Chapter 3 #2
An hour later, I’m in the small room off our church room, it’s half-lit by computer monitors and humming servers. Nitro’s fingers fly over the keyboard, screens flashing between angles of grainy night footage from around town.
Gas station camera first.
“Here,” he says, zooming in.
The video shows my bike pulling into frame, the pickup parked by the pump, and the dark truck idling near the side of the building. The resolution isn’t great, but it’s enough. He enhances the plate area—blank. Enhances the windshield—too much reflection.
“Motherfucker knows what he’s doing,” Nitro mutters. “No front plate. Dark tint. Tilting the truck just enough when he parks to give us glare on the glass.”
He switches feeds. Now it’s the industrial area, one of the cameras Chux had installed after a deal went sideways a few years back. The truck rolls through the edge of the frame.
“Can you track where he went?” I ask.
Nitro chews his lip. “He takes the long way around. Couple blind spots. But I bet you a case of beer he’s testing coverage.
Look,” He runs the footage at higher speed.
The truck passes under at least three cameras, each time pausing just a second too long.
“Yeah,” Nitro continues. “He’s mapping us. Seein’ what we have, where we don’t.”
Chux is standing behind us, arms crossed. “Feels like recon.”
“Not a local?” I ask but also state because it’s not a familiar vehicle at least to me.
Nitro shakes his head. “Haven’t seen that truck before. And I’ve seen every truck that ever rolled through this town on these cameras.” He shrugs, “I’ve been bored, man.”
“Could be connected to the splinter group,” Chux explains quietly.
My jaw tightens. “They know our routes. Our businesses. Seems pointed.”
Chux’s eyes flick toward me. “You talked to anyone today who felt off?”
I think of the truck at the hardware store. Of the guy’s silhouette. Of the way the engine revved when I rode away. Then I think of the two men at the gas station earlier, the driver half-hidden in shadow.
Now, the oversight tastes sour.
“Couple things,” I admit. “Truck at the hardware store. Some weird interest. Same build as this one. And that gas station sighting. Could be the same guy.”
Chux doesn’t say I should’ve followed earlier. Doesn’t say you let your head get clouded by your feelings for a woman.
He doesn’t have to.
I hear it anyway.
Nitro pulls up a map of the town, dropping pins on each sighting we’ve logged tonight. The pattern forms a rough circle.
“He’s orbiting,” Nitro says. “Not hitting the same spot twice. Not too close to the clubhouse yet. But he’s poking at the edges of our world.”
Chux huffs out a breath. “He’s gonna make a move.”
“On us?” I ask.
“Maybe,” Chux replies. “Or maybe he’s lookin’ for leverage first.”
Leverage.
The word sinks like a stone.
Families. Businesses. People we’ve publicly put under our protection.
People like Ally. Like her grandfather. Like Kelly.
My shoulders tense. “We should put eyes on the bakery,” I share. “Extra patrols around Ally’s place. Anyone tied to us gets shadowed for a bit.”
“We’ll do it,” Chux agrees. “But quiet. Last thing we need is these bastards knowing we’re on to them before we have a name and a face.”
He claps a hand on my shoulder. “You want that detail?”
It’s not even a question.
“Yes,” I answer.
He nods, unsurprised. “You don’t crowd her. You don’t scare her. She already got enough on her plate. And by her, I mean Kelly. I’ll have Ally anytime she’s not at the shop. You handle the shop and Kelly. But do it under the radar.”
“Yeah,” I mutter. “I know.”
He studies me a moment longer. “Riot,” he challenges.
“I said I know.”
He lets it go. “Nitro, keep eyes on the cams. Ping us if you see that truck again. Riot, you hit the route by the bakery, then swing past Kelly’s.”
“On it,” I say.
I turn to leave, adrenaline burning away the last remnants of sleep and doubt.
This—this I know how to handle.
Threats.
Surveillance.
Protection.
My shit with Kelly is a mess, a knot I can’t untangle without pulling everything apart. But keeping her safe?
That’s simple. That’s not optional. That’s mine.
Four days of patrols and nothing. Not a single sighting of the truck. Except things still feel wrong. Something is looming. My third pass of the day by the bakery, I ease off the throttle as I pass, scanning shadows, listening for anything that shouldn’t be there.
Nothing. No movement. No strange vehicles parked nearby.
Still, my nerves hum.
I do a slow loop around the block, keeping to the edges. The town feels tense. Like the air itself is waiting to exhale.
Going by Kelly’s apartment I see a light on. I kill the engine half a block away, letting the bike coast the last few feet. Then I sit there in the quiet, watching, listening, every sense stretched thin.
I shouldn’t be here. Or at least, I shouldn’t be stopping like this.
But now? With talk of recon and leverage and some faceless asshole mapping our movements?
I can’t be anywhere else.
A curtain twitches on the second floor opening up. For a split second, a familiar silhouette appears.
Kelly. Hair piled up messily. Hand resting on the window frame as she looks out.
My heart lurches into my throat.
Even from here, even in dim light, I recognize the curve of her shoulders, the lines of her profile. She’s not close enough for me to see her expression, but I don’t need to. I know what her face looks like when she thinks she’s alone.
Thoughtful. A little sad. A little softer than she lets the world see.
She presses her forehead briefly to the glass, then steps back, disappearing from view.
The ache that rolls through me is almost physical.
I should leave. Should get back on patrol. Should focus on the unknown truck and whoever the hell is behind it.
Instead, I sit there for another few minutes, staring at the darkened window like a damn fool.
“You’re fine,” I murmur, as if she can hear me. “You’re safe. I’ll make damn sure of it.”
It’s a promise I shouldn’t make.
Especially not on a night when the world already feels off-kilter.
I finally start the bike again, forcing myself to pull away. I do another sweep past the edges of town, through the quieter neighborhoods, down the access road to the port.
No truck. No shadows that don’t belong. No obvious sign of danger.
But the unease doesn’t leave.
By the time I crawl back into my bed hours later, the sky is starting to go pale along the horizon. Birds chatter in the trees. Somewhere in town, early risers are starting coffee, flipping open newspapers, stepping into shower steam.
I stare at the ceiling until my eyes blur.
Then sleep grabs me hard, heavy and reluctant.
This time, the dreams come in fiercely.
Kelly laughing in the bakery, flour on her cheek. Kelly pressed against me, whispering don’t fall in love with me. Kelly in that hallway, chin up, agreeing to end it with a voice that didn’t match her eyes.
Then everything shifts.
Her laugh turns into a scream. Her curls are sprawled across glass, glittering in the dark.
Her hands are reaching for me through a haze of smoke and twisted metal, but no matter how fast I move, I can’t get to her.
I wake with my heart in my throat, drenched in sweat, lungs burning.
The room is bright now, morning fully here. My phone buzzes on the nightstand with a string of notifications—club chatter, Nitro pinging about an update, some bullshit spam email.
Then a new message comes in, cutting through everything else:
Ally: Riot, call me. It’s Kelly. There’s been an accident.
The world narrows to the glow of that screen.
My pulse stops. Then slams back into gear, too fast, too hard.
No.
No, no, no.
I’m out of bed and moving before the thought is fully formed. Jeans. Boots. Cut. I don’t even bother with a shirt. The phone is still in my hand as I blow through the front door, the call already ringing.
“Ally,” I bark the second she answers. “What happened?”
Her voice is shaking. “She couldn’t sleep.
She text me in the middle of the night saying she was going for a drive.
If she was late for work, it’s because she was having a rough night.
I thought she slept in when she wasn’t here to open.
I just got a call from the hospital. They found my number on her emergency contact.
They said,” she chokes out the words as her own panic climbs.
I don’t hear the rest. I’m on my bike. Engine roaring to life. Gravel flying.
“I’m on my way,” I order. “Now. Stay put at the hospital. I’ll get to you.”
I hang up and push the bike harder, faster, the town blurring around me as I run the lights, the stop signs, everything between me and the place where someone told Ally words that had her voice cracking like that.
There’s a ringing in my ears, drowning out everything else.
I don’t think about the truck. I don’t think about Russian splinters. I don’t think about the fact that I spent the whole night convincing myself she was fine.
I only think of one thing:
Kelly. In an accident. And I wasn’t there.
The last time I saw her, I was letting her walk away, telling myself it was better for her.
Now?
All I can think is that if this is how it ends—if this is the last memory she had of me—I’ve already failed.
I did this.
I broke her and I broke us.
I broke my fucking self.