Chapter Three
The chapel smelled like old wood and cigarette smoke, same as it had for fifteen years.
Crossroad stood at the head of the table, a hand-drawn map of Greenville spread in front of him, every brother's eyes on his face.
This was his element—roads and routes, the geometry of territory laid out in lines and intersections.
He'd been doing this since Cottonmouth gave him the Road Captain patch, and he'd never lost a brother on a run he planned.
Today felt different. Today the map had a bakery on it.
"Copperhead Kings have been pushing west for six months," he said, keeping his voice level. "Started in the hill country east of Tupelo, worked through the small towns—Holly Springs, Batesville, Grenada. They take a block, set up distribution, move to the next town."
"Meth?" Outlaw asked from his spot at Cottonmouth's right. The VP's river-man eyes were sharp, calculating.
"Meth. They use storefronts as fronts—intimidate the owners out, run product through the buildings.
" Crossroad traced a line on the map. "They've been using Highway 78 as their main corridor, cutting south through back roads to avoid state patrol.
Last month they hit Indianola. Now they're in Greenville. "
Hollow shifted in his chair, the Sergeant at Arms' hollowed-out gaze fixed on the map. "How many?"
"Thirty patched. Maybe another ten prospects and hangers-on." Crossroad tapped the Greenville grid. "Their president is Darnell Price—did eight years in Parchman, built his club from prison connections. Mean and smart, which is a bad combination."
"And he's got officers," Cottonmouth said. Not a question. The president's voice was river-mud slow, but his mind worked faster than anyone at the table.
"Three that matter." Crossroad pulled out three photos he'd gotten from a contact in Tupelo. "Wade Sims—their enforcer. Six-three, Parchman muscle, handles the beatings and the property damage. He's the one who hit the bakery last night."
He laid down the first photo. Sims' face stared up from the table—hard, mean, the face of a man who enjoyed hurting people.
"Clint Roby." Second photo. "Former meth cook, now runs their distribution logistics. He's the one who maps their supply routes, coordinates the drops, keeps the product moving. The operational brain."
"Take him out, the pipeline breaks," Outlaw observed.
"That's the idea." Third photo. "Nolan Fitch. Young, reckless, Darnell's cousin. He's the one they send when they want fear more than compliance. Slashes tires, threatens families, burns property. The personal touch."
Levee leaned forward, his heavy shoulders blocking the light. "So we've got muscle, logistics, and intimidation. Three legs on a stool."
"Exactly." Crossroad looked around the table. "The Kings' operation is a road system. Sims clears the path, Roby moves the product, Fitch keeps everyone scared enough to stay quiet. We take out those three junctions, the whole network collapses. Price loses his ability to operate in the Delta."
"And Price himself?" Hollow's voice was soft. Dangerous.
"He's the destination. We clear the road first, then we finish the trip."
Silence settled over the chapel. Crossroad could feel the brothers processing, running the plan through their own calculations. This was how church worked—the Road Captain laid out the route, and the club decided whether to ride it.
Cottonmouth broke the silence. "The bakery owner. She still there?"
The question hit Crossroad somewhere he wasn't expecting. He kept his face neutral. "She opened at six this morning. Refused to close, refused to leave. Says it's the first thing she's ever owned and she's not walking away."
"Stubborn," Burial said from the end of the table, his gravedigger's calm unchanged.
"Stubborn doesn't cover it." Crossroad heard the edge in his own voice and didn't bother hiding it. "She spent half the night picking glass out of her arms and still had biscuits ready by six. The woman doesn't know how to quit."
Something shifted in Cottonmouth's expression. The president's eyes moved from the map to Crossroad's face, reading something there that Crossroad wasn't sure he wanted read.
"This is a road war," Cottonmouth said slowly. "Our Road Captain knows this territory better than any man alive. He planned every run we've made for ten years, and he's never lost a brother." The president's gaze was steady. "Crossroad has operational lead. His routes, his calls, his war."
Crossroad nodded, accepting the weight. "I want Sims first. He's the visible threat—the one who makes people afraid to talk, afraid to fight back. We take him out, the Kings lose their enforcer and the civilians get brave enough to push back."
"Timeline?" Outlaw asked.
"Soon. Sims will hit the bakery again—he has to, or he looks weak. When he does, we'll be ready."
"And the woman?" Hollow's question was quiet, but it cut through the room.
Crossroad met the Sergeant at Arms' hollow gaze. "She's under our protection. Anyone touches her again, they don't walk away."
The words came out harder than he intended. Possessive. The kind of claim a man made when he wasn't thinking about tactics anymore.
The brothers exchanged glances. Crossroad saw the looks—curiosity, amusement, the knowing expressions of men who'd watched other brothers fall exactly this way.
"Church is closed," Cottonmouth said, and there was something in his voice that might have been satisfaction. "Crossroad runs the war. Everyone else stays ready to ride."
Chairs scraped. Brothers filed out. Crossroad stayed at the table, staring at his map, trying to see the roads instead of the woman who refused to leave one.
Outlaw stopped beside him on the way out. "The bakery owner. She pretty?"
"She's tough."
"That's not what I asked."
Crossroad looked up at the VP, who was watching him with the patient assessment of a man who'd spent years reading rivers and the people who lived on them.
"Yeah," Crossroad admitted. "She's pretty. And she makes biscuits that could make a man forget his own name. And she grabbed a paring knife when Sims' boys came through her door, which means she's either fearless or crazy."
"Or both."
"Probably both."
Outlaw nodded slowly. "You know what that sounds like, brother?"
"I know what it sounds like."
"Just making sure." The VP clapped him on the shoulder. "Don't let it mess with your head. We need the Road Captain sharp."
"My head's fine."
"Uh-huh." Outlaw walked away, leaving Crossroad alone with his map and his thoughts.
The tactical problem was clean. Three targets, three junctions, a clear sequence of operations that would dismantle the Kings' infrastructure and drive them back to Tupelo.
He'd planned harder runs. He'd executed more dangerous operations.
This was straight road work—identify the route, remove the obstacles, reach the destination.
But the personal problem...
He kept seeing her face. The fury when he'd walked into her kitchen.
The steel when she'd told him she wasn't leaving.
The way she'd measured flour by sight while he explained that thirty armed riders were coming for her block, like the threat was less important than getting the biscuit ratio right.
Grace Kelley didn't know how to run. Didn't know how to fold. She'd built something from nothing and planted herself in front of it like a wall, and she wasn't moving no matter what came at her.
It was the exact opposite of everything Crossroad had built his life around.
He'd spent twelve years in a truck cab because movement was safety.
Learned early that standing still made you a target—that the world came for things that stayed in one place and tore them apart.
His uncle's freight company, gone. His family's house, gone.
Every relationship he'd ever tried to build, gone the moment he stopped moving long enough for it to matter.
So he didn't stop. Didn't stay. Kept the bike running and the roads open and never let himself want something he couldn't pack up and carry.
And now there was a woman with flour in her hair and fire in her eyes, and she terrified him more than thirty Copperhead Kings ever could.
Because she made him want to park the bike.
Made him want to stay.
Crossroad folded his map with careful precision and headed for the door. The Greenville block was an hour's ride, and he'd promised—though he hadn't said the words out loud—that he'd be there when she closed.
The tactical problem was clean. Remove Sims, then Roby, then Fitch, then Price. A road with four stops, and he knew how to drive every mile of it.
But the personal problem was a dead end he could see coming and couldn't find a way around.
A bakery that smelled like heaven. A woman who wouldn't run.
And a Road Captain who was starting to forget why running had ever seemed like the answer.