I take another turn, this one onto a smaller road that leads toward the industrial area where the old warehouses sit.Part of our territory.Familiar ground.Places with cameras we installed, exits we know, choke points we can control.
The truck follows.
“Gotcha motherfucker,” I mutter.
At the next wide enough opening, I slow and pull onto the gravel beside the road, easing off the throttle.The bike idles, rumbling low.
The truck doesn’t slow.It passes me, roaring by, engine revved just a little too high.For a second, its interior lines up with my view.The tint is dark, but the dash glows faint green, casting a faint light on the driver’s hands.
Gloved.Big.Firm on the wheel.
He doesn’t look my way this time.
Like he knows if he does, I’ll have something else to go on.A shape, a scar, a gaze I can recognize when shit hits the fan later.
He keeps going, taillights fading into the curve ahead.
I sit there, watching him disappear.
I could follow.Could push this to a confrontation.
But I’m the only one out here, and starting something without backup when we don’t know how many shadows Morozov left behind?
That’s how you end up in a ditch.
I pull out my phone and open the encrypted messaging app we use for club business.
Me (to Chux & Nitro):Black eighties Ford, truck no plates.Tint.Circling town, following me.Spotted at gas station and industrial road.Check cams, pull footage.
Nitro responds first.
Nitro:On it.You alone?
Me:Yeah.
Chux:Get your ass home.
I stare down the road where the truck vanished, a bone-deep feeling settling in.This isn’t random.This isn’t small.
Someone’s testing our perimeter.
I turn the bike around and head back toward the clubhouse.
An hour later, I’m in the small room off our church room, it’s half-lit by computer monitors and humming servers.Nitro’s fingers fly over the keyboard, screens flashing between angles of grainy night footage from around town.
Gas station camera first.
“Here,” he says, zooming in.
The video shows my bike pulling into frame, the pickup parked by the pump, and the dark truck idling near the side of the building.The resolution isn’t great, but it’s enough.He enhances the plate area—blank.Enhances the windshield—too much reflection.
“Motherfucker knows what he’s doing,” Nitro mutters.“No front plate.Dark tint.Tilting the truck just enough when he parks to give us glare on the glass.”
He switches feeds.Now it’s the industrial area, one of the cameras Chux had installed after a deal went sideways a few years back.The truck rolls through the edge of the frame.
“Can you track where he went?”I ask.
Nitro chews his lip.“He takes the long way around.Couple blind spots.But I bet you a case of beer he’s testing coverage.Look,” He runs the footage at higher speed.The truck passes under at least three cameras, each time pausing just a second too long.“Yeah,” Nitro continues.“He’s mapping us.Seein’ what we have, where we don’t.”
