Two shapes in front. Maybe one in back. Hard to tell through the tint and dark. The driver doesn’t turn his head. Passenger sits too still.
I ride past.
The block stretches ahead of me, dark storefronts on one side, narrow side streets cutting between buildings on the other. A bar farther down leaks noise through a cracked door. A couple stands near the entrance, arguing low and drunk, her hands moving too fast, his head bent close like he’s trying to look sorry without actually being sorry. Beyond them, the street thins out into quieter businesses already closed for the night.
I should keep going. I have the deposit on me. Logan’s words are still fresh. We’ve got enough heat. Get the money and come back. That’s the plan. I ride another twenty yards. Then I slow. My hand loosens on the throttle before I decide to make it happen, and that tells me everything I need to know.I don’t like the van. I don’t like the stillness. I don’t like that my skin has gone tight across my shoulders for something I can’t name yet.
I take the next right. The bike leans into the turn, tires gripping cold pavement. The street narrows immediately, the light dimmer here, buildings pressing in closer. Dumpsters line the alley side. A cat bolts from under one of them and disappears through a gap in a fence.
I don’t speed. I don’t need to. I circle the block. That’s all. One pass to see if the van stays put. One pass to see if there’s another vehicle tucked somewhere with a better angle. One pass to give instinct a chance to turn into information.
The back side of Ambrosia is quieter. Service door locked. Security camera blinking above it. A stack of empty crates sits beside the rear wall, exactly where it always does. No one in the alley. No cigarette ember near the corner. No shadow pulling back from the light.
I keep moving.
At the end of the alley, I turn left again and roll past a row of closed shops. A pawn shop with a metal grate over the window. A nail salon with a handwritten sign crooked in the door. A small office with blinds drawn tight. Nothing out of place at first glance. Then a sedan pulls away from the opposite curb two blocks down. Could be nothing. Probably is.
Still, I clock it.
Dark gray. Four-door. One headlight slightly dimmer than the other. It turns the opposite direction, away from Ambrosia. No hurry. No obvious connection.
I keep it in my head anyway.
The church room rolls back through my mind in pieces. Calls. Probing. Leverage. Someone looking for weak points. A van sitting too still near club business doesn’t automatically tie to that. It could be something else. Could be local assholes. Could be a boyfriend waiting on one of the girls. Could be a drunk trying to sober up before driving. Could be nothing but cold metal and bad timing.
Doesn’t matter.
Something wrong is still something wrong, whether it belongs to the problem you already know about or a new one coming up behind it.
I turn left again. The bike carries me past a laundromat still lit bright despite only one old man sitting inside, reading a newspaper like the rest of the world hasn’t moved on. He looks up when I pass, not scared, just curious. I don’t slow. At the next corner, I come back toward the main road.
The van is still there. Same spot. Engine running. No lights.
I roll past from the opposite direction this time, slower than traffic but not slow enough to invite questions. The window tint gives me nothing. The body gives me more. Clean plates. Not local mud. No business sticker. Rear tire slightly low. Sliding door on the passenger side. Small dent near the back wheel well. There’s a scrape along the side panel, fresh enough that it catches the streetlight different.
The passenger’s head turns. Not much. Barely a movement. If I hadn’t been waiting for it, I might’ve missed it. He doesn’t watch me long. That’s the tell. Men with nothing to hide stare too much or not at all. Guilty men try to look normal, and normal is where they fuck up. He sees the cut. He looks away too fast.
I keep riding.
The urge to stop sits in my right hand like a loaded gun. Pull over. Walk up. Open the door. Find out who the fuck they are and why they’re sitting outside a club business like they’ve got business of their own. Simple. Effective. Also loud.
Logan’s voice moves through my head, hard and pissed.
We’ve got enough heat.
I grit my teeth and ride another block.Then another. The cold presses under my collar, but I barely feel it. My attention is behind me now, stretched back toward the van like wire pulled too tight. I could call it in. That’s the smart thing, if smart means following the shape of the plan. Call Logan. Tell him there’s a suspicious van near Ambrosia. Let him send a prospect or two to sit on it. Let Landon pull cameras. Let Dom see if plates tell us anything.
Slow.
Too slow.
Instinct doesn’t like slow.
I pull into the lot of a closed auto parts store and cut the engine behind the building, out of direct sight from the main road. Silence rushes in after the motor dies, thick and immediate. I take off my helmet and listen.
A siren wails far off, not close enough to matter. Wind drags a loose sign against a chain-link fence. Somewhere behind the shops, a bottle breaks and a man laughs.
I pull my phone out and hit Logan’s name.
