Page 117 of Monk

The morning air was cool and crisp as the sky began to rise on the horizon. I walked to my bike, swung my leg over the seat, and checked my watch.Right on time.I fired up the engine. The rumble cut through the quiet morning as I headed for the clubhouse.

Whisper and Blackjack were already waiting when I pulled into the compound. Whisper was standing by his bike, cut on, helmet in hand as Blackjack sat impatiently in a truck.

Whisper looked up as I approached, his expression unreadable. “You ready?” he asked.

I nodded. “Let’s ride.”

We didn’t waste time.

No goodbyes. No speeches. No bullshit.

We just fired up our engines and headed out.

The ride to Texas was long, hot, and boring as hell as the Oklahoma countryside stretched out endlessly on either side of the highway—flat, brown, dotted with the occasional farmhouse or gas station. The sun climbed higher as the morning woreon, beating down on us with relentless intensity. Sweat dripped down my back, soaking into my shirt beneath my cut.

But I didn’t stop. Didn’t slow down.

We rode in formation—Whisper in the lead, me in the middle, Blackjack bringing up the rear in the truck.

No one spoke. There was nothing to say. This was just business. We kept our eyes on the road, scanning for tails, watching for anything out of the ordinary, but there was nothing.

No unmarked sedans. No suspicious vehicles. No sign of trouble.

Just miles and miles of empty highway.

By the time we crossed into Texas, my ass was numb and my shoulders were tight from gripping the handlebars for hours, but we were close.

Whisper signaled, and we took the exit toward Amarillo.

The meeting location was just outside the city, in a warehouse on the edge of an industrial district. Isolated. Secure. Perfect for this kind of deal.

We pulled into the lot and killed our engines. The silence was immediate and heavy as I climbed off my bike, stretching my legs and rolling my shoulders.

Blackjack hopped out of the truck, groaning under his breath. “Fuck, that was a long drive,” he muttered.

Whisper just grunted, his eyes scanning the area. “Stay sharp,” he warned. “Benedict’s solid, but we don’t know his crew.”

I nodded, my hand instinctively moving to the gun tucked into the back of my jeans.

A moment later, the warehouse door opened, and Benedict stepped out. He was exactly what Whisper had described. Big. Intimidating. The kind of man who commanded respect just by walking into a room. He was easily six-foot-four, broad-shouldered, with a thick beard and arms covered in ink. His cut was worn and faded, the patches telling the story of a man who had been in the life for decades. And behind him, three of his brothers emerged. All of them were just as imposing.

Benedict’s eyes locked on Whisper first, and a slow grin spread across his face. “Whisper,” he said, his voice deep and gravelly. “Good to see you, brother.”

Whisper stepped forward, clasping Benedict’s hand in a firm shake.

“Benedict,” Whisper said. “Appreciate you meeting with us.”

Benedict’s gaze shifted to me, his expression assessing. “This the VP?” he asked.

Whisper nodded. “John ‘Monk’ Smith,” I said, stepping forward and extending my hand.

Benedict took it, his grip strong and steady.

“Heard good things about you,” he said. “Whisper says you run a tight ship.”

“I do what needs to be done,” I said simply.

Benedict nodded, his grin widening.