One
I-10 over theBonnet Carré Spillway, Louisiana.Saturday, 4:13 p.m.
Adena
The Harley’s engine rumbles beneath me as I lean into the curve.I-10 stretches ahead, the late-afternoon sun turning Lake Pontchartrain into liquid gold as I cross the spillway.The GPS beeps.Half a mile till I exchange my life for a lie.
I take the exit, roll through a strip of tired blocks, and the Rusty Chain appears on my right: a squat building with blacked-out windows, a gravel parking lot full of motorcycles, and the kind of atmosphere that screams "outsiders not welcome."
I downshift into the lot, gravel spraying as I maneuver between a Road King and a custom Softail.The engine dies with a final rumble.
I sit for a moment, hands gripping the bars, feeling the residual vibration in my bones.Smoke drifts from somewhere—cigarettes and something else I choose not to identify.
I breathe out a prayer:God, give me the sense to see the threat and the spine to face it.Keep me honest where it counts.Guide my hands.Guard my steps.And if today is the day I don’t walk back out, use it for Your purpose.
I swing off the bike, yank off the helmet, and shake out my hair.Silas's words clang in my head like a warning bell.
"Jagger Rourke has been undercover for three years.That's past the point where most people start losing themselves.Keep your distance.Keep your head.Pray often.Do the job.Get out."
Feeling eyes on me, I spy two men leaning against the porch railing, both wearing motorcycle club cuts.Not cartel, but associates.
The bald one with the chest-length beard grins at me."You lost, sweetheart?"
The only person I allow to call me "sweetheart" is Caleb.
"Mynameis Adena," I say with a glare."Where's Jagger?"
The grin fades.The younger one—Latino, scarred knuckles—pushes off the railing."You his woman?"
I lift my chin."I am."
A smirk grows on his face."Back corner booth."
I walk past them, ignoring their jeers.I'm here for one reason: to stop drugs from reaching more people like Delilah.
The door swings open on protesting hinges.Sound and smoke roll out—classic rock pounding from ancient speakers, the sharp smell of beer and sweat, and too many bodies in too small a space.
I pause just inside, letting my eyes adjust.The Rusty Chain is every inch a biker bar—low lights, a scarred counter worn down by years of fists and spilled beer, and pool tables in the back where cash trades hands without anyone admitting it.
The crowd fits the place: men in leather and denim, some flying colors, some keeping their loyalties quiet, all of them sizing up anyone new.A few women thread through the mix—tough, alert, carrying the kind of edge you earn by surviving rooms like this.
And in the back corner, half-hidden in shadow, Jagger Rourke sits alone in a booth, one arm draped across the cracked vinyl: black T-shirt, tattoos, untouched beer in front of him.
He's been watching me since I walked in.
His eyes—almost silver in the dim light—track my approach with predatory stillness.Up close, he looks like violence wrapped in ink.Tension in his jaw.Shadows under his eyes.
A man on the edge.
I don't hesitate.I sit and grab his beer."If my bike gets stolen, you're buying me a replacement."
For a long moment, he doesn't move.Just studies me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.
Then, slowly, he smiles, like I'm the best thing he's ever seen.
"If your bike gets stolen, you’ll have bigger problems."His voice is gravel and smoke.I take a long swallow and instantly regret it.He drinks domestic.Cheap.I've gotten used to the imported beer Silas stocks at Jericho.
Jagger leans forward and locks eyes with me."For the next however long this takes, you're on probation."
