Page 4

Dex

F ifth and Main looked different early in the morning—emptier but not empty, quiet but not silent.

I sat astride my Road King, boots planted on cracked asphalt, watching the morning unfold in predictable patterns that meant everything was right with the world.

Or at least right enough that I didn't need to intervene.

My leather jacket hung heavy with the weight of my patches. Road Captain rocker beneath the crown of the Heavy Kings MC. The morning air bit through my jeans, but I'd been out here long enough that the cold had become background noise, like the rumble of my bike beneath me.

Mrs. Bryce shuffled out of Kim's Market, plastic bags cutting into her thin wrists.

Third Tuesday of the month—social security check cashed, groceries bought before prices went up again.

She'd been making that same trip for fifteen years, same faded blue coat, same slight favor to her left hip that got worse in cold weather.

I made a note in my head to have one of the prospects help her in secret next month. Quietly. Mrs. Bryce had pride like armor, wouldn't accept charity if she knew it was charity.

The Hendricks twins tore around the corner, sneakers slapping pavement, backpacks bouncing.

Late for the bus again. Their old man worked nights at the warehouse district, left before they woke up.

Their mom had run off two years back with some trucker passing through.

Kids were raising themselves, but they were good kids.

Kept their grades up, stayed out of trouble.

7:53 AM. Bus would wait another forty seconds before Rodriguez pulled away. The twins would make it with ten seconds to spare. They always did.

My eyes tracked the familiar rhythms while searching for the unfamiliar. That's what the years as Road Captain had taught me—danger hid in the disruption of patterns, in the things that didn't belong.

Like the chalk mark on the lamppost.

Fresh. White chalk against rusted metal, a simple X with a circle. Could be kids playing some game. Could be a utility marker. Could be Serpents marking territory, testing to see if we'd notice.

I pulled out my notebook, pages soft from handling, filled with my cramped handwriting.

Every date, every observation, every deviation from normal.

Some might call it paranoid. Duke called it thorough.

Thor just shook his head and muttered about me needing a hobby.

Tyson got it, and honestly, he was even worse than me. Least I didn’t make spreadsheets.

Bottom line was that vigilance prevented disasters. And I had enough disasters on my conscience to last a lifetime.

7:49 AM - Chalk mark, NE corner lamppost Fifth/Main. Fresh within 12 hours. White chalk, X in circle approx 4 inches diameter.

The right observation at the right time could prevent a war, save a life, protect the innocent.

I'd learned that lesson the hard way.

Three years ago, I'd missed the signs. Too caught up in Vanessa's sob story, her calculated vulnerability that played right into my protective instincts.

She'd shown up at the clubhouse, bruised and scared, spinning tales about an abusive ex.

I'd taken her in, given her sanctuary, fallen for every practiced tear and trembling lip.

While I was playing white knight, she was memorizing our routes, recording our conversations, mapping our entire operation for the Iron Serpents.

The ambush cost us two prospects—kids barely old enough to ride, full of piss and vinegar and dreams of brotherhood.

Sadly, it wasn’t the last time we’d lost good people. Young people. The recent attack on Thor and Mandy’s pre-wedding party had claimed two more prospects. It had shocked me, reminded me that I needed to be more vigilant. I was Road Captain, and that was a responsibility.

The engine rumbled between my legs, vibration traveling up through my spine.

Some mornings, the bike felt like the only honest thing in my world.

No deception in machinery, no hidden agendas in steel and chrome.

You maintained it properly, it performed.

You ignored the warning signs, it failed. Simple. Clean. Predictable.

A sedan crawled through the intersection, out-of-state plates, driver consulting his phone. Lost tourist, probably looking for the interstate. Nothing threatening in his body language, just the universal frustration of being somewhere you didn't belong.

I understood the feeling.

My weathered hands gripped the handlebars, feeling every imperfection in the wrapped leather.

Forty-four years old and my hands looked a decade older—scars from fights, calluses from wrenches, that crooked pinky from when Thor and I had gotten into it over a poker game gone wrong.

These hands had built and destroyed in equal measure.

Had held weapons and tools, had struck in anger and crafted in solitude.

Hands that Vanessa had held while she lied to my face.

The morning routine continued its predictable dance. Lights flickering on in apartment windows. Early shift workers trudging toward bus stops. The first delivery trucks beginning their rounds. All normal. All expected. All cataloged in my mental files alongside a thousand other mornings.

Time to move on.

I kicked the bike into gear, feeling the satisfying chunk of the transmission engaging.

Six more checkpoints on this morning's route.

The elementary school, where Serpents had been spotted last month.

The community center, still rebuilding after that suspicious fire.

The boundary lines where our territory brushed against theirs, invisible borders that meant everything to those who understood the language of the streets.

The Road Captain's job was simple in theory—plan the routes, ensure safe passage, scout for threats. In practice, it meant being the club's eyes and ears, the early warning system that kept brothers alive and enemies at bay.

It meant never forgetting that the price of safety was constant vigilance.

The chalk mark bothered me as I pulled away from the intersection. Small detail, probably nothing, but I'd learned to trust my instincts even when logic said otherwise. I'd photograph it on the next pass, compare it to the Serpents' known tags, run it past Duke at church tonight.

Because patterns mattered. Details mattered. And I'd be damned if I'd let another threat slip past while I wasn't watching.

P ortland Avenue ran parallel to Main, a quieter stretch where single-family homes gave way to duplexes and the occasional abandoned property. I kept my speed down, engine barely above idle, scanning for anything out of place in this neighborhood I'd memorized down to every cracked sidewalk square.

The Carson house had been empty for three years now, ever since the old man died and his kids started fighting over the inheritance.

Boarded windows, knee-high grass, the kind of neglect that invited trouble.

Perfect canvas for territory marking, drug deals, all the shit that flourished in forgotten spaces.

The graffiti hit my peripheral vision like a slap.

Fresh. Green paint so wet it still dripped, forming small puddles on the weathered siding. A serpent wrapped around a dagger, crude but unmistakable. The Iron Serpents' calling card, spray-painted large enough to be seen from the street.

My jaw clenched hard enough to make my teeth ache. This was troubling. Since the fight back against the Serpents, and the defeat of the Cartel half a year ago, things had been quiet. This felt like something new.

I pulled over, kickstand scraping against the curb, and killed the engine. The sudden silence felt heavy, dangerous. Like the moment before a fight when everyone's waiting to see who throws the first punch.

Three blocks. That's how close they'd gotten to the local school.

I pulled out my phone, framing the tag in the camera.

The morning light caught the wet paint, making it gleam like fresh blood.

Seven feet wide, maybe four feet tall. They'd taken their time, made sure the message was clear.

This wasn't some random tagger or drunk prospect. This was deliberate provocation.

Click. Wide shot showing the whole house.

Click. Close-up of the serpent's head, fangs prominent.

Click. The dagger's point, aimed directly east toward Kings territory.

Every detail mattered. Paint color—hardware store variety, nothing special. Application—steady hand, probably stenciled. Time frame—within the last two hours based on the drip pattern. Location—deliberately chosen for maximum visibility and proximity to protected ground.

My fingers moved across the phone screen with practiced efficiency. Duke needed to know immediately.

Serpents getting bold. Fresh tag on Carson house, Oakwood Ave. Three blocks from Jefferson Elementary.

I attached the photos and hit send, then pocketed the phone to wait for the inevitable response.

The paint smell triggered something in my brain—memories I'd trained myself to compartmentalize but never quite learned to bury.

Vanessa in the hospital bed, machines beeping, tubes everywhere. Her face swollen beyond recognition, purple and yellow bruises mapping out exactly how the Serpents had made her pay for her betrayal. They didn't tolerate failure, especially from assets they'd spent months developing.

I'd sat in that uncomfortable chair for sixteen hours, watching her breathe through a ventilator, hating her for what she'd done and hating myself more for still caring whether she lived or died.

"This is on you," the lead detective had said, folder full of evidence photos spread across the hospital's rolling table. "Your girlfriend was feeding them information for months. Routes, security protocols, personal details about every member. You're lucky only two of your guys died."

Lucky.