Chapter Six
They came at dawn, just like he knew they would.
Crossroad watched from the loading dock as six headlights cut through the gray morning mist, engines growling in formation. Sims was in front—easy to spot, that massive frame hunched over his bike like a predator closing on prey.
The Kings thought they were riding into a slaughter. They had no idea they were riding into a grave.
"Positions," Crossroad said into his radio, voice flat and calm.
Clicks of acknowledgment came back. Outlaw on the east fuel bay. Hollow on the west. Two more brothers covering the service path. The field was impassable—he'd made sure of that last night, dragging debris across the soft ground until any bike that tried to cross would bog down in seconds.
Two roads in. No roads out.
The Kings hit the lot at speed, expecting to sweep through and overwhelm whatever defense waited. Instead, they hit the first chokepoint—a narrowed gap between fuel bays that forced them from six-wide to two-wide in the space of ten feet.
Outlaw opened fire from the elevated pump island.
The lead King went down instantly, bike cartwheeling across the concrete in a shower of sparks. The second rider tried to brake, caught the first bike's wreckage, and laid his machine down hard.
Chaos erupted.
Crossroad was already moving, dropping from the loading dock and circling wide.
The kill zone was working—the remaining Kings were trapped between fuel bays, their superior numbers meaningless in the confined space.
Hollow's shotgun boomed from the west, dropping another rider.
Gunfire crackled from multiple positions as the brothers poured lead into the kill box.
But Sims wasn't stupid. The big man had pulled back at the first shot, letting his crew absorb the initial assault while he assessed the situation. Now he was moving—not toward the fight but away from it, angling for the back lot.
The escape route Crossroad had left open on purpose.
He sprinted across the concrete, boots pounding as he cut between the old pumps. Sims' bike was twenty yards ahead, accelerating toward what looked like a clear path to the service road.
It wasn't clear. It was a dead end—a maintenance access that curved behind the truck stop and terminated at a concrete wall that used to hold the dumpsters.
Sims didn't know that. He'd never driven anything in this country except a straight line from Tupelo.
Crossroad knew every inch of it.
He reached the maintenance access just as Sims' brake lights flared. The big man had seen the wall, was already trying to turn, but the access was too narrow. His bike scraped against concrete, wobbled, and went down.
Sims came up fast, gun in hand.
Crossroad shot him twice in the chest.
The impacts staggered the enforcer backward, but he didn't fall—body armor, probably prison-quality, the kind of thing a man who expected violence would wear. Sims raised his weapon, face twisted with rage.
Crossroad's third shot took him in the throat.
Blood sprayed across the concrete. Sims dropped his gun, hands going to his neck, eyes wide with the sudden understanding that this wasn't a fight he was going to walk away from.
Crossroad closed the distance in three strides. The big man was on his knees now, gurgling, dying, but still dangerous—still reaching for the backup piece on his ankle.
"You put hands on my woman."
The words came out cold. Absolute.
Crossroad kicked the ankle piece away and crouched in front of Sims, watching the light fade from eyes that had terrorized a dozen towns.
"You shoved her through her own display case. You burned her awning. You thought you could take what was hers because you were bigger and meaner and had more men."
Sims tried to speak. Blood bubbled from his lips.
"You were wrong."
Crossroad put a final round through his skull.
The body slumped to the concrete. The maintenance access went quiet except for the distant sounds of gunfire—the fight still raging in the main lot, though it sounded like it was winding down.
He stood over Wade Sims' corpse and felt nothing but satisfaction.
One junction down. Two to go.
His radio crackled. "Main lot clear." Outlaw's voice, breathing hard. "Four Kings down, two ran. Hollow's got a graze but nothing serious."
"Copy. Sims is handled." Crossroad turned away from the body. "Secure the perimeter. I need to get Grace."
He jogged back to the truck stop, mind already shifting to the next problem. The Kings who'd run would report back to Darnell Price. By noon, the whole organization would know their enforcer was dead. The war had just escalated from territorial skirmish to blood feud.
The truck stop's back door was still barricaded from inside—good. Grace had followed instructions.
"Grace!" He pounded on the door. "It's me. It's over."
Scraping sounds. Something heavy being moved. Then the door swung open, and she was there—pale, shaking slightly, but with a kitchen knife in her hand and fire in her eyes.
"Over?" She scanned the lot behind him, taking in the smoke, the fallen bikes, the brothers moving through the aftermath. "What happened?"
"We won." He reached out, gripped her arm, pulled her close enough to feel her heartbeat racing. "Sims is dead. His crew is scattered. The Kings just lost their enforcer."
She stared at him. "You killed him?"
"Yes."
No hesitation. No apology. He'd killed a man who'd put hands on her, and he'd do it again without a second's pause.
Something shifted in her expression. Not horror—he'd expected horror, maybe. Some sign that the reality of what he was had finally sunk in.
Instead, she exhaled slowly and said, "Good."
One word. The same one she'd used last night.
Christ, this woman.
"We need to move." He released her arm but stayed close. "The Kings who ran will report back. Darnell Price is going to know his enforcer is dead by lunchtime, and when he does, he's going to hit back hard."
"What about my bakery?"
"Brothers will watch it. But you're not going back there—not until this is finished." He met her eyes. "I'm taking you to the compound. It's the safest place in the Delta right now, and I need you where I can—"
He stopped. Caught himself.
"Where you can what?" Grace asked quietly.
Where I can protect you. Where I can see you. Where I know nothing's going to touch you while I'm out hunting the men who want to take everything you've built.
"Where the club can keep you safe," he said instead. "While I run the next phase of this war."
She studied his face for a long moment. Reading him the way she'd read those Greenville blocks, seeing patterns he probably didn't want her to see.
"Okay," she said finally.
"Okay?"
"Don't sound so surprised." She tucked the kitchen knife into her belt—his brave, crazy, flour-dusted woman with a blade on her hip like it belonged there. "You just killed the man who burned my awning. I figure I owe you at least a little cooperation."
Despite everything—the bodies cooling in the lot, the war escalating around them, the blood drying on his boots—Crossroad felt his mouth curve.
"Get your things. We leave in ten."
He walked back into the lot to help his brothers with cleanup. The Delta sun was climbing, burning off the mist, turning the concrete gold. Four Kings lay dead among the fuel bays, their bikes twisted wreckage scattered across the kill zone.
Hollow appeared at his shoulder, a bandage wrapped around his forearm. "Clean work, Road Captain. Not a brother lost."
"That was the plan."
"The woman?"
Crossroad glanced back at the truck stop, where Grace was gathering her salvaged belongings. "She's coming to the compound."
Hollow's hollowed-out gaze followed his. "She handled herself. Didn't panic, didn't run, barricaded smart."
"She's tougher than she looks."
"Most of the good ones are." The Sergeant at Arms turned away. "I'll ride rear guard. Get her home safe."
Home. The compound wasn't home—not for Grace. But for now, it was the closest thing to safe that existed in the Delta.
The brothers loaded up. Bikes roared to life, the sound echoing across the abandoned lot. Crossroad mounted his Harley and felt Grace climb on behind him, her arms wrapping around his waist with a familiarity that should have felt strange and didn't.
"Ready?" he asked.
"No." Her voice was close to his ear, her body pressed warm against his back. "But let's go anyway."
He pulled out of the lot, leading the formation toward Clarksdale. Behind them, the truck stop held the bodies of men who'd underestimated a Road Captain on his own ground.
Wade Sims was dead. The Kings had lost their muscle, their intimidation, their ability to terrify civilians into submission.
But Clint Roby was still running distribution. Nolan Fitch was still burning properties. And Darnell Price was still sitting in Tupelo, pulling strings.
The war wasn't over. It was just getting started.
Crossroad rode through the Delta morning with Grace's arms around him and blood on his boots, and let himself feel, just for a moment, like he'd done something worth doing.
One down. Three to go.