Chapter Two
The alarm went off at four-fifteen, same as always.
Patty rolled out of bed, pulled on jeans and a work shirt, and drove to the diner in the dark because that's what Harmon women did. Her mother had opened at five every morning for twenty-two years. Two men with a brick weren't going to rewrite a schedule built on that kind of legacy.
The plywood over the front window looked ugly in her headlights. She'd nailed it up herself after the deputy finished his report, working by flashlight until midnight because the diner opened at five whether the glass was fixed or not.
There was still glass in the corners she hadn't reached. She'd get to it after the morning rush.
Her truck sat on two spare tires she'd borrowed from her neighbor, the slashed ones piled in the bed for disposal. The parking lot was empty except—
A motorcycle. Chrome catching the first gray light of pre-dawn.
And a man leaning against it like he'd been there for hours.
Patty parked and climbed out, her hand already reaching for the pepper spray in her pocket before she recognized the lean build and the restless way he shifted his weight.
Foxfire.
He'd been drinking coffee at her counter for a year. Never said much, never stayed long, just rode in on whatever schedule brought him down the Vicksburg highway and rode out again with the particular energy of a man who couldn't sit still for more than twenty minutes.
She'd learned his order by heart. Black coffee, two eggs over easy, toast dry. He never had to ask anymore.
"You're early," she said, crossing the lot toward him.
"You're on time." That grin flashed across his face—quick and sharp, the one she'd noticed the first day he walked in. "Figured someone should be here when you opened."
"Been here long?"
"Since four."
"That's an hour of sitting in an empty parking lot."
"Sitting's not really my thing." He pushed off the bike and fell into step beside her as she headed for the door. "Waiting's different."
She unlocked the diner and flipped on the lights, the familiar hum of the refrigerators and the smell of yesterday's coffee grounds settling around her like a second skin. Home. This was home, even with plywood where glass should be and the ghost of a brick still sitting on her counter.
"Your truck looks stupid parked next to that motorcycle," she said, nodding toward his bike through the gap where her window used to be.
The grin widened. "Don't have a truck."
"Then whose—" She stopped. Looked at the battered pickup parked at the far end of the lot, the one she'd assumed was his. "That's been there since yesterday."
"Noticed that." His voice had shifted. Harder now, the restless energy focusing into something sharper. "Might want to mention it to your deputy friend when he comes in for breakfast."
She filed that away and moved behind the counter, her hands already reaching for the coffee maker. Four-thirty. She had forty-five minutes before the first regulars arrived, and every one of those minutes had a job attached.
Foxfire slid onto his usual stool and watched her work.
"You going to tell me about the trucks?" she asked, measuring grounds. "Or just sit there looking tense?"
"I can do both."
"Then start talking. I've got eggs to crack."
He talked while she cooked. The smuggling operation ran cross-state—stolen goods, untaxed cigarettes, illegal firearms—using Delta back highways as the primary corridor.
A man named Nestor Garza ran the pipeline, fifteen to eighteen men between drivers, warehouse workers, and armed escorts.
The staging area sat three miles from her diner.
"Three miles." She cracked eggs into a bowl with more force than necessary. "They've been running product past my window for months and I'm just now hearing about it."
"You're hearing about it because you talked. The deputy, the regulars—Garza's crew noticed." Foxfire's hands were flat on the counter, the knife scars across his knuckles catching the overhead light. "That brick wasn't random. You made yourself a problem."
"By noticing armed convoys on a public highway?"
"By noticing out loud."
She poured the eggs into the hot skillet, the sizzle filling the silence. Her mother had taught her to cook and talk at the same time—a diner woman who stopped working to have a conversation was a diner woman who fell behind.
"The big guy in the lead escort," she said. "What's his name?"
"Marco Rios. Runs the armed crews, handles highway security. He's Garza's muscle."
"He's the one who stopped in here. Treated my counter like a truck stop bathroom."
"That sounds like Rios."
The eggs set and she flipped them, the motion automatic after thirty years of practice. "What about the others?"
"Tommy Landis coordinates the warehouse. Keeps the product moving, manages the schedule. Owen Pratt handles intimidation—the visible stuff. Tire slashing. Window bricking." His voice went cold. "Fire, probably, when they get impatient enough."
Fire.
She thought about her mother's pie case. The photographs on the wall from twenty-two years of service. The cast-iron skillet hanging above the stove that had belonged to her grandmother.
"They're not burning my diner."
"That's the plan."
She looked up from the eggs. He was watching her with an intensity that made her stomach do something complicated—not fear, exactly, but close.
"What plan?"
"The one where the Destroyers shut down Garza's corridor and you keep serving breakfast." He leaned forward on the counter. "That highway's been ours since before either of us could ride it. A smuggling operation bricking women who talk isn't something we let stand."
"And if I don't want motorcycle club protection?"
"Then I'll sit at this counter every morning anyway and drink your coffee while I watch the road." The grin came back, softer this time. "I've been doing that for a year. Might as well make it official."
Patty felt heat climb up her neck that had nothing to do with the stove.
She plated the eggs and set them in front of him—his order, the one she'd memorized without meaning to. He looked at the plate, then at her.
"I didn't order yet."
"You don't have to. I know what you want."
Something shifted in his expression. The restless energy that drove him stilled for just a moment, and what she saw underneath was younger, rawer, almost surprised.
"Nobody's ever—" He stopped. Shook his head. "Thanks."
"It's eggs. Don't make it weird."
He laughed—a quick, sharp sound that matched his grin—and started eating like a man who'd learned young that food disappeared if you didn't get to it fast enough. She'd seen that before, in kids who came through foster care, in men who'd grown up hungry.
The clock read five-twelve. Her regulars would start arriving in three minutes.
"I'm not closing," she said, wiping down the counter. "And I'm not shutting up. If Garza's people come back, I'll tell them the same thing I told them before—get out of my mother's kitchen."
"That worked great last time."
"It'll work better with a motorcycle club backing me up." She met his eyes across the counter. "If the Destroyers want to help, they can start by eating breakfast. I've got a diner to run, and running it empty doesn't pay the bills."
Foxfire's grin spread across his face—the one she was starting to recognize, the one that showed up right before he did something stupid and brave.
"I'll pass the word. The brothers could use a place that serves real food."
"Tell them it's not free. Club protection or not, everybody pays."
"Wouldn't expect anything else."
The door swung open and her first regular walked in—Earl Dawkins, seventy-two, coffee and toast every morning since her mother's funeral. He stopped short when he saw the plywood, the glass still in the corners, the biker at the counter.
"Morning, Earl." Patty was already pouring his coffee. "Rough night. Don't worry about the window."
"Who's the trouble?" Earl jerked his chin at Foxfire.
"He's not trouble. He's breakfast." She set the mug in front of Earl's usual spot and went back to the stove. "Two eggs and toast, same as always?"
Earl settled onto his stool, eyeing Foxfire with the suspicion of a man who'd lived in the Delta long enough to know what a motorcycle cut meant. But the coffee was hot and the woman behind the counter was the same one who'd been pouring it for years, so he drank and kept his questions to himself.
More regulars drifted in. Highway workers. A trucker who always ordered double hash browns. The morning rush built the way it always did, and Patty moved through it with the speed and certainty her mother had drilled into her.
Foxfire finished his eggs and watched her work.
She could feel his attention like heat on her skin—not uncomfortable, but present. Aware. The restless man who never sat still had been sitting at her counter for over an hour, and his coffee cup was empty, and he still hadn't moved.
"You're staring," she said, sliding a fresh pot onto the warmer.
"You're worth staring at."
The words were quick, matter-of-fact, delivered with the same energy he did everything else. Like a man who said what he thought because slowing down to filter it wasn't something he knew how to do.
Patty felt that heat climb her neck again.
"Drink your coffee and stop being charming at me. I've got a diner to run."
"Who says I'm being charming?"
"The fact that it's working." She turned away before he could see her smile. "Now get out of here. Some of us have to work for a living."
"I'm working. I'm surveilling."
"You're flirting. There's a difference."
He laughed again—that quick, sharp sound—and finally pushed off the stool. "I'll be back tonight. When you close."
"I close at eight."
"I know." He dropped bills on the counter, more than the meal was worth. "Keep the shotgun close. Call me if anything feels wrong."
He was at the door before she could respond, moving with the restless energy that seemed to be the only speed he had. At the threshold, he turned back.
"I meant what I said yesterday. About the next person who touches this building."
"I remember."
"Good." That grin one more time. "Because I don't make promises I can't keep."
He was gone before she could answer, the rumble of his motorcycle fading into the morning traffic on Highway 61.
Patty stood behind her counter, her mother's counter, and watched the empty doorway for longer than she should have.
The man moved fast. Talked fast. Grinned like he was about to do something reckless and couldn't wait to see how it turned out.
She was starting to think that was the only speed he had.