Chapter 37
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Monk
The sun was already climbing higher in the Texas sky, the heat radiating off the asphalt in shimmering waves. Benedict and his brothers stood nearby, watching us make our final checks with the casual efficiency of men who’d done this a thousand times before.
“You’re good to go,” Benedict said, walking over to shake my hand one last time. “Safe ride back.”
“Appreciate it,” I said, gripping his hand firmly.
Whisper was already on his bike, his helmet in his lap, checking his phone.
Blackjack checked the tarp one last time, then turned to me. “We splitting up at the border?” he asked, his voice low enough that only I could hear.
I nodded. “Five miles out,” I said. “Shadow, Trigger, and Judd will be waiting. You take the farm roads back with them. Whisper and I will stay on the main highway.”
Blackjack’s jaw tightened. “You sure that’s smart?” he asked. “If the Feds are watching—”
“That’s exactly why we’re splitting up,” I said, cutting him off. “If they stop us, they won’t find shit. And if they stop you, you’ve got plausible deniability. Just a bunch of brothers out for a ride.”
Blackjack didn’t look convinced, but he nodded anyway. “Your call, VP,” he said.
I clapped him on the shoulder. “Get the cargo home safe,” I said. “That’s all that matters.”
Blackjack climbed into the truck, fired up the engine, and pulled out of the warehouse lot.
I watched him disappear down the road, then turned to Whisper.
“Ready?” I asked.
Whisper slid his helmet on and gave me a thumbs-up as I swung my leg over my bike, fired up the engine, and felt the familiar rumble beneath me.
The road stretched out ahead—long, empty, and deceptively peaceful. We rode in formation, Whisper slightly behind me and to my left. The wind whipped past us, hot and dry, carrying the scent of dust and gasoline.
For the first hour, everything was smooth. No traffic. No cops. No problems. Just two brothers on their bikes, riding home. But I couldn’t shake the feeling in my gut.
The one that told me something was wrong.
I learned a long time ago to trust that feeling.
It had kept me alive more times than I could count.
We were about a half mile from the Oklahoma border when I saw it.
The roadblock. At first, it was just a cluster of vehicles in the distance—dark shapes shimmering against the horizon, distorted by heat waves rising off the asphalt.
But as we got closer, the details came into focus with alarming clarity.
Sheriff vehicles. State troopers. And unmistakable black SUVs with federal plates, parked at strategic angles across both lanes.
ATF.
My heart rate spiked, pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat.
I glanced over at Whisper. He’d seen it too. His posture had shifted—tense, alert, ready. His knuckles had gone white on the handlebars.
I slowed my bike, my mind racing through options, none of them good as I eased off the throttle and brought my bike to a stop about twenty feet from the roadblock, the engine’s rumble dying to a low growl.
Whisper pulled up beside me, his engine idling, the sound echoing in the tense air between us.
The officers were already moving toward us, their formation deliberate and practiced.
I counted them quickly, assessing the threat. Four sheriff deputies. Two state troopers. And three ATF agents in tactical vests, their radios crackling with static. All of them had their hands on their weapons.
Not drawn yet. But ready. Fingers resting on holsters, bodies coiled like springs.
I cut my engine. The sudden silence was deafening, broken only by the whisper of wind across the empty road.
Whisper did the same, and the absence of sound felt like a weight pressing down on us.
I pulled off my helmet slowly, deliberately, keeping my movements calm and non-threatening.
Every gesture measured, every breath controlled.
Whisper followed my lead, his jaw clenched tight as two ATF agents approached—one heading straight for me with purposeful strides, the other veering toward Whisper, flanking us like we were suspects in a much bigger game.
The lead agent was tall, mid-forties, with a military buzz cut and a face that looked like it had been carved out of granite.
Deep lines around his eyes. No hint of a smile.
His badge glinted in the sunlight, catching my eye.
“Where are you boys coming from?” he asked, his tone flat and professional, but with an edge that said he already suspected the answer.
I met his gaze, my expression neutral, careful not to give anything away.
“Just out for a ride,” I said, keeping my voice steady and casual. “Enjoying the weather.”
The agent’s eyes narrowed slightly, studying me with the kind of practiced suspicion that came from years of training and countless roadside encounters. “That so?” he said, his tone flat and deliberately probing. “Where’d you ride from?”
“Lawton,” I said without hesitation. “Oklahoma.”
“Long ride,” the agent said, his tone openly skeptical now, as if he was waiting for me to slip up or change my story.
I shrugged, maintaining the easy demeanor of a man with nothing to hide. “It’s a nice day,” I said, gesturing vaguely toward the clear blue sky above us. “Figured we’d take the scenic route. See some country we haven’t seen before.”
The agent didn’t smile. His jaw remained tight, his posture rigid and alert.
He stepped closer, deliberately invading my personal space, his eyes methodically scanning my bike, my cut, the patches and colors I wore, and finally settling on my face with an intensity that was meant to intimidate.
“You got any ID?” he asked, though it wasn’t really a question.
I reached slowly into my cut, making sure my movements were visible and deliberate, and pulled out my wallet. I extracted my driver’s license and handed it over without a word.
The agent took it, holding it up to examine it closely in the sunlight, his eyes flicking between the photo and my face several times. Then he handed it to one of the state troopers standing behind him. “Run it,” he instructed curtly. “Full background check.”
The trooper nodded and walked briskly back to his vehicle, speaking into his radio as he went.
I kept my expression calm and my breathing even, but my pulse was hammering hard against my ribs. My hands stayed relaxed at my sides, though every muscle in my body was coiled tight, ready for whatever came next.
The second ATF agent had stopped in front of Whisper, planting himself directly in his path with an aggressive stance that suggested he was used to intimidating people into compliance.
“What’s the matter?” the agent said, his voice dripping with condescension and barely concealed contempt. “You don’t know how to speak? Cat got your tongue?”
Whisper turned his head slowly, his movements deliberate and measured, like a predator sizing up potential prey.
He made no attempt to hurry, no effort to show deference or submission to the agent’s authority.
He simply looked at him with those cold, calculating eyes that had stared down far more dangerous men than this overconfident federal agent.
Then he smiled. Not a friendly smile. Not a nervous smile.
Not even an apologetic smile. A fuck you smile.
The kind of smile that said he had been threatened by better men than this agent would ever be.
The kind of smile that communicated more disrespect in a single expression than a thousand words ever could.
The agent’s face flushed red, his jaw clenching as anger flooded through him.
He wasn’t used to being disrespected like this, especially not by someone he’d just cornered.
“I asked you a question,” the agent said, his voice rising with barely controlled rage, his hand instinctively moving closer to his holstered weapon. “You think this is funny?”
Whisper just kept smiling, saying nothing, his silence more provocative than any words could have been.
The lead agent next to me took another step closer. “Got word you boys were in Amarillo,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “Making a buy.”
My stomach dropped but I didn’t let it show on my face. Instead, I shrugged again. “Don’t know what to tell ya,” I replied, my tone casual. “But me and my brother are just out for a ride.”
The agent’s jaw tightened. “You sure about that?” he asked.
“Positive,” I said.
The agent stared at me for a long moment, his eyes searching mine for any sign of deception.
I didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. Just held his gaze. Finally, the agent turned away and walked over to the trooper who was running my license.
I exhaled slowly, my hands gripping the handlebars of my bike.
Stay calm. Just stay calm.
But then I heard it. The second agent’s voice cut through the air, sharp and commanding, leaving no room for discussion or debate. “Get off the bike.”
I turned my head slowly, my heart already beginning to pound in my chest.
The agent was standing directly in front of Whisper, positioned less than three feet away, his hand resting on his sidearm in what could only be described as a threatening posture.
His stance was wide, aggressive, like he was ready for a confrontation.
Whisper didn’t move. He sat there on his motorcycle, completely still, as if he had all the time in the world.
“I said get off the bike,” the agent repeated, his voice louder now, more insistent, each word clipped and precise.
Whisper’s smile widened ever so slightly, a dangerous glint appearing in his eyes. “No,” he said, his voice calm and steady, almost serene in contrast to the agent’s growing agitation.
The agent’s face went from red to purple in a matter of seconds. I could see the veins bulging in his neck, his jaw clenched so tight I thought his teeth might crack. “You refusing a lawful order?” the agent shouted, spittle flying from his mouth.