Chapter Two
The compound gates rolled open, and Grit eased his bike through with the reverence the moment deserved.
Every time. Every single time he crossed this threshold, something in his chest unknotted. The fenced perimeter, the row of chrome gleaming in the afternoon sun, the rumble of activity from the garage bays—it hit him like a homecoming he'd stopped believing in years ago.
He'd lost one family to a banker's signature and a foreclosure notice. He wasn't losing this one.
Titan was in the main room when Grit found him, standing at the long table with Blaster and Wraith, maps spread between them like they were planning a military operation. Probably because they were. The Steel Sentinels didn't do anything by half measures.
"Prospect." Titan's voice carried that natural authority, the kind that made men stand straighter without being told. "You're back early."
"Ran into something." Grit stopped at a respectful distance, waiting for the nod that meant he could approach. Hierarchy mattered. Respect was earned through patience as much as action. "Hoyt's crew. They're pushing into new territory."
That got everyone's attention.
Wraith went still in that unnerving way of his—the man moved like smoke and watched like a predator waiting for the perfect moment to strike. Blaster's jaw tightened, strategic mind already spinning. And Titan... Titan's eyes went cold.
"Where?"
"Hartwell Construction site. Edge of our buffer zone.
" Grit pulled out his phone, showed them the map he'd marked.
"There's a food truck that parks there—Beth's BBQ.
Woman who runs it, she's been working construction sites across the county.
Today, two of Hoyt's guys showed up demanding twenty percent of her daily take. Called it 'site access fees.'"
"Creative," Blaster muttered. "He's been running construction for a decade, but he usually sticks to crews and suppliers. Leaning on vendors is new."
"Gets him more coverage," Wraith said quietly. "Food trucks move. They work multiple sites. He squeezes them, he's got eyes and income across the whole region."
Titan's focus hadn't left Grit. "What happened?"
"She told them to go to hell."
A beat of silence. Then Anvil—who'd been working on something at the bar and definitely eavesdropping—let out a low whistle. "Got stones, this food truck lady."
"Got a death wish, more like," Blaster said. "Hoyt doesn't take no for an answer. Not from anyone, and definitely not from a woman running a business alone."
Grit thought about her face in that moment—the fear she'd been trying to hide, the stubborn set of her jaw, the way she'd gripped her counter like she was anchoring herself against a storm. She'd been terrified. And she'd told them to go to hell anyway.
"One of them tried to grab her through the window," he continued. "I stopped it. They backed off, but they made threats. Said Hoyt would hear about it."
"You intervened." Titan's tone was neutral, but Grit heard the question underneath.
"They were about to assault a woman in front of thirty witnesses. On a site at the edge of our territory." He met his president's gaze steadily. "Seemed like the kind of thing we don't let slide."
Another silence. Grit kept his spine straight and his mouth shut. He was a prospect—his job was to report, not to justify. If Titan thought he'd overstepped, he'd hear about it.
But Titan just nodded slowly. "You did right. Hoyt's always been careful to stay just outside our reach. Threatening a woman in front of one of ours?" His mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "That's a different conversation."
"He's testing boundaries," Wraith said. "Seeing how far he can push before we push back."
"Then we push back." Titan turned to Grit fully, that commanding presence focused like a spotlight. "This food truck—where else does she work?"
"Factory lots on Mondays. Construction sites Tuesday through Thursday, different locations.
Weekends she hits festivals when she can book them.
" Grit had been watching her for three days before today's confrontation.
Knew her routes better than she probably realized.
"She's predictable. Hoyt's guys will have mapped her by now. "
"So we map them mapping her." Titan's orders came crisp and clear. "You shadow her. Document approaches, identify Hoyt's people, track patterns. I want to know everyone he sends before they get within fifty feet of that truck."
Grit nodded. "And if they make another move on her?"
"Then you do what you did today. Protect what's in our territory." Titan's eyes held his. "But don't engage beyond defense. Not yet. We need the full picture before we move on Hoyt."
"Understood."
"Report daily. Anything changes, you call it in immediately." Titan dismissed him with a jerk of his chin, already turning back to the maps with Blaster and Wraith.
Grit headed for the door, mission clear in his head. Shadow the truck. Document threats. Protect the woman who didn't know she needed protecting.
"Prospect."
He stopped, turned. Anvil had moved from behind the bar, massive arms crossed over a chest that could probably stop bullets through sheer mass.
"This food truck lady. She pretty?"
Grit kept his face blank. "Didn't notice."
Anvil's grin said he didn't believe that for a second. "Sure you didn't. What's she serve?"
"Brisket."
"Any good?"
The smell of woodsmoke. The precise way her knife moved through meat. The line of customers who came back day after day because they knew quality when they tasted it.
Best I've had since Oklahoma, he didn't say.
"It's decent."
Anvil laughed—a deep rumble that shook his shoulders. "Decent. Right. You go shadow that truck, prospect. Make sure that decent brisket stays safe."
Grit walked out before his face could betray him.
The garage was quiet this time of day, most of the brothers either on runs or handling business elsewhere. Grit found his usual corner and started checking over his bike—habit from the Army, from the oil fields, from every job that had taught him equipment failure got people killed.
But his hands moved on autopilot while his mind stayed stuck on a food truck window.
She'd been scared. Anyone with eyes could see it. But she hadn't backed down, hadn't crumpled, hadn't done any of the things that would have made Hoyt's guys feel powerful. Instead she'd squared her shoulders and told them exactly where they could shove their protection money.
Stupid. Brave. Both.
The kind of stubborn that got people hurt.
The kind of stubborn he recognized in himself.
He'd joined the Army at eighteen because staying in Oklahoma meant watching the slow death of everything his family had built.
Three generations of Coles working that land, and it had all disappeared into bank paperwork while he was getting shot at in Paktika Province.
He'd come home to nothing—parents in a trailer park, farm sold to some corporation that would strip it for parts, his whole history erased like it never mattered.
He'd rebuilt. Slowly. Painfully. Oil fields, construction, ranching—anything that paid, anything that kept him moving forward. And then he'd found the Sentinels, and for the first time since the foreclosure notice, he'd found people who felt like family.
Now he was being sent to watch over a woman who'd built something of her own and refused to let anyone take it from her.
He understood that. More than she'd probably believe.
Twenty percent of daily take. The words echoed in his head. He'd seen her truck, knew the size of her operation. Twenty percent would gut her. Would turn barely-surviving into slow drowning. Would take everything she'd built and bleed it dry one week at a time.
No wonder she'd told them to go to hell.
"You thinking hard enough to hurt yourself?"
Grit looked up. Maverick stood in the garage doorway, that easy pilot's confidence in his stance, the kind of calm that came from years of flying into hot zones and bringing everyone home.
"Just planning tomorrow's route."
"Titan briefed us." Maverick moved closer, leaned against a nearby workbench. "Hoyt's been a problem waiting to happen. Good that we're finally getting eyes on him."
"She doesn't know she's being watched. Might not appreciate it when she finds out."
"Probably not." Maverick shrugged. "But better pissed off than dead. Hoyt's guys don't play nice with people who say no."
Grit thought about the look in Gravel Voice's eyes when she'd defied him. The casual way his hand had shot toward her window. Men like that didn't forget being embarrassed. Didn't forgive being challenged by a woman in front of witnesses.
"They'll come back harder," he said.
"That's why you'll be there."
Simple. Direct. The Sentinel way.
Maverick clapped him on the shoulder and headed out, leaving Grit alone with his bike and his thoughts.
Tomorrow he'd be back at whatever site she was working. Wednesday, Thursday, Friday—however long it took to map Hoyt's operation and figure out how to dismantle it. He'd watch from a distance, document everything, and only intervene if absolutely necessary.
Professional. Controlled. By the book.
He told himself the anticipation coiling in his gut was about the mission. About proving himself to the club. About earning his patch through solid work and reliable intel.
It had nothing to do with dark hair under a bandana, or calloused hands that moved with practiced efficiency, or a voice that could snap orders and tell thugs to go to hell in the same breath.
Nothing to do with brisket that was the best he'd had since leaving home.
Decent, he'd told Anvil.
What a goddamn lie.
He finished checking his bike, cleaned his tools, and headed for his quarters to get some sleep before tomorrow's surveillance started.
But his last thought before he drifted off wasn't about Hoyt's operation or the club's strategy or the violence that was probably coming.
It was the smell of woodsmoke, and the stubborn set of a jaw that refused to bend.