Chapter 3
Three
Ledger
Sleep doesn’t stick.
I drift for maybe twenty minutes at a time before snapping awake, heart racing like I’ve been running, chest tight, sheets twisted around my legs. Every time I close my eyes, I see her in that hallway at the bakery.
Her chin up. Her eyes wet, but not allowing the tears to fall. Her voice steady even as the ground shifted under both our feet.
I throw the covers off and sit on the edge of the bed, elbows braced on my knees, hands dragging down my face. The room is dark, quiet, too damn small for how loud my thoughts are.
This is pathetic.
It’s not like we broke up. Not really. You gotta be in a relationship to break up, and we were never that.
We had an arrangement. We ended the arrangement.
Simple.
I tell myself that again, then again, waiting for it to hit like truth instead of a lie I keep forcing down.
It doesn’t.
The digital clock on the nightstand glows 1:42 a.m.
There’s no chance I’m getting back to sleep.
I stand, grab my jeans from the floor, tug them on. Boots next. Shirt. My cut hangs over the back of the chair in the corner. I shrug into it, letting the familiar weight settle over my shoulders.
Feels better. Not good.
But better.
I pocket my keys and phone and head outside.
The night air in Freedom Falls is cool, damp, carrying the faint smell of the creek that winds beyond the tree line. Crickets hum, the distant sound of a semi rumbles somewhere on the highway, and for a brief second, everything looks exactly the same as it always has.
Which just makes the difference in me feel more obvious.
My bike is where I left it, glinting under the weak porch light. I swing a leg over, start her up, feel the familiar vibration beneath me. It pushes back the worst of the noise in my head.
That’s the thing about riding—there’s no room for bullshit. If your mind wanders too far, you end up in a ditch or under someone’s bumper. Bikes demand your full attention. They drag you into the present whether you like it or not.
Right now, I need that.
I pull out, tires crunching on the gravel, and hit the road, letting the steady hum of the engine and the wind claw some of the tension out of my muscles. I don’t have a destination. I just ride.
My first pass down Main Street is out of habit.
The road curves, I lean with it, and before I know it, I’m cruising past the bakery.
It’s dark, of course. Closed. The front windows reflect the streetlights. The simple Frosted and Filled sign hangs over the door, swaying gently in the breeze. A few flyers are taped in the corner—local events, charity run, some church bake sale Ally agreed to donate to.
I don’t even slow down. Just look, just long enough, then keep going like I never did.
But my chest tightens anyway.
I picture Kelly in there earlier, hands flour-dusted, eyes tired but still bright, pretending like I didn’t just cut something loose between us she’d started to believe in.
You did what you had to, I tell myself, but the words land flat.
The road leads me out of town, away from the soft glow of night lights and into the darker stretch lined with trees and old fence posts. I open up the throttle a little, wind whipping harder against my chest.
The Russian splinter talk from earlier keeps circling in my mind, looping around and around. The truck at the hardware store, the no plates, the way the driver watched me.
I should’ve followed.
Should’ve pushed.
Should’ve gotten a glimpse of the driver’s face.
Instead, I rode away and went back to thinking about how I screwed things up with a woman rather than thinking about how someone might be lining us up in their crosshairs.
Chux is right.
I need my head back in the game.
The Kings have plenty of enemies. You move product, you move guns, you hold territory and respect, you’re gonna have people wanting to take it, challenge it, test how far they can go.
Morozov’s crew may be crippled, but you don’t just snuff out that kind of darkness. It lingers. It festers. It breeds smaller monsters. Like a fantasy beast, cut one head off and another grows back in its place.
We knew that. We prepared for that. We’ve been waiting.
I take the long loop around the edge of town, past the old mill and the rusted-out train cars that have been sitting off the tracks damn near since I was a kid. The moon is high, throwing a silver sheen over everything. For a few miles, I manage to think about nothing but the road.
Then the gas station comes into view.
The only twenty-four-hour joint for miles, its harsh white lights buzz like they’re mad about existing. There’s a pickup parked by the far pump—old, faded paint, dented bumper.
Another truck is idling near the side of the building, half in darkness.
Tinted windows. No plates.
My stomach goes tight.
I slow, letting the bike roll along the edge of the property. The guy at the pump glances my way, nods like any normal local recognizing a King.
The driver in the idling truck doesn’t move.
I circle around once, nice and easy, pretending I’m just turning into the lot. His head tracks the motion of my bike. I can’t see his eyes, but I feel the focus. Intent.
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.