He showed up right on time, dark circles under his eyes, something fragile in his expression that he was trying to hide.
"Ready?"
"Ready."
We went out to the bikes, and I didn't ask about the thing he couldn't tell me, and he didn't offer, and somehow that was enough.
For now.
6
DETONATION
TANK
The morning started wrong and kept getting worse.
I felt it the moment I walked out of the clubhouse—a prickling at the back of my neck, that animal instinct that had kept me alive through six years of riding and fighting and surviving things that should have killed me. The lot looked normal. Bikes lined up in their usual spots, chrome catching the early sun, the familiar shapes of machines I knew as well as my own hands. A mockingbird was singing somewhere in the oaks at the edge of the property, and the air smelled like dew and dust and the faint sweetness of wild grass.
But something was off.
Tyler was already at the Sportster when I reached the garage, running through the pre-ridecheck I'd taught him. He moved around the bike with growing confidence now, his hands sure on the controls, his posture relaxed in a way it hadn't been a week ago. The shadows under his eyes had faded slightly—he'd actually slept last night, or at least slept better than before.
"Morning." He didn't look up. "I topped off the tank yesterday, should be good for the full route."
"Hold up."
Something in my voice made him freeze. He straightened, turned, found my face.
"What's wrong?"
I didn't answer immediately. I was staring at the Sportster, trying to identify what had triggered my instincts. The bike looked fine at first glance—same dented tank with its faded paint, same scratched pipes that needed replacing, same worn seat that had taught a hundred prospects before Tyler. Nothing obviously out of place.
But the smell was wrong.
Gasoline. Faint, barely there, the kind of trace you'd miss if you weren't paying attention. The Sportster didn't leak—I'd gone over her myself before putting Tyler on her, made sure she was mechanically sound even if she wasn't pretty. A bike didn't start leaking overnight without cause.
"Step back."
"Tank—"
"Step back from the bike. Now."
Tyler moved, responding to the command in my voice without argument. He retreated three steps, four, his body shifting into that coiled alertness I'dseen in the garage when Cross appeared. His eyes were scanning now too—the lot, the bikes, the perimeter. FBI training kicking in, recognizing threat even if he couldn't identify its source.
"I smell it too." His voice dropped, quiet and controlled. "Fuel. But I checked the tank seal yesterday, it was fine."
"It's not the tank."
I circled the Sportster slowly, scanning every surface, every angle, every place where something might have been added or altered. The gas tank looked intact, its cap properly seated. The fuel lines were?—
There.
A thin trail of liquid, almost invisible against the dark pavement, running from beneath the engine toward the rear wheel. The line was too deliberate, too straight. Not a drip pattern—a controlled flow from a specific point.
I crouched down, following the trail to its source, and felt my blood go cold.
The fuel line had been cut. Not torn, not worn through—cut, with something sharp, the edges clean and deliberate. Whoever had done it knew just enough to cause a slow leak, not enough to leave an obvious puddle that would alert someone before they mounted up. Amateur hour. Sloppy.
