Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 63608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 318(@200wpm)___ 254(@250wpm)___ 212(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 318(@200wpm)___ 254(@250wpm)___ 212(@300wpm)
Yeah. That’s not nothing.
I pull up near the store’s front door and kill the engine. The sounds shift—engine hum disappears, replaced by the buzz of the lights, the faint hiss of the refrigerated cases inside, the country music playing low through old speakers.
I swing off the bike, stretch my shoulders, and head inside, like I’m just here to grab a drink.
The clerk behind the counter is a teenager I’ve seen a few times—skinny, bored, earbuds in one ear. Barely legal, but willing to work the night shift.
“Hey,” he mutters.
I nod, grab a bottle of water from the cooler, and make my way to the front, but my eyes keep sliding toward the windows.
The tinted truck is still there. Engine still running. Driver still inside.
“You see that truck before?” I ask casually, nodding toward the glass.
The kid shrugs. “People come and go.”
“You got cameras?”
He nods toward the corner. “Yeah. My boss is paranoid.”
Good.
“Do me a favor,” I say, dropping cash on the counter. “You see that truck do anything weird, you call the King’s clubhouse. Ask for Riot.”
His eyes widen. He’s not stupid. “That serious?”
“Just keep your eyes open.”
He nods. “Yes, sir.”
I walk back outside, unscrew the cap on the water, take a long drink while leaning against my bike like I’ve got all the time in the world. The truck’s driver finally moves—reaches for something in the front seat, then pulls out a phone. At least by the lighting it looks like a phone.
I can’t make out his face in detail through the tint, but his posture is tense. The tint is dark but not blacked out thankfully.
My whole body goes alert.
I could walk over. Tap on the window. Ask what his problem is.
Or I could play it a different way. And sometimes patience is key. Sometimes making a different play is the way to win a battle.
I tuck my water into the saddlebag, swing back onto the bike, and start the engine. The rumble fills the night again, comforting in its familiarity. I pull out of the lot slow, deliberate, passing in front of the truck.
Up close, I catch more details. The paint’s dusty but not neglected, tires decent, no obvious identifying stickers. There’s a faint shape hanging from the rearview—maybe a cross, maybe a small chain. Not enough to pin anything on.
But when I pass, the driver’s head turns, tracks me.
He’s watching.
Yeah. Okay.
I pull onto the road, ride about a half mile, then check my mirrors.
Headlights.
Same distance. Same speed. Matching every move I make.
“Alright,” I murmur, the thrum of the bike vibrating through my palms. “Let’s see what you’re about.”
I don’t turn back toward town. Instead, I take a side road, one that curves into a narrow stretch through trees and dips down into a low grade. Not a good place for a random truck to just happen to be going at two in the morning.
The headlights follow. Not close, but present.
My pulse kicks up for all the right reasons this time. Adrenaline. Focus. Instinct.
After years in this life, you learn to tell when someone’s trailing you by coincidence and when they’re doing it on purpose.
This has purpose.
I take another turn, this one onto a smaller road that leads toward the industrial area where the old warehouses sit. Part of our territory. Familiar ground. Places with cameras we installed, exits we know, choke points we can control.
The truck follows.
“Gotcha motherfucker,” I mutter.
At the next wide enough opening, I slow and pull onto the gravel beside the road, easing off the throttle. The bike idles, rumbling low.
The truck doesn’t slow. It passes me, roaring by, engine revved just a little too high. For a second, its interior lines up with my view. The tint is dark, but the dash glows faint green, casting a faint light on the driver’s hands.
Gloved. Big. Firm on the wheel.
He doesn’t look my way this time.
Like he knows if he does, I’ll have something else to go on. A shape, a scar, a gaze I can recognize when shit hits the fan later.
He keeps going, taillights fading into the curve ahead.
I sit there, watching him disappear.
I could follow. Could push this to a confrontation.
But I’m the only one out here, and starting something without backup when we don’t know how many shadows Morozov left behind?
That’s how you end up in a ditch.
I pull out my phone and open the encrypted messaging app we use for club business.
Me (to Chux & Nitro): Black eighties Ford, truck no plates. Tint. Circling town, following me. Spotted at gas station and industrial road. Check cams, pull footage.
Nitro responds first.
Nitro: On it. You alone?
Me: Yeah.
Chux: Get your ass home.
I stare down the road where the truck vanished, a bone-deep feeling settling in. This isn’t random. This isn’t small.
Someone’s testing our perimeter.
I turn the bike around and head back toward the clubhouse.