Chapter 3
Wake knew something was wrong before he killed his engine.
The Rusty Anchor's lot was packed with bikes—none of them Ridgerunners. Chrome and leather lined up in a sloppy row, no formation, no discipline. The kind of parking job that said we take what we want and nobody stops us.
He'd been coming to the Anchor for years.
First as the marina's best mechanic, stopping in after long days in engine compartments.
Then as a prospect, running errands on back roads that wound past this dive bar on the way to everywhere else.
The Anchor was Ridgerunner-friendly territory—not claimed, but protected.
The kind of place where brothers could drink without watching their backs.
Not anymore.
Wake parked at the edge of the lot and took his time getting off the bike. He counted twelve machines. No charter marks on any of them, just that crude Razorback patch he'd been hearing about. Nomads. The same ones Cottonmouth had mentioned after the boat recovery.
He walked in like he was ordering a beer.
The inside was worse than the parking lot. Razorbacks at every table, sprawled across chairs like they owned the place. Boots on furniture. Empties scattered across the floor. The pool table had a dark stain on the felt that Wake recognized as old blood, dried brown and ugly.
And behind the bar, pouring drinks with a jaw set hard enough to crack teeth, was a woman he'd never seen before.
She was maybe five-six, dark hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, moving with the efficient grace of someone who'd spent her whole life on her feet.
Tank top, jeans, no makeup—nothing about her was trying to impress anyone.
But when she looked up and met his eyes across the room, Wake felt it hit him like a fist to the chest.
Who the hell are you?
She held his gaze for exactly one second. Then her eyes cut to the back table, where a hard-faced man in his late thirties sat holding court like a king, and back to Wake.
A small shake of her head. Almost imperceptible.
Don't.
Wake understood. Whatever was happening here, she didn't want him walking into it blind. Didn't want him making it worse.
Smart woman. Tough, too—he could see it in the way she held herself behind that bar. Like she'd rather spit in their drinks than pour them, but she was doing what she had to do to survive.
He respected the hell out of that.
Wake crossed to the bar and found an empty stool, ignoring the looks from the Razorbacks around him. His cut marked him as Ridgerunner—prospect patch visible, club rocker unmistakable—but he moved like a man who belonged, and that bought him more space than aggression would have.
"Beer," he said. "Whatever's cold."
The woman—bartender, owner, he wasn't sure—pulled a bottle from the cooler without a word. She set it in front of him, and their fingers brushed for just a moment when he reached for it.
Her hands were calloused. Working hands. Hands that had thrown bottles and broken up fights and held onto this bar through whatever hell had landed in her lap two days ago.
"Four dollars," she said. Her voice was steady, but he caught the edge underneath. The barely-contained fury of someone who was playing nice because she had no other choice.
Wake pulled out a five and left it on the bar. "Keep it."
Something flickered in her eyes. Surprise, maybe. Or recognition that he wasn't like the rest of the men filling her bar.
"Thanks." She pocketed the bill and moved down the bar to refill someone else's glass.
Wake sipped his beer and watched.
The man at the back table had to be the leader.
Maddox—that was the name Cottonmouth had mentioned.
He sat with his back to the wall, surrounded by four or five of his crew, gesturing expansively while he talked.
Every few minutes his eyes would sweep the room, cataloging threats, marking territory.
When his gaze landed on Wake, it lingered.
Wake didn't look away. Didn't challenge, either—just met the stare with the calm patience of a man who'd learned to wait out engines that didn't want to run. After a moment, Maddox's attention moved on.
But one of his men didn't let it go.
The guy who peeled off from the back table was built like a roadhouse bouncer, thick through the shoulders and mean around the eyes. Former fighter, Wake guessed—something about the way he moved said he'd taken hits for money and liked it.
He stopped next to Wake's stool, close enough to crowd. "Nice patch."
Wake took another sip of beer. "Thanks."
"Ridgerunners." The man said it like he was tasting something sour. "You boys own this territory?"
"We ride it."
"That's not what I asked."
Wake set his beer down and turned on the stool, giving the man his full attention for the first time. He was bigger than Wake by thirty pounds, but size didn't mean much when you'd spent eight years crawling into engine compartments that wanted to eat your fingers.
"The Anchor's a friendly bar," Wake said. "Has been for years. People drink here, shoot pool, mind their business. That's how it works."
"That's how it worked." The big man grinned, showing teeth that had been broken and fixed badly. "Things change."
From behind the bar, Wake felt the woman's eyes on him. Warning him. Pleading with him to let it go.
He wanted to tell her that letting things go wasn't in his nature.
That watching her pour drinks for these assholes with that set jaw and those furious eyes made him want to put every one of them through the wall.
That something about her—the backbone, the stubborn refusal to break—had hooked into him the moment she looked up and told him don't without saying a word.
But this wasn't the time.
"Just here for a beer," Wake said. He picked up the bottle and drained what was left, then set it back on the bar. "Enjoy your night."
He stood up slow, keeping his hands visible, and walked toward the door without looking back. The big man watched him go but didn't follow. Neither did anyone else.
The parking lot air hit him like a relief. Wake crossed to his bike and pulled out his phone, punching in the compound's number before he'd even mounted up.
Cottonmouth answered on the second ring. "Yeah."
"Anchor's compromised." Wake kept his voice low, his back to the bar's windows. "Dozen nomads inside, Razorback patches. They've got the place locked down—bartender's pouring free and there's blood on the pool table. Looked like they've been there a while."
"Hold on."
The line went quiet. Wake waited, watching the bar's door, tracking the shadows moving behind the windows. The woman was still in there. Still pouring drinks for men who'd taken her bar and would take whatever else they wanted if someone didn't stop them.
He thought about the way she'd looked at him. That one second of eye contact that said I see you, I know what you are, don't make this worse. She'd been protecting him. A stranger in a Ridgerunner cut, and she'd tried to protect him from her own problem.
That wasn't something you forgot.
Still's voice came on the line, low and gravel-rough. "Prospect. Report."
Wake gave it to him straight. Twelve bikes, no charter, Razorback patches. Bar taken over, staff intimidated, blood on the felt. A nomad gang using a Ridgerunner-friendly establishment as a base.
"The bartender," Still said. "She running the place?"
"Looks like it. She's handling them, but she's outnumbered and outgunned. They broke someone—blood on the pool table's fresh enough to be from the last couple days."
Still was quiet for a long moment. Wake could picture him in the chapel, boots on the table, thinking through angles the way he always did. Patient as a still cook waiting for the mash to turn.
"The Anchor's been friendly for years," Still said finally. "We drink there. We protect it. Nomads thinking they can set up shop in our territory without asking—that's a problem."
"Yes, sir."
"Handle it."
Wake blinked. "Sir?"
"You heard me. This is prospect work—you brought the intel, you deal with the situation. Take whoever you need, but the Anchor gets cleared before these bastards dig in any deeper."
The line went dead.
Wake stared at his phone for a moment, then pocketed it and swung onto his bike. The engine roared to life beneath him, loud enough that he saw shadows move behind the bar's windows.
Let them hear. Let them know someone was watching.
He pulled out of the lot and pointed his bike toward the compound, his mind already working through the problem. Twelve Razorbacks, one taken bar, and a woman with a set jaw who'd tried to warn him away from her own fight.
Handle it. That was the order.
He intended to.