CHAPTER 14
UNSETTLED KRAIT
Lane killed The Hardline and stayed seated a second longer than necessary, boots planted, hands still on the grips like the ride hadn’t ended yet.
He watched as Kait swung off the Kriger and walked straight past the bikes, shoulders squared like the night hadn’t touched her. Headed upstairs without so much as a glance back.
Kolton followed halfway. Said something—soft, useless.
Lane didn’t catch the words. Didn’t need to.
She disappeared inside.
Something in his chest tightened hard enough to piss him off.
Good, he told himself.
That’s how it’s supposed to be.
He swung off The Hardline and stripped his gloves. Everything he’d done on that run had been clean. Deliberate. Necessary.
She’d needed correction. She rode too confident. Too unafraid.
She thought skill bought her space but it didn’t.
He’d applied pressure. Tested her edge. Shown her the cost of being too comfortable on the road.
That was all.
So why the hell did it feel like she’d left something behind when she walked past him?
Lane turned toward the truck.
The driver climbed down slowly, eyes tired but alert, hand already reaching into his jacket. The exchange was quick. No ceremony. The man passed over the envelope like he’d been holding it the whole ride, waiting to be done with it.
Lane took it, weighed it once in his palm.
Run completed. Payment rendered.
He nodded toward the far side of the yard. “You’re staying.”
The driver blinked. “Staying?”
“You’re staying,” Lane repeated. Flat. Non-negotiable.
“¿A dormir? ¿Aquí? Traigo hambre ¿Tienen comida?” The driver said using hand signals as he spoke and looking around.
He caught Cricket by the arm as the prospect drifted past, still buzzing with post-run adrenaline. “Get Alejandra. Now.”
Cricket nodded and jogged off without a word.
“We’ll get your comida and a señorita, okay?”
“¿Señorita? A girl?”
“Yeah, you know that word, don’t ya? Wait there,” Lane said pointing at the picnic table.
Lane watched the driver walk over to the tables, Alejandra’s name already moving through the Nest like a switch flipping on somewhere out of sight. Translation. Food. Accommodations.
Handled.
It all lined up the way it was supposed to.
So why couldn’t he stop thinking about the way she looked at him?
She’d forced his hand, he told himself. Forced him to be harder than necessary. To put her where she belonged before she decided she didn’t need anyone watching her back.
That made it discipline.
That made it right.
Except discipline didn’t usually leave this kind of noise behind.
Lane turned and went upstairs to his room at last.
Dark. Silent. Waiting.
He exhaled through his nose, folded the envelope into his cut, and headed inside.
Tomorrow would sort it out.
It always did.
NEXT MORNING
Lane came out just after seven.
The Nest was awake but quiet in the way it only got when the night had gone long and nobody wanted to talk about it yet. Coffee was on. Plates were out. Tracy was cleaning around the pool table.
Ram was at the breakfast table, chair tipped back, boot hooked on a rung, talking with his hands still half in last night.
He had not gone to bed.
“—I’m tellin’ you, man, by the time the third song hit, place was stacked. Never seen the place that busy,” Ram said.
“That’s probably cause everyone’s waiting for Toast to get on stage,” Mack said and they both laughed.
Lane frowned.
“Sup, Kount?” said Mack.
Lane only nodded.
“Hey, man,” Ram said and continued. “I was working my ass off last night. Breakin’ up bullshit, Dulce’s yellin’ at me all night ‘cause she’s mad Toast was off. Wouldn’t suck my dick ‘til I told her she was out of town. I was even helping Sunshine with drinks. It felt like fuckin’ Saturday night instead of a damn Tuesday—”
Mack grunted, shoveling eggs into his mouth. “You thought you were just gonna fuck around and get drunk all night?”
“Yeah, both,” Ram said. “Toast owes me big time. Those girls get feral when she’s not there.”
Lane crossed the room without a word and stopped short at the counter.
Coffee. Plates. Butter.
No white toast.
No jelly.
No knife laid next to the butter where it always sat.
He stared at the empty spot longer than necessary.
“Where’s the toast?”
“Oh, she’s gone already,” Ram said.
Lane glared at him. “The bread toast,” he clarified.
Melanie looked up from the stove, already moving. “Oh, good morning, Kount—Kait got up early. She was in and out. I can make you some if you want, it’s no problem, I just—”
“I don’t—” he started.
“I’ll put it on now,” she said, reaching for the bread. “It won’t take a minute, you want jelly or just butter, whatever you want, I know you usually—”
“I said I don’t.” His voice cut sharper than he meant it to.
She froze, hands still on the bag.
“I was just asking,” he said. Flat. Final.
Her face didn’t quite catch up. “Okay, I just thought—”
She nodded too fast, eyes flicking down, then back up, like she was trying to recover ground that wasn’t there anymore.
Lane sighed and turned away before she could say anything else.
The coffee suddenly tasted wrong anyway.
He grabbed his cup, didn’t sit, didn’t look at the table, and walked back out into the hall.
The door thudded shut behind him.
Silence hung there for a beat.
Ram leaned back in his chair, eyes following the doorway. “No way…”
Mack glanced up. “What?”
Ram squinted, thinking. “I don’t know, man. I think—” He stopped himself, shook his head. “I thought he was just asking about Toast.”
Mack watched the door a second longer, then went back to his plate. “You ESL motherfucker,” he muttered.
“Me la pelas, gringo.” Ram replied.
Lane didn’t go far.
He stopped just outside the clubhouse, leaned a shoulder into the wall, took a slow pull of air like he could reset whatever had slipped sideways in the kitchen. The Nest sounded normal again—plates, chairs, Ram laughing at something.
Normal enough.
Footsteps stomped coming down the stairs.
Lane turned.
Kolton reached the bottom of the stairs like he’d slept in a ditch. No shirt. Hair wrecked. Sweatpants riding low, yesterday still clinging to him like he hadn’t bothered to wash the day off.
Lane’s jaw tightened. He wouldn’t be this way if he joined the Corps.
“Morning,” Lane said.
Kolton grunted something that might’ve been agreement and kept walking.
Lane pushed off the wall. “You look like shit.”
Kolton shrugged. “Mornin’.”
Lane studied him a second longer than necessary—the slump in his shoulders, the way he moved like nothing ahead of him required effort.
He started to move past.
Kolton shifted his weight, hesitated. “Oh, hey, man—”
Lane’s eyes lifted.
Kolton cleared his throat. “Maybe ease up on her a little.”
The words landed soft. Careful. Not a challenge.
Lane stared at him.
“You were kind of an asshole,” Kolton added quickly, like ripping off a bandage. “She’s still new.”
Lane stepped closer, just enough to remind him who he was talking to.
“She’s patched,” Lane said. “That means she needs to step it up.”
Kolton held his ground—barely. “You ain’t gotta yell at her like that, though.”
Lane’s mouth twitched. Not a smile.
“Worry about your own shit,” he said. “Last night wasn’t a strong showing for you either.”
Kolton’s jaw worked. He looked away first.
“Did she say something?”
Kolton stopped. “Of course not.”
“Well, I’ll talk to her,” Lane said. “Make sure she knows it ain’t personal. She up there?”
“Nah. She left.”
“Where’d she go?”
Kolton ran a hand through his hair, made it worse. “Don’t know.”
Lane waited.
“She didn’t say,” Kolton added. “Never does.”
Lane nodded once, like it confirmed something he’d already decided.
“Go take a shower,” he said.
Lane passed him without another word, boots steady on the floor.
Behind him, Kolton stood in the hall for a second, staring at nothing.
Lane didn’t look back.
later
Lane spent the rest of the morning circling Dryden.
Not riding hard. Not cruising either. Just enough speed to keep moving, to keep from sitting still long enough for the questions to get loud.
She wasn’t at Snake Eyes.
He checked from across the street, engine idling just long enough to see the doors locked, the office dark. No Kriger out front. No movement inside.
Good.
Or not.
He cut over toward the Alley next. Too early for it to be open, but Kait had a habit of showing up when places were empty. Less noise. Fewer eyes.
Nothing.
He rolled past Mag’s without slowing. Didn’t see her bike there either.
By noon, the heat had settled in thick. Lane stopped under the shade of a gas station awning and killed the engine, helmet resting on the tank while he took inventory.
Lane exhaled through his nose.
He kicked the bike back to life and headed out again.
Hedrick Ranch crossed his mind, then he dismissed it.
By mid-afternoon, the unease had settled in fully.
He needed to see her. Needed to read her face, hear what she didn’t say. Needed to know whether he was dealing with damage control—or preemptive action.
Lane turned south, jaw set.
Whatever Kait was doing, she wasn’t doing it by accident.
And if she’d decided to move pieces without clearing it first, he needed to know which board she was playing on.
earlier
Kait was already up when Alejandra came through the kitchen.
Coffee first. Always. She was halfway through it, standing at the counter instead of sitting, when Alejandra paused like she wasn’t sure if she was interrupting something.
“Hey, Kait. You want your toast?” Alejandra asked.
“Sure.”
Toast and jelly, second.
Alejandra nodded and moved to the counter.
Kait saw two hickeys and set her mug down. “Who attacked you?”
Alejandra leaned a hip against the counter as she pushed the toaster lever down. “Our guest.” She jerked her chin toward the truck outside. “Kount said to keep him company. Can’t wait to go steady with Diablo so this shit stops.”
Kait analyzed that for half a second. “Do me a favor and ask him what he’s hauling. I’m just curious. Between you and me.”
Alejandra’s eyebrows lifted—not surprised, just alert. “Okay.”
“Yeah. Or what he’s taking back. I need to know why he’s heading to Houston.”
Alejandra nodded once. No questions. “I’ll let you know.” She stepped closer, lowering her voice. “Is this considered… club business?”
“Yeah, big time. So keep it just between us.”
The toaster popped, loud in the quiet kitchen, making Alejandra yelp. Kait chuckled.
“Morning, Kait,” Melanie said, passing through.
“Hey,” Kait replied, grabbing her toast.
She finished her coffee, ate the toast with strawberry jelly, and headed out. No rush. No announcement.
She cut across the yard and swung onto her bike. The air was already warming, dust hanging low where the sun hadn’t burned it off yet.
Klaus didn’t live at the Nest.
Most people assumed he did. He was a founder. Vice President. One of the men who had built Krait from the ground up.
But unlike Don, Klaus went home at the end of the day.
His place sat on the outskirts of Dryden, far enough from town that nobody ended up there by accident. A modest one-story house tucked behind a line of mesquite trees, with a gravel driveway and a detached garage that looked cleaner than most people’s kitchens.
No motorcycles lined the yard.
No snakeholes.
No prospects sleeping on couches.
Just quiet.
Kait killed the Kriger at the end of the driveway and listened to the sudden absence of engine noise.
The house was exactly what she would’ve expected from Klaus.
Simple. Orderly. Every tool in its place. Every responsibility handled before it became a problem.
It looked less like a biker’s house and more like the home of a man who happened to be a biker.
He opened the door in a T-shirt and jeans, glasses already on, like he’d been awake longer than he let on.
“Guten Morgen,” he said, stepping aside. “Komm rein.”
She nodded. “Morgen, Klaustein.”
She didn’t sit. Just leaned against the counter and told him what happened on the run—clean, linear, no emphasis. Lane’s riding. The reassignment. Kolton not stepping up. The silence afterward.
Klaus listened without interrupting, hands wrapped around his coffee.
When she finished, he took a moment.
“Lane has a code,” he said finally. “Always has. Precision. Control. No wasted motion. Boy had krait venom instead of breast milk.”
“He’s a prick.”
Klaus raised his eyebrows in agreement. “He just doesn’t adjust well when rules get challenged.”
“He was the one challenging me.”
Klaus looked at her over the rim of his mug. “Well, everything about you challenges him. You definitely unsettle him.”
She didn’t argue.
“You’re patched,” he went on. “You ride like you belong. That’s going to test him. Especially because you’re—” He paused, then said it. “A woman.”
Kait shrugged. “Sometimes it’s just…” she sighed.
“I know,” Klaus said. “But you can handle him. Just keep doing your thing.”
He set the mug down. “Keep your cool. Don’t escalate it to Don yet. Lane could be heading back to Huntsville any day and that will take care of it.”
She nodded. “I fucking hope so. It was great when he was gone.”
As she turned to leave, Klaus added, softer, “You’re doing great, Dødsstraf.”
Kait smiled. “It’s ‘Toast’ now, remember.”
“Nein. Bullshit fucking name.”
She laughed and waved as she headed for her bike.
Hedrick Ranch was already awake when she pulled in.
Blaze was out by the corral, working a young horse that didn’t want to listen. Not fighting it. Just steady pressure—slow circles, patience worn thin but still intact.
She killed the engine and walked over without saying anything. He put her to work immediately.
What started as small talk and half-remembered childhood stories slid, without warning, into everything else.
Julia was exhausted. The baby never slept. When Blaze was gone, she was pissed he wasn’t home. When he stayed, she was pissed he wasn’t out there making money. She said their house was too small but didn’t want to move out to the ranch because it was too far from town.
They were broke.
Randy was riding him nonstop—money, fences, feed, repairs—acting like every problem on the ranch was Blaze’s responsibility. Meanwhile, Randy didn’t think twice about blowing cash on women or rodeo gambling like it was pocket change.
And then there was Don… and Lane.
Calls. Expectations. Pressure to be full-time at the table, like Blaze could just clone himself like that one sheep on the news and come up with more hours in the day.
Blaze said it all without heat. No blame. No explosions. Just laying it out like facts he’d been carrying too long.
“My head’s just not right lately,” Blaze said, watching the horse finally settle. “Hard to focus. Stretching too thin. Concussion don’t help neither.”
Kait nodded. “I can only imagine.” She didn’t offer fixes. Just stayed there, listening, matching his pace.
Blaze went quiet for a minute, working the rope through his hands like he’d just realized how much he’d said.
“Sorry,” he muttered finally. “Didn’t mean to dump all that on you.”
Kait didn’t answer right away. She adjusted her grip, kept the horse moving.
He shook his head once. “You’ve got your own shit. Losing your dad. Packing up. Coming back here like that.” He let out a breath through his nose. “Makes my stuff sound small.”
Kait glanced at him. “It’s not. No comparison really, we’re all dealing with different shit.”
Blaze looked at her then, really looked. “Yeah, well… still feels dumb talking about fences and money when you’re dealing with—” He trailed off, not finishing it. Didn’t need to.
Kait nodded. She didn’t offer fixes. Just stayed there, listening, matching his pace.
“I get it,” she said when there was room for it. “But you need to stop listening to this sappy shit, too” She said as the chorus to What Might Have Been came on.
Blaze paused to hear it, he had not been paying attention to the song until now.
“No shit,” he said and changed the station She’s Gone Country was barely starting and he left it there. “That song’s about you. You gon’ country now!” the rope slackening a fraction. He looked surprised—like he hadn’t expected that answer.
“Right,” she said and they laughed.
“We gotta get you some cowgirl boots.”
“Let me see that hat,” said Kait and Blaze took it off his head and put it on her.
They had a good laugh and kept working after that. Slow circles. Steady pressure. The sun climbed higher, the air thickened, sweat darkening the back of Blaze’s shirt.
By the time Kait left, her shoulders felt looser than they had all morning.
Not lighter.
Just steadier.
She rode back toward town without rushing, and she didn’t feel as lonely as before.
Kait rode back to the Nest in the late afternoon.
The place felt louder than it should’ve when she walked in—voices overlapping, the wrong kind of energy for that hour.
She slowed before the kitchen.
Melanie was at the table, shoulders folded inward, face red and blotchy. Tracy sat beside her, arm around her back. Alejandra stood near the counter, arms crossed, jaw tight.
“It doesn’t matter what I do, nothing is good enough for him,” Melanie said, voice breaking again. “I was just trying to help. I didn’t do anything wrong.”
Alejandra snapped before Tracy could respond. “That’s the point, Mel. You could do everything right and it wouldn’t matter. It doesn’t matter with him. He’s mean. You know this.”
“He doesn’t give a shit about your feelings, Mel,” Tracy murmured, rubbing Melanie’s arm.
“He just uses you, I keep telling you,” Alejandra continued, frustration bleeding through her accent. “He will never see you like that. Not the way you want.”
Melanie shook her head. “You don’t know that.”
Alejandra scoffed. “They’re all like that. That’s how it’s been with Diablo and I and then he just goes to the Alley and fucks Peaches, or even brings her here.”
Kait raised an eyebrow. She had no idea Alejandra had feelings for Diablo.
“It’s been like 3 years of the same shit,” Alejandra continued. “Kount is always going to be a manipulating asshole.”
The room went quiet.
They all noticed Kait at once as she chuckled.
Tracy stiffened. Melanie wiped at her face. Alejandra’s expression shifted—her eyes popped open.
“Sorry,” Alejandra said quickly. “I’m sorry, Toast. We were just—”
“Talking shit,” Kait finished for her. “Can’t say you’re wrong.”
None of them relaxed right away.
Kait didn’t sit. Didn’t join the circle. She leaned against the counter instead, arms loose, listening as Melanie sniffed and Tracy kept murmuring reassurances.
She understood more than she let on.
Waiting for respect that was never coming.
Trying harder instead of walking away.
Mistaking proximity for access.
After a minute, Kait cut in gently.
“Ale,” she said, motioning toward the bar area as she stepped away from the table. “You get a chance to talk to our guest?”
Alejandra’s eyes flicked to Melanie, then back. “Yeah.”
She leaned her elbows on the counter and blew out a breath. “He’s not stupid. Just talks too much when he thinks he’s being charming.”
Kait waited.
“He kept calling it a test run,” Alejandra said. “Not just a drop. More like… getting things in place.”
“For what?” Kait asked.
Alejandra shook her head. “He didn’t know. Or didn’t care. Just knew it was bigger than what they usually move.”
Kait stayed quiet.
“He mentioned paperwork,” Alejandra went on. “Invoices. Said the company on the manifest wasn’t local. Not Texas.”
“Where, then?”
“He thought California. Said the address rang Tijuana to him.” She shrugged. “Could’ve been wrong.”
That was enough.
“He also said this one mattered,” Alejandra added. “Like important people were watching how it went.”
Kait nodded once.
“He’s heading to Houston right now,” Alejandra said. “Dropping the truck, handing off whatever he’s supposed to hand off. After that, he’s done.”
That settled it.
“Thanks,” Kait said. “That stays between us.”
Alejandra nodded. “Of course.”
Kait slipped out before the energy in the room could reorganize itself.
Snake Eyes was slow when Kait rolled up.
Not closed. Just settled. Phones on standby, lights low, the kind of calm that meant people were working without needing to talk about it.
Kode was already there, sleeves rolled up, hair slicked back, a legal pad open beside the keyboard and Engel.
“You look like you’ve got something,” Kode said, not looking up.
“I do.”
Kait took the chair across from her and laid it out—what Alejandra heard, what the driver didn’t know, what felt off. No theory. No conclusions. Just pieces.
Kode listened, then nodded once. “Okay. We keep it tight.”
She started where it made sense—business filings, freight registrations, import companies that liked vague descriptions and flexible addresses. Kait leaned in when something snagged, leaned back when it didn’t.
Buster drifted through at some point, coffee in hand, curiosity written all over his face.
“You need a runner?” he asked.
“Eventually,” Kode said. “Don’t wander off too far.”
They followed paper trails sideways instead of straight—names that repeated, addresses that shifted just enough to look legitimate, companies that existed more on paper than in the real world.
“This one,” Kode said finally, tapping the screen. “Textiles. Supposedly.”
Kait looked at the filing. The address. The cross-reference beneath it.
“That’s not about fabric.”
“No,” Kode agreed. “That’s about movement.”
They didn’t say Tijuana out loud. They didn’t have to.
Buster came back later with pizza and set it down like he’d been summoned by instinct.
Kait took a couple slices, ate standing up, eyes still on the paperwork. Didn’t slow down. Didn’t linger.
When she finally stepped back, the picture wasn’t complete—but it was clear.
Enough to talk without guessing.
Enough to be careful.
Kode closed the folder and slid it toward her. “You’re not wrong.”
Kait nodded.
“I’ll keep digging,” he said. “There’s more here. I can feel it.”
Kait paused at the door. “How much more?”
“Rabbit-hole-more.” Kode glanced up at her. “I’ll catch up with you later tonight.”
Kait nodded once. “Cool.”
Buster lifted a slice of pizza in salute. “Have a good night, Toast.”
Kait threw up some deuces and stepped back out into the heat with the edges of the puzzle set, and the center still dark—
which was fine.
She didn’t need the whole picture yet.
chapel
Don was already in the chapel when Lane knocked.
Door open. Lights on. Whiskey untouched.
Lane shut the door behind him and didn’t bother sitting.
“You want the rundown?” Lane asked.
Don looked up from the paperwork. Didn’t blink. “You gonna give me the real version or the bullshit one where Kolton took the lead and made the run a success?”
Lane stopped.
Don leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled. “I know Kolton didn’t do a damn thing. That was all you out there.”
Lane held his jaw tight.
“So,” Don continued, voice calm, almost bored, “Give me the no-bullshit version.”
Lane exhaled once through his nose. Reset. Then he gave it to him.
The route. The spacing. The moment Kait hesitated. How Lane reassigned without ceremony. How the truck never slowed, never drew attention. How nothing went wrong because he didn’t let it.
“She didn’t seem ready to take direction,” Lane said. “I wasn’t letting that truck get sloppy because someone couldn’t keep up.”
Don nodded slowly, like that confirmed something he already believed.
“And you were both fighting the whole time?”
“No… well not the whole time,” Lane looked at the Judge.
“Right. And Kolton,” Don said.
Lane’s eyes lifted.
“Fine. Did what he was told,” Lane said. “So did Cricket.”
Don watched him closely. “That all?”
Lane paused. Just long enough to be noticed.
“Yeah. Driver paid as soon as we pulled up,” he said and set the envelope in front of Don.
Don waited.
“Nice. And you? You good?”
“I handled it.”
Don’s mouth twitched. Not a smile.
“Of course you did.”
Silence settled between them. Heavy. Familiar.
“All right. Go do your thing. Don’t forget church at ten.”
Lane opened the door and stepped out, boots steady, face unreadable.
Behind him, Don picked up his whiskey and finally took a sip.
Don didn’t look up.
“Oh—son.”
Lane stopped at the door.
“Do me a favor,” Don said, finally lifting his eyes. “Go get Toast from the D.A. for church.”
Lane waited.
“Kolton can’t?”
“He’s got Kyle. Just get her, will ya?”
Lane nodded once.
“Yes, sir.”
He closed the door behind him.
Don sat there a moment longer, then reached for his whiskey again—
already thinking three moves ahead.
Lane rode toward the Alley with the wrong kind of tension sitting in his chest.
Not adrenaline. Not anger.
Anticipation.
He didn’t like it.
The road blurred under him, familiar turns taken on muscle memory while his thoughts ran ahead of the bike. Don could’ve sent Cricket, Buster, anyone.
But he sent Lane.
Lane told himself it was because he handled things. Because he didn’t turn orders into conversations, and he sure as hell wouldn’t linger at the Dirty Alley like the others.
That explanation held—barely.
Calling her wouldn’t have worked. She couldn’t carry her phone with her, the Alley was loud even on slow nights, their phone always left ringing under music and shouting. And even if she answered, what then? Yell “Don wants you” three times just for her to end up hanging up anyway?
He pictured it without meaning to—Kait spotting him the second he walked in, deciding whether he was worth her time. Whether she’d finish what she was doing first. Whether she’d make him wait.
She might just give him that look she always gave him and kick him out.
That thought irritated him, sharp and immediate.
Or she might shut him down entirely. Tell him to fuck off. Tell him she was in the middle of something. Tell him nothing at all.
Lane’s jaw tightened.
He didn’t like not knowing where he stood with her. He was going in blind.
The closer he got, the louder the night became. Neon bleeding into the street. Bikes lined up crooked. Smoke hanging low like it belonged there.
The Dirty Alley.
Lane slowed, parked, killed the engine.
For a moment, he stayed where he was, hands resting on the bars, listening to the noise leak out through the walls.
Don might’ve sent him because Lane was reliable. But what if Don sent him because Don wanted to see how this played out.
Lane swung off the bike and headed for the door.
If Kait let him talk, he’d handle it.
If she didn’t—
He pushed inside, expression already set.
He’d adapt.
Jesus Christ. How about just CHURCH, NOW
inside
Sunshine leaned in close, voice pitched low over the music. “That guy by the jukebox—same one from last week. Keeps playing with himself like he thinks no one notices.”
Kait didn’t look yet. She finished writing the time on the incident sheet, tore it clean, and slid it under the clipboard.
“Has he touched anyone?” she asked.
Sunshine shook her head. “Just himself. So far.”
That earned a quick, dry breath of a laugh from both of them.
Kait finally looked out toward the floor. The guy laughed too loud at nothing, one hand lingering where it didn’t belong. A regular. Cash spread across the bar. Tabs open.
“Fucking loser. One more chance,” Kait said. “He’s spending enough that I don’t want a scene unless he earns it. If he does it again—anything—come get me.”
Sunshine nodded. “Got it.”
Kait turned and headed for the back.
The office door shut behind her, dulling the Alley without cutting it off. The bass still bled through the walls, thinner but steady. She sat at the desk and moved through her routine—logs, camera sweep, back hallway feed—muscle memory doing most of the work.
Then the music changed.
Pure Morning.
The intro hit wrong somehow. Off just enough to catch her attention.
Something in her paused before she could decide why.
She lifted her eyes to the monitors.
Lane.
At the entrance.
Alone.
No hesitation. No scan for the stage. No drift. Just a straight line from the door.
He moved and scanned the room like a snake. Kait hated him but she could not deny how her body reacted to him. Her heart was already pounding. It happened every time
Kait watched as Jojo noticed him and immediately peeled off from the bar, smile already set. Too close. Too eager. Jojo said something Kait couldn’t hear, leaned in and tried to grab his arm.
Lane moved his arm away, didn’t slow.
Didn’t smile.
His mouth moved once. Sharp. Dismissive.
Jojo pointed toward the hall, deflated.
Kait stayed in her chair.
The office door opened without a knock.
“Let’s go,” Lane said.
No greeting. No buffer.
She stood fast. “What? Where? Something happened?”
“Now. We got church.”
The urgency drained out of her. “You came all this way to tell me we have church?”
“You never answer your fucking phone so Don sent me.”
The door flew open again.
Sunshine, flushed. “He grabbed my ass,” she said. “I told him to stop and he just laughed.”
Kait was already moving. “Son of a bitch.”
Lane stepped in front of her.
“I got it.”
She stopped short. “No. You don’t.”
Lane didn’t look at her. He looked at Sunshine. “I said I got it. Who is it?”
“Jukebox hero, over there,” she said pointing.
Lane turned to Kait—flat, final—“Grab your stuff. We’re leaving as soon as I’m done.”
That did it.
They hit the floor fast. Lane caught the guy by the collar and the arm, spun him before he could get a word out. Cash scattered. Lane scooped it up, stuffed in his kutte’s inner pocket, and walked him backward through the back door.
The back alley smelled like piss and hot asphalt.
Lane shoved him once. Hard. Let him go.
The guy stumbled, bolted, vanished into the dark.
Kait came out just long enough to make sure he was gone.
Sunshine hovered by the door, eyes wide, silent.
Then Kait turned.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Lane faced her. “What’s wrong with me? I just took care of that asshole.”
Crack.
“That is my job,” Kait said. “You don’t need to come in here and do it for me.”
“Well, excuse the fuck out of me for helping.”
“No one asked you,” she shot back.
“I don’t wait to be asked.”
“You don’t think I can’t handle some drunk asshole? What do you think I do here every day?”
“I’ve heard some stuff.”
She scoffed and turned to leave.
“Go fuck yourself.”
Lane reached out without thinking.
Caught her wrist.
Just enough to stop her.
They locked.
Too close. Breath shared. Heat. That sudden, violent awareness of the other one right there—solid, defiant, unyielding.
Lane released her immediately.
Kait yanked her arm back, eyes cold. “Don’t fucking touch me.”
Lane stepped back.
Kait held his gaze one last second. Then she turned and walked away.
Lane stayed where he was, the Alley noise swelling back around him, knowing—too late—that whatever he’d just done had made things worse.
Lane didn’t say another word.
He swung onto his bike and brought it to life, smooth and exact. No rush. No glance back. Habit put him in front before thought could intervene.
Kait waited just long enough to make it clear she wasn’t following orders.
Then the Kriger roared awake—louder, harder—and she rolled out behind him without settling into formation.
Sunshine stood frozen in the doorway, watching, saying nothing but understanding everything.
They cleared the Alley fast.
Lane set a steady pace, clean lines through the streets, speed measured for visibility and reaction time. He rode like he always did—anticipating cross traffic, reading shadows, leaving margin where others wouldn’t.
The mirror caught movement.
Kait surged.
Not gradually. Not to match him. One second she was back, the next she punched the throttle and closed the distance in a blink, engine screaming before she cut it again just as fast.
Lane adjusted without slowing—shifted his position, widened his line, gave her room without signaling it.
She didn’t take it.
She dropped back suddenly, then swung wide, drifting near the shoulder before snapping back into the lane like she’d changed her mind mid-thought.
Unpredictable.
Lane checked the mirror again, longer this time. Not alarmed—assessing. Speed differential. Distance. Exit options if she lost traction.
She wasn’t taunting him.
She was riding like she didn’t care who had to adapt.
Lane tightened his grip, not in fear but focus. He increased speed just enough to stretch the road ahead of them, creating space, controlling the variables she kept introducing.
Kait answered by gunning it again, blasting past the margin he’d built, then braking hard enough to force him to recalibrate.
Lane didn’t react visibly.
Inside, he ran the math—traction, tire temp, her angle through the next curve. He positioned himself to absorb a mistake if she made one without putting either of them down.
She didn’t make one.
She took the corner hot, borderline reckless, leaned deeper than necessary, then straightened and shot forward like the road owed her something.
Lane followed—not chasing, not correcting—just close enough to intervene if physics caught up with her.
The mirrors stayed busy.
Too busy.
Every time he checked, she was somewhere else—closer than she should’ve been, wider than was smart, riding the edge like it wasn’t sharp enough to cut her.
The wind tore at them. The road emptied. The Nest lights finally broke the dark ahead.
Lane slowed first, deliberately early, easing off instead of braking hard.
Kait blew past him for half a second—too fast into the turn—then corrected at the last moment, rolled in hot, and killed the Kriger hard enough that the engine barked in protest.
Lane pulled in behind her and shut his bike down.
For a moment, neither moved.
Kait dismounted and walked off immediately, boots steady despite the ride she’d just burned through.
Lane stayed where he was, eyes still tracking the space she’d occupied seconds ago. His chest tight with something he refused to name.
The ride was over and he was home, but his head was still in the back alley.
Mostly everyone was there when Kait walked into the clubhouse.
She said hi to everyone and Kode put up a finger to get her attention and she called him over to the bar. Tracy immediately got her a shot of vodka and Coors Light for Kode.
She was halfway to the door when Kode caught her by the elbow—not stopping her, just enough to redirect.
“Two minutes,” he said quietly.
She followed him a step aside, out of the main flow.
“I kept digging after you left,” Kode said. “The company on the paperwork? Textile importer on paper. Registered out of Tijuana. Shell address—shared with two others that dissolved inside a year.”
Kait’s face stayed neutral.
“Front isn’t new,” he went on. “What’s new is the timing. Mondragón’s been quiet for months. That truck wasn’t about the load. It was a message—letting the right people know they can move clean from Tamaulipas to the U.S. and back.”
“Message for who?” Kait asked.
Kode hesitated. “Everyone. But especially a big Tijuana crew.” He reached into the front of his kutte and pulled out a folded paper. Smoothed it open. Two men in the photo—one she recognized immediately.
Néstor Mondragón.
“This motherfucker,” Kode said, tapping the other face, “is Bernardo Lozano.”
Kait frowned. “Never heard of him.”
Kode gave a short, humorless breath. “You’ve been gone a while. He and his brothers run the drug trade in TJ. Border to border. The Lozano bros turned the San Diego corridor into a toll road—nothing moves unless they say so. Cops, federales, politicians—everyone either gets paid or gets buried.”
He folded the paper back up. “That’s the model. Absolute control. Territory like a kingdom. Violence when needed. Silence when it counts.”
Kait’s jaw set.
“Mondragón wants that,” Kait said.
“Yeah, I mean it’s not going to happen tomorrow. But eventually. Tamaulipas, Roma, the crossings—same playbook. This run was them announcing they’re ready to be taken seriously.”
She nodded once. The pieces clicked into place.
“That’s enough to bring it to the table,” she said. “Thank you so much.”
Kode smiled faintly. “You point, I dig.”
She smiled satisfied.
Church had already started.
Don stood at the head of the table, hands resting flat, voice carrying without effort.
“Run was clean,” he was saying. “No delays. No heat. No noise.” A pause. “That’s how it’s supposed to go.”
Lane sat to Don’s right, posture exact, eyes forward.
Kait slid into her seat without ceremony.
Don continued. “Mondragón was satisfied. Paid on arrival.” He reached down, lifted a stack of envelopes. “Three grand per patch.”
A low murmur of approval rolled the table.
“And since prospects don’t get shit,” Don added mildly, “that means four grand each.”
Laughter broke loose. Chairs shifted. Someone whistled.
Kait didn’t smile.
Lane glanced down the table at her.
She felt it immediately.
Looked up.
Held his gaze just long enough to acknowledge it—then turned away, jaw tightening in open disgust.
Don let the room settle before speaking again.
“This won’t be the last run,” he said casually. “Mondragón’s already talking about more. Soon. More movement. More consistency.” He tapped the envelopes once against the table. “Money’s going to start rolling.”
“Thank fuck,” Said Randy.
A few approving sounds answered him.
“He’s happy,” Don went on. “Happy enough to trust us again. Says this feels like old times—stronger, cleaner. A relationship that’s back where it should be.”
That landed.
“He sees us as reliable,” Don said. “Capable. Worth building with.”
Don paused, letting that sink in and they all cheered.
“Anything else,” he asked then, eyes sweeping the table, “that didn’t make it into the usual channels?”
Kait leaned forward slightly. Not claiming the floor.
“Yeah, actually,” Kait said.
“I know it wasn’t really our business to dig into what was in the truck. Or who it was for. But after the run, it didn’t feel like it would hurt to look a little closer.”
Lane’s head turned.
Don didn’t move.
“Kode and I looked into some things earlier,” Kait continued. “Nothing deep. Just enough to understand what we were standing next to.” She paused. “There was likely nothing abnormal in the cargo.”
A chair creaked.
“The textiles company on the paperwork is registered out of Tijuana,” she said. “Kode pulled the filings. It’s a shell—shares an address with two others that folded within a year.”
Kode leaned forward slightly. “No operating history. No real footprint. Clean enough to pass a glance, but not built to last.”
Kait nodded once. “That truck didn’t feel like it was about the load.”
“Then what?” Klaus asked.
“More like a test, or a message,” she said pointing at Kode referencing the talk they just had.
“Mondragón letting certain people know they can move clean through Tamaulipas and within US soil. In and out,” said Kode confidently.
“For who?” Randy pressed.
Kode answered this time. “Same circle that’s been tightening around Tijuana for years. The Lozano brothers.”
That name carried its own weight.
“Mondragón is trying to get in bed with the Lozano brothers?” asked Lane not liking the sound of that.
“Seems that way.” Said Kait getting up and producing the folded piece of paper and displaying on the middle of the table.
Silence settled around the table, heavier now.
Don studied Kait for a long moment.
Then he smiled.
A few chairs shifted.
Kode added, matter-of-fact, “Looks like this run was something set up to be seen, not used.”
Kait nodded once and sat back down.
“Damn,” Kolton said, absently thumbing the edge of his envelope.
Lane spoke without shifting in his chair.
“If that’s what this turns into,” he said evenly, “and Roma becomes a corridor—what does that look like for us?”
The table went still.
It wasn’t the question itself.
It was the fact that Lane was the one asking it.
Don didn’t answer right away. He leaned back, fingers steepled, studying Lane like he was weighing how much truth the room could absorb.
Klaus glanced down the table. A couple of guys exchanged looks.
Kait stayed quiet.
Blaze kept his eyes on the money envelopes, jaw set.
“If,” Don said finally, calm and unbothered, “is doing a lot of work there.”
Lane didn’t blink. “If it checks out.”
Don smiled faintly. “It won’t. I’d never allow this town—or anywhere near it—to become a drug corridor.”
Simple. Absolute.
A few heads nodded, relieved to be given a clean answer.
Don leaned forward, palms flat on the table. “Let me be clear. We’re in the protection business. We’re not the CU, and we’re not Reyes. That line doesn’t move.”
Lane held his gaze a beat longer than necessary.
Then he leaned back—conceding nothing, accepting everything.
Don swept the table once more. “Anything else?”
No one spoke.
The moment passed.
But it didn’t leave.
Kait felt it settle into the room—heavy, unresolved—like something everyone had seen clearly and decided not to touch.
The room thinned out fast after that.
Envelopes disappeared into jackets. Conversations broke into smaller, easier clusters—relief doing most of the work.
Kait lingered just long enough not to look like she was waiting.
Don noticed anyway.
“Toast,” he said, already lighting a cigarette. “Close that door and come over here a second.”
Not an order.
Not a request.
Just assumed.
She closed the door and sat in Klaus’s chair.
“You did good tonight,” Don said casually. “Real good.”
“Just connected a few dots,” she replied. “With Kode’s help.”
Don smiled. “Still. Not everyone bothers to look.”
He rocked his chair slowly, studying her the way he studied routes and ledgers—like she was something that might pay off if handled right.
“I haven’t checked in with you lately,” he went on. “I know you wanted to talk after the incident at Brews, but things got busy.” A beat. “Chugs told me you went to see him. That took some nerve.”
“I just wanted to apologize,” she said.
“I know,” Don replied. “He told me.”
A pause.
“I want you to understand something,” Don said, voice easy. “You’re doing fine here. Better than fine. If anyone’s giving you trouble, you come to me.”
Kait nodded. Neutral. Noncommittal.
Don clocked that.
“Everyone treating you right?”
“Of course.”
“How about Lane?” he asked lightly.
She took a breath. “Everything good on my end but to be honest, I don’t think he’ll ever be okay with me here.”
Don sighed, almost fond.
“I’m not trying to complain about him,” she added quickly.
“I know,” Don said. “But I’ve already spoken to him about his attitude.”
The words landed heavier than they should have.
“I’m not trying to tell on him—”
“No, no,” Don cut in with a chuckle. “Trust me. We all see it. That’s not right. But it’s a work in progress.”
She nodded.
“Get some rest,” Don said, ashing his cigarette. “And get yourself something nice with that money. You earned it.”
She smiled. Small. Polite.
“And we’ve got more coming.”
She stood to leave.
“Oh—and send Kount in,” Don added.
“Sure. Thanks, Prez.”
“Thank you,” Don said, his smile crooked.
When she stepped back into the bar area, she felt the looks—curious, measuring, speculative.
Lane was across the room, talking with Klaus.
“Kount,” she said. “Don wants you.”
Lane stopped in front of her.
“You go crying to him about earlier?” he murmured.
“You scared of getting yelled at?” she shot back.
He scoffed and brushed past her.
Kolton appeared grabbing her by the waist immediately, energized, talking fast about all the dumb shit he was going to do with his money—paint job, chrome, something expensive and unnecessary. Kait caught none of it.
She was trying release herself. “Kolt—”
“What. Let’s go to the room,” he said not slowing down.
Her attention was still on the office door.
And the look in Lane’s face when he closed it.
llantera rangel
Severino didn’t sit.
He stood behind the table instead, hands gripping the back of a chair that wasn’t his, fingers curled too tight—like he was holding something in place that wanted to move.
“El patrón’s pissed,” he said in his thick norteño accent.
No greeting. No preamble.
His voice was low, steady—wrong in the way calm can be wrong when it doesn’t belong in a room.
“He’s hearing Mondragón’s been making moves with Tijuana. Quiet ones.” A brief pause. “Moves that didn’t go through us, and should have.”
Alacrán didn’t look up. He already knew where this was headed.
Severino kept going anyway.
“Word is they ran protection north. Clean. Through Texas. Through the U.S.” His mouth twitched—not quite a smile. “Didn’t lose a truck. Didn’t lose a man.”
Severino leaned forward, pressing down on the chair hard enough that it creaked.
“And the name that keeps coming up?” he said, almost conversational. “Krait.”
The word hit the room ugly.
“Pinches culebras,” Severino added, like he was talking about an animal he’d already cut open once.
Alacrán finally lifted his eyes.
Severino met them without blinking.
“El patron, Don Iván Talamantes doesn’t like being cut out,” Severino said. “Especially not when the cut goes straight through his territory.”
Silence stretched, thick and deliberate.
Severino tilted his head slightly, listening to something only he could hear.
“He wants eyes on them,” he went on. “Wants to know how Mondragón pulled it off. Who’s riding point. Who’s thinking.”
A beat.
“And if King Krait and his pretty white boys are helping them move through the U.S….” Severino said. “Then Don Iván wants something done about it.”
He let the words sit. Let them rot.
“I thought we were cool with them right now,” Roque said. “The whole shit with Luis—”
Severino released the chair and straightened, hands dropping to his sides.
Whatever was wrong inside him stayed wrong—quiet, patient, pleased.
“Getting rid of Luis wasn’t a favor to them,” Alacrán said evenly. “It was an order from Don Iván for hurting that kid. Even if he was the little Prince’s son.”
“Looks like we’re poaching culebras, ¿a poco no?” Santos muttered.
“I call dibs on la güera,” Chido said with a grin.
“You in love, foo.” Said Murrieta pushing him.
Severino didn’t laugh.
He remembered her from Brews. Had already memorized her face. Her body. The way she moved like she wasn’t afraid of anything in that room.
If she only knew.
“Yeah. We hunting snakes.”
But Chido had another thing coming if he thought he could call dibs.
La culebrita blanca…
Was his.
A smile finally touched Severino’s mouth.
It wasn’t a human one.
