The Green Drop
The afternoon the trouble began, winter had turned the Illinois prairie into a sheet of iron.
The sky was a flat, unforgiving gray. Wind swept across the open fields without obstruction, carrying dry snow and bits of frozen grass against anything unlucky enough to stand in its path.
Fourteen miles outside Carver Falls, an old grain warehouse sat beside a road the township had stopped plowing regularly years ago.
The building had once held thousands of bushels of corn.
Now it held motorcycles, spare parts, battered furniture, old memories, and the men of the Iron Veil Motorcycle Club.
There was no sign on the building.
No website.
No social-media page.
No polished photographs of smiling men standing beside chrome motorcycles.
The Iron Veil preferred being forgotten.
The clubhouse was not beautiful. Its corrugated walls were stained with rust. Its roof leaked. Its concrete floor was permanently marked by oil, grease, and decades of boots. The parking lot was a mixture of cracked asphalt and frozen mud.
But to the men inside, it was home.
Cal Rowan pulled his truck into the lot at 2:15 that afternoon.
He shut off the engine but didn't immediately get out.
For a few seconds, he simply stared through the windshield.
He was forty-three, though the hard lines around his eyes made him look closer to fifty. His hands were scarred from years of mechanical work. His jaw seemed permanently clenched.
Beside him sat his eleven-year-old son, Jace.
Jace was thin and quiet, with sandy hair Cal cut himself every few weeks. The boy carried a paperback novel, a spiral notebook, two pencils, and a granola bar in his backpack.
It was enough to survive an afternoon at the clubhouse.
Cal glanced at him.
"You want to stay in the truck?"
Jace shook his head.
"It's cold in here."
Cal almost smiled.
"It's colder out there."
Jace shrugged.
Cal nodded.
They got out.
The cold immediately attacked them.
Jace followed his father across the parking lot, his sneakers crunching against frozen gravel.
Cal pulled his leather cut from behind the seat and put it on.
The leather was old and cracked at the shoulder.
He didn't care.
Inside, the clubhouse smelled of stale coffee, motor oil, damp leather, and cleaning solvent.
Wade Sutter sat at the head of the long wooden table.
At fifty-eight, Wade was the oldest active member of the Iron Veil. His beard had gone white in places, and faded tattoos covered his forearms.
He had served two tours overseas decades earlier.
He rarely spoke about them.
He didn't have to.
Some things lived in a man's eyes.
"Cal," Wade said.
Then he looked at Jace.
"Hey, kid. Hot chocolate's in the back."
Jace looked at his father.
Cal nodded.
The boy disappeared toward the small kitchen.
Three other men were in the clubhouse.
Rhett Voss stood near the door.
Thirty-six years old, broad-shouldered and intimidating, Rhett had earned a reputation as the man you wanted beside you when trouble started.
He was also the man you wanted nowhere near you when trouble got personal.
His Harley was always spotless.
His boots were always clean.
His temper was always one bad sentence away from becoming a problem.
Elias Kane sat near the table.
He was forty-one, lean and tired-looking.
He had once been one of the most reliable men in the club.
Lately, he seemed to be disappearing.
He had lost weight.
He smoked more.
He rarely laughed.
Nobody had asked why.
That was the way of the Iron Veil.
If a man wanted to talk, he talked.
If he didn't, you waited.
The fourth man was Boone Ratliff, the club's treasurer and unofficial historian.
Boone kept records of everything.
Money.
Membership.
Meetings.
Repairs.
He believed paper trails kept people honest.
Wade was explaining a zoning problem when Rhett suddenly stood.
"I'm heading to Henderson's," he said. "Need a fuel line."
Wade nodded.
"Take the main road."
Rhett grunted.
He walked outside.
Jace was still in the kitchen.
Or at least everyone thought he was.
A few minutes later, the boy set down his book.
He had noticed something through the small window above the sink.
Something green.
Bright green.
Wrong green.
He slipped outside.
Rhett's Road King stood near the edge of the parking area.
Chrome gleamed beneath the gray sky.
Jace crouched.
There was a small puddle beneath the front end.
Green.
He stared at it.