Chapter 2
The neon sign buzzed to life. The grill needed fifteen minutes to heat. The coffee maker was already gurgling—she'd set the timer last night before everything went to hell.
She pushed through the front door with her keys in one hand and her shotgun in the other.
Tornado was sitting at the counter.
"Coffee's not ready yet," she said.
"I can wait."
She stood in the doorway, dawn light spilling pink and gold across the linoleum behind her. He hadn't moved. Hadn't flinched when she'd raised the shotgun. Just sat there on the third stool from the left, hands flat on the counter, watching her like he had all the time in the world.
"How'd you get in?"
"Rascal let me in. He's out back checking your property line."
"And you just decided to make yourself at home?"
"Seemed rude to wait outside."
Jolene lowered the gun. Her hands weren't shaking this morning—small miracle. She'd spent most of the night not sleeping, replaying the moment those headlights had appeared in her parking lot. The bats. The gas can. The way her finger had trembled on the trigger before she'd fired.
She set the shotgun behind the counter and started her morning routine. Grill on. Fryers checked. Coffee poured into two mugs without asking if he wanted any.
She slid one across the counter to him.
"Thanks," he said.
"Don't thank me yet. It's yesterday's grounds."
He took a sip anyway. Didn't grimace.
Jolene leaned against the back counter, both hands wrapped around her own mug. The warmth helped. The familiar smell of the café helped more—grease and coffee and the lemon cleaner she used on the counters. Her place. Her ground.
"You going to tell me what's really going on?" she asked. "Or are we just going to drink bad coffee and pretend last night was normal?"
Tornado set down his mug.
"Victor Delgado," he said. "Runs a meth pipeline pushing north from the border. Uses old freight routes and abandoned truck stops for distribution. He's been expanding into the Panhandle for the past six months."
"And my café?"
"Sits on a crossroads he needs. The drop point is two miles behind your property—an old grain silo on county land. Your parking lot is the last place drivers can pull off before they hit it."
Jolene's stomach turned. "So they want my café for what, a staging area?"
"Rest stop. Lookout point. Place to wait if the timing's off." Tornado's eyes held hers, steady and serious. "You've been telling his people no. That makes you a problem."
"I've been telling everyone no." She set down her coffee harder than she meant to.
"I had a guy in here two weeks ago asking if he could rent my back lot for 'storage.
' Before that, someone offered to buy the whole property for three times what it's worth.
I said no because I'm not stupid—nobody pays that much for a roadside café unless they want something besides the real estate. "
"Smart."
"Smart got my windows smashed." Jolene grabbed her phone from her apron pocket and pulled up the photos. "Last Tuesday. I came in at five and found the front windows shattered. Glass everywhere. Took me two days to get replacements out here."
She swiped to the next image.
Tornado's jaw tightened.
"Dead coyote," Jolene said flatly. "Found it on my porch Thursday morning. Throat cut. Blood everywhere. I had to clean it up before my breakfast rush because if my customers saw it—"
She stopped. Breathed.
"If they saw it, they'd stop coming. And if they stop coming, I lose everything."
Tornado reached across the counter. His hand covered hers—rough calluses, warm skin, a grip that was firm without being crushing.
"They're trying to scare you into selling. Or closing. Or just looking the other way while they use your crossroads."
"I figured that out, thanks."
"And you didn't call the cops?"
Jolene laughed. It came out bitter and sharp. "The cops? The sheriff's station is forty miles east and they've got three deputies covering two counties. You think they're going to post someone at my café because of some broken windows and a dead animal?"
"No."
"No. So I bought a shotgun and I learned how to use it and I figured I'd handle it myself." She pulled her hand back, suddenly aware of how warm his touch had been. "I've been handling everything myself for seven years. This was just one more thing."
Tornado was quiet for a moment. Studying her. That same calculating look from last night, but softer somehow. Like he was seeing something he hadn't expected.
"You've got a daughter," he said.
Jolene went still. "How do you know that?"
"Rascal found a bicycle behind the shed. Training wheels. Pink streamers."
"She stays with my neighbor on school nights. I pick her up after the lunch rush."
"She's safe?"
"She's safe." Jolene's voice came out harder than she intended. "And she's going to stay safe. That's why I haven't run. This café is the only thing standing between us and nothing. I close down, I've got no income, no home, no future for her. Everything I am is in these walls."
Tornado nodded slowly. "Then we make sure these walls stay standing."
"And what's that going to cost me?"
"I told you last night. Nothing."
"Nobody does anything for nothing."
"The Route 66 Outlaws do." He leaned forward, forearms on the counter, close enough that she could smell leather and motor oil and something cleaner underneath.
"This road is our territory. Has been since my grandfather helped found the club.
Delgado's moving product through our stretch, threatening the people we protect. That's not something we let slide."
"So this is about territory. About your club's pride."
"It's about making sure a woman with a shotgun and a six-year-old daughter doesn't get burned out of her home because some cartel asshole decided her crossroads was convenient."
The words hit her somewhere deep. Somewhere she'd walled off years ago, when she'd realized no one was coming to help. When she'd learned that the only person she could count on was herself.
"I don't trust easy," she said quietly.
"You shouldn't." Tornado held her gaze. "Trust is earned. So let me earn it. Let me and my brothers keep you safe while we deal with Delgado. All I need from you is your word that you'll call if anything happens. Anything at all."
Jolene studied him. The salt-and-pepper stubble. The crow's feet from years of squinting into Panhandle wind. The hands that had put a man on the ground with one punch, now resting gentle on her counter.
He was dangerous. She'd known that the second she saw him.
But he was also the first person in seven years who'd shown up when she needed help.
"The café stays open," she said.
"The café stays open."
"And your men don't cause trouble with my customers."
"My brothers will behave like saints. Or close enough."
"And if I decide I don't want your protection anymore, you leave when I tell you to."
Tornado's mouth curved. Not quite a smile—something warmer. Something that made her pulse kick in a way it hadn't in a very long time.
"You get tired of us, you say the word. But I don't think you will."
"That sounds like arrogance."
"That sounds like a promise."
He pulled out his phone and dialed. It rang once before someone picked up.
"Diesel. I need patrols running past the Dusty Rose every four hours starting now. Rotating shifts—Shadow, Striker, anyone who's not on assignment. Nobody approaches this café without us knowing about it first."
He paused, listening.
"Yeah. That's what I said. Every four hours until I say otherwise."
He hung up and slid off the stool, leaving a twenty on the counter.
"Coffee's a dollar fifty," Jolene said.
"Consider it a tip."
"I don't need your charity."
Tornado stopped at the door. Turned back to look at her—really look, the way he had last night. Like she was something rare. Something worth protecting.
"It's not charity," he said. "It's the start of something."
The door swung shut behind him. Through the window, Jolene watched him cross to his bike, swing a leg over, and kick the engine to life. The V-twin roar echoed across the empty lot.
He raised a hand once before pulling onto the highway, heading east toward the rising sun.
Jolene stood behind her counter, cold coffee in her hands, and tried to remember the last time someone had made her feel like she wasn't alone.
She couldn't.
The grill was hot. The first trucker would be pulling in within the hour. She had biscuits to make and bacon to fry and a daughter to pick up at three o'clock.
But for the first time in a long time, the weight on her shoulders felt a little bit lighter.