was a study in quiet — the kind of silence that lives inside people when they're about to pull a scab off a wound. The lot was fenced and rough, the shop's sign crooked. Cars with patched paint and illegal reg numbers sat like drifting islands under tarps.
Mia slipped off her helmet and scanned the lot through a practiced calm. "That silver Impala over there," she said. "Two weeks old under a new plate. Spent an hour in here last night."
Keri frowned, leaning into her bike. "Plate's been cloned. Runs out of Sacramento in the morning. Original owners reported it five days ago."
"Means the shooter didn't plan to stay," Ortiz muttered. "They used disposable tags."
Lincoln felt the edges tighten. The trail was a thread that could pull at a thousand knots. But it was a thread. That was enough.
They moved like ghosts across the lot, crossing the threshold into a place where tired hands worked with sharp tools. Inside, a young mechanic with grease under his nails looked up, politeness mixed with caution.
"You looking for parts or customers?" he asked.
"Questions," Roarke said. His voice was low. "About the silver Impala."
The mechanic's eyes darted. "We don't ask about customers. You want work, you pay."
Mia smiled — not warm, but cunning. "We're not enemies if you're honest. Did someone come through last night with a busted tail? Plate went into the scrap bin?"
The mechanic swallowed. The room felt suddenly small. A bird began to sing outside, too sharp for the metal and oil.
"He—" the mechanic started. "There was a guy. Moved like he knew we'd kept quiet. Paid cash. Didn't ask questions. Left before dawn."
"Which way?" Lincoln asked.
The mechanic's eyes flicked to the door. "West. Toward Route 14. Said he had friends in Sacramento."
Lincoln's jaw tightened. West meant the highway that tunneled out of the city toward the edges of everything. Sacramento meant a ring of people who trafficked in guns and grudge. It was a path — long, but traceable.
"Thanks," Lincoln said.
They left Cruz's like men stepping away from a burn. Lincoln's phone buzzed, and a message came through from an unknown number: We know what you did. Stay home, Loud. The message was a black rectangle that meant everything and nothing.
He folded the phone shut and looked at his team — the faces blurred by adrenaline but clear in resolve. "We go to Sacramento," he said. "We find who owns the silver Impala and who ordered the hit. We bring them back to Royal Woods, or we bring back a body with their name on it."
Mia's eyes glittered with resolve. "Either way," she said, "we get answers."
Lincoln felt the old promise re-arm itself inside him. The hunt had narrowed, and for now that was enough. The mother charter's backing gave him reach; his own need gave him purpose. They rolled onto the highway, the bikes carving the morning air into a slash of motion, and Lincoln's mind sharpened into a single blade.
The next stop was Sacramento. The next stop would be the truth.