Tex drove an old truck instead of his bike so that he could be with me, but his bike had been placed in the back. His hands were steady on the wheel, his jaw tight and unreadable in the dim morning light. I sat beside him in silence, watching the world pass me by in a blur of fields and mountains. I was wrapped in one of his hoodies, the sleeves too long, the scent of leather and smoke clinging to the fabric, and it somehow grounded me.
Behind us, two bikes followed—Moose and Swampy. Even wounded, Swampy had refused to stay behind. The bullet had gone clean through his shoulder, and apparently that was reason enough for him to “walk it off.”
I didn’t understand these men and I wasn’t sure I ever would.
The roads grew narrower the farther we drove. Asphalt turned to gravel, gravel to dirt, the trees closing in around us like they were swallowing the world behind us.
It was quiet out here, isolated. It was exactly the kind of place someone would disappear.
Finally Tex slowed, turning down a narrow road that looked like it hadn’t seen regular traffic in years. Tall grass brushedthe sides of the truck, and the trees thickened overhead, casting shadows across the path.
Then I saw it—the old mill.
It stood at the edge of a slow-moving creek, weathered wood and stone darkened by time. The wheel no longer turned, frozen in place like a relic from another life. But the closer we got, the more I saw the changes.
There were reinforced shutters across all the windows and tall, heavy steel doors. Tex pointed out the security cameras tucked discreetly beneath the eaves.
This wasn’t abandoned, this was fortified.
Tex parked and killed the engine, and for a moment neither of us moved to get out. Two prospects sat in the back of the truck and they jumped out, leaving us momentarily alone.
“We’ve used this place before,” he said quietly.
I nodded, taking it all in. It felt…safe. Or at least safer than anywhere else had lately.
The bikes pulled in behind us, engines cutting out. Moose swung off first, scanning the tree line automatically, while Swampy followed, his movements slower but still controlled. Another two bikers pulled into position and I swallowed down my rising fear.
Tex stepped out and came around to my side, opening the door before I could reach for it.
“You okay?”
I nodded. “Yeah.”
He helped me down carefully, his hand lingering at my waist a second longer than necessary before he stepped back.
Moose approached. “All clear,” he said.
The steel door creaked open as we stepped inside.
The interior was surprisingly comfortable—basic but functional. A couple of couches, a small kitchen area, reinforced windows that let in filtered sunlight. It felt lived in. It feltprepared. Like they’d been expecting this kind of situation all along.
I moved slowly through the space, absorbing it.
“This is…nice,” I said softly.
Swampy snorted. “‘Nice’ ain’t the word I’d use.”
But there was no real bite in his voice.
Tex set a bag down on the table.
“You’ll stay here, Rowan,” he said, and then he glanced at Moose. “I want two men rotating outside at all times.”
Moose nodded. “Already planned.”
I watched them quietly. They moved like this was routine. Like protecting someone under threat—like preparing for war—was just another day.
My stomach tightened again.
