In the fog-covered cemetery, the Iron Brotherhood gathered around Axel’s new grave. Ember laid a white rose; Tank held the vest Axel never got to wear. He’d been a prospect who’d earned his place a hundred times over.
Back at the clubhouse, grief hung heavy. Tank asked Ember about the ride Axel dreamed of leading—the tough Memphis run. So they did it for him, riding at dawn with Axel’s spot left empty and his patch tied to the bike. At the old diner he’d picked out, they set his patch and photo on the table and ate pie in silence.
Two weeks later, Ember received an anonymous letter showing Axel’s crash wasn’t an accident—his brake line had been cut. Mako traced footage to Trevor Miles, a bitter ex-member. The Brotherhood confronted him, got his confession, and the sheriff arrested him. Axel’s name was cleared.
Ember placed his patch on the grave. Tank added a plaque: “Officially Patched, Forever Rides.” They honored him on every ride after—leaving one spot open. Some people you don’t replace. You carry them.
