Page 7 of My Veteran Biker

The man filling his tank finishes and caps it, then says something to his partner. They both look in our direction.

Then they mount up and pull out of the gas station, heading south away from Bloomfield.

Tate and I follow at a distance. Not close enough to crowd them but close enough that they know we're there.

They ride for two miles before turning east onto a county road that leads away from town. We stop at the turn and watch them disappear.

"They were probing," Tate says. "Testing response time."

"Yeah."

"Crane's getting bold."

I don't answer. We both know what it means.

Perry's death wasn't enough. Marrow is still pushing and they're not going to stop until someone makes them.

We ride back in silence.

By the time I pull into my driveway it's past noon and the sun is directly overhead, beating down without mercy. My shirt is soaked through, and my head is pounding from the heat and the adrenaline that's still moving through my system with nowhere to go.

I park the bike and go inside.

The house is dim and cool; the AC working hard enough to drop the temperature to something bearable. I strip off my cut and hang it on the hook by the door, then pull my shirt over my head and drop it on the floor.

In the bathroom, I turn on the shower and step under water that's cold enough to shock my system. I stand there until my heart rate slows, until the tension in my shoulders eases enough that I can think past the need to hit something.

Perry died three weeks ago. Shot outside his apartment at five in the morning while the rest of us were asleep.

He was alone. No one waiting for him. No one who noticed he was gone until Chuck did his morning check and found him bleeding out on the pavement.

I've been alone for seventeen years. Built it deliberately, maintained it, told myself it was what I wanted.

I think about Perry and I think about Francis next door and the lie gets harder to hold.

I get out of the shower and dry off, pulling on clean jeans and a black t-shirt. It's almost one.

I should eat something but my stomach is tight and food doesn't sound like anything I want.

I go back to the garage instead.

The bike doesn't need maintenance. The oil was changed last week, the chain is clean, and the tire pressure is good.

I do it anyway because sitting still isn't an option and I don't have anywhere else to be until church tomorrow night.

I'm under the bike checking the brake pads when I hear an engine turn over next door.

Once, twice, three times. The starter catches but the engine doesn't fire.

I wait.

Another attempt. Same result.

I walk to the edge of the garage. Francis is standing beside her car with the hood up, looking at the engine like it's going to explain itself if she stares long enough.

She's wearing jeans and a loose blue shirt that hangs off one shoulder. Her hair is pulled back in a ponytail and there's sweat on her neck, a damp patch between her shoulder blades.

I should go back to the bike. Should let her figure it out or call someone else.