Nitro is leaning against his bike.
He’s in his mid-fifties, wiry, with a silver goatee and flat, dead eyes that have seen the inside of two federal prisons. Deacon is behind him, standing by his own bike. The bruise onDeacon’s forehead from where I pressed the Glock is a fading yellow-green.
Razor and Crash stay on their bikes thirty feet back. Close enough.
I walk up to Nitro and don’t extend my hand.
“Your guys were scoping the diner in my territory.” No preamble. “Mapping my routine. Your man pulled a gun on me in my own territory and shot his own guy.” I pull out my phone and text him the surveillance link. “Watch it.”
Nitro pulls out his phone. The video plays. His face doesn’t change, but his nostrils flare. He pockets the phone.
“Bull acted outside my authority,” Nitro says. “So did Edge. I didn’t send them there armed, and I didn’t authorize them to draw on you.”
“But you sent them.”
Nitro doesn’t confirm it. Doesn’t deny it. His eyes are flat and patient, and he gives me nothing.
That tells me everything. He’s mapping our routes. Scoping our territory. Testing how far he can push before we push back. Bull and Edge were the first move in a longer game, and the fact that they fucked it up doesn’t change what Nitro was after.
I don’t say any of that. He knows I know.
“Here’s how this works,” I say. “Bull goes back to you today. Your dead man is already buried. We’re done. For now. But you started this, Nitro. And if you continue, we’ll be the ones finishing it.”
Nitro tilts his chin. “And the woman?”
“Shelby is mine.” I step close enough that he has to look up. “If she gets hurt by your brothers, by someone connected to Crimson Warriors, or by a fucking stray bullet that traces back to your zip code, I won’t call a meeting. I won’t send a message. I will come for you, and it will be the last thing either of us does.”
Nitro holds my eyes. He’s not afraid. Men like Nitro burned the fear out of themselves a long time ago. But he’s calculating, and right now the math doesn’t add up to war.
“Truce,” he says. “For now.”
“For now.”
He gets on his bike. Deacon follows. The engines turn over, and they pull out of the lot.
Crash rides up beside me. “You believe him?”
“No.”
“Me neither. But he needs time to regroup.”
I nod, agreeing. “Have Joker dump Bull at the county line. Blindfolded. He can walk back to his territory.”
We ride back to the clubhouse.
Shelby is in the common room.
Sitting at the table. Not standing. Not pressed against a wall, trying to stay hidden. She’s sitting with the sketchbook open and a charcoal pencil in her right hand, and she’s drawing Duke.
Duke is at his usual spot with his cards, and he’s pretending not to notice, but his chin is angled a fraction higher than normal. He’s posing. The bastard.
Shelby’s hand moves in quick, confident strokes. She’s absorbed in it. Her shoulders are open, her spine is straight, and she’s taking up space at that table like she belongs there.
She looks up. Her eyes land on me, and her whole face opens. “You bought me art supplies.”
“You said you draw.”
She looks down at the sketchbook and smiles. A real one. “Thank you.”
