Page 56 of North’s Claim

Rook chokes on his smoke, laughing. “Bet he’d enjoy that more than you think.”

Soul strolls over, grinning like he’s been born for trouble. “Kids ready?”

I nod toward the prospects. “They’ll be ready when I say so.”

Soul smirks. “Translation: you’re gonna ride their asses all night.”

“Part of the job,” I say, climbing onto my bike. “Better I break them than Iowa does.”

It takes another twenty minutes before I’m satisfied, van loaded tight, extra fuel strapped down, everyone armed and with comms on. I give the signal, and the row of engines growls to life like a pack of wolves waking up.

We ride out in a staggered formation, the van dead-center, my crew flanking it. Wind whips against my face, the leather of my gloves creaking as I flex my fingers on the grips. The road smells of dry wheat fields and exhaust, sharp and raw in my lungs.

Rook pulls up alongside me for a stretch, his grin splitting his face. “Feel like a field trip, Prez. You pack us juice boxes?”

“Yeah,” I shoot back. “Yours is spiked with antifreeze.”

Soul’s voice crackles over comms, lazy and deep, “Better than that protein powder Rook drinks. Smells like feet and bad chocolate.”

We roll out slow, then hit the open road, the hum deepening into a roar. The night wraps around us, a cold bite in the wind that makes my jaw ache. Iowa’s a straight shot, but I keep my eyes cutting left and right, scanning for trouble. Not our first border run, but this deep into their side? There’s a reason I brought Rook and Soul, not just muscle, but eyes I trust.

After a few miles, Rook pulls up alongside me and shouts over the wind, “Prez, you sure about this route?”

“You doubting my sense of direction?” I shout back.

“Last time you said that, we ended up in the middle of a goddamn cattle drive,” Soul cuts in from behind, laughter in his voice.

“That was once,” I bark, though the corner of my mouth twitches, “And I smoked Doc’s stuff.” Rock made sure to kick his ass but I never felt so high after a joint.

“And we still talk about it,” Rook fires back.

“Better than that time you tried to charm your way past a checkpoint and almost got us strip searched,” I shoot at him.

“Almost,” Rook says. “Keyword.”

The banter runs like this for miles: sharp, crude, familiar. It’s the kind of talk that keeps the edge off without dulling it completely. We all know what’s under it. The parts no one says out loud.

By the time the GPS pings us close to the meet point, my mood’s a steady mix of focus and suspicion. The warehouse sits like a shadow on the edge of the road, broken windows and rusted siding giving it that hollowed-out feel.

We circle once. I nod to Rook. He peels off to check the back while I take the front, Soul keeping watch near the van.

Everything looks clear.

That’s the problem.

The meet spot is a wide patch of dirt just past the Iowa line, where the road crumbles into gravel and weeds. On paper, it’s perfect, open view, no buildings close enough for a sniper to nest, horizon clear except for a few stubborn oaks. In my gut, it’s wrong.

We do a slow perimeter sweep. Tires crunch on loose stone. The air smells different here, damp, like rain that never came.

Rook calls over comms, “Perimeter clear.”

I’m not convinced.

We roll into position anyway, the van idling center, our bikes circling like dogs on a chain. The other crew’s already here: a handful of patched bastards I don’t recognize, leather stiff, eyes cold. They stand too straight, too still. No one smokes. No one laughs.

That’s the first crack in the picture.

The truck’s already there. Parked too neat. Everything is too still.