It’s dark, of course.Closed.The front windows reflect the streetlights.The simple Frosted and Filled sign hangs over the door, swaying gently in the breeze.A few flyers are taped in the corner—local events, charity run, some church bake sale Ally agreed to donate to.
I don’t even slow down.Just look, just long enough, then keep going like I never did.
But my chest tightens anyway.
I picture Kelly in there earlier, hands flour-dusted, eyes tired but still bright, pretending like I didn’t just cut something loose between us she’d started to believe in.
You did what you had to, I tell myself, but the words land flat.
The road leads me out of town, away from the soft glow of night lights and into the darker stretch lined with trees and old fence posts.I open up the throttle a little, wind whipping harder against my chest.
The Russian splinter talk from earlier keeps circling in my mind, looping around and around.The truck at the hardware store, the no plates, the way the driver watched me.
I should’ve followed.
Should’ve pushed.
Should’ve gotten a glimpse of the driver’s face.
Instead, I rode away and went back to thinking about how I screwed things up with a woman rather than thinking about how someone might be lining us up in their crosshairs.
Chux is right.
I need my head back in the game.
The Kings have plenty of enemies.You move product, you move guns, you hold territory and respect, you’re gonna have people wanting to take it, challenge it, test how far they can go.
Morozov’s crew may be crippled, but you don’t just snuff out that kind of darkness.It lingers.It festers.It breeds smaller monsters.Like a fantasy beast, cut one head off and another grows back in its place.
We knew that.We prepared for that.We’ve been waiting.
I take the long loop around the edge of town, past the old mill and the rusted-out train cars that have been sitting off the tracks damn near since I was a kid.The moon is high, throwing a silver sheen over everything.For a few miles, I manage to think about nothing but the road.
Then the gas station comes into view.
The only twenty-four-hour joint for miles, its harsh white lights buzz like they’re mad about existing.There’s a pickup parked by the far pump—old, faded paint, dented bumper.
Another truck is idling near the side of the building, half in darkness.
Tinted windows.No plates.
My stomach goes tight.
I slow, letting the bike roll along the edge of the property.The guy at the pump glances my way, nods like any normal local recognizing a King.
The driver in the idling truck doesn’t move.
I circle around once, nice and easy, pretending I’m just turning into the lot.His head tracks the motion of my bike.I can’t see his eyes, but I feel the focus.Intent.
Yeah.That’s not nothing.
I pull up near the store’s front door and kill the engine.The sounds shift—engine hum disappears, replaced by the buzz of the lights, the faint hiss of the refrigerated cases inside, the country music playing low through old speakers.
I swing off the bike, stretch my shoulders, and head inside, like I’m just here to grab a drink.
The clerk behind the counter is a teenager I’ve seen a few times—skinny, bored, earbuds in one ear.Barely legal, but willing to work the night shift.
“Hey,” he mutters.
