Page 2 of Tyson
They were cataloging our pressure points.
Screen three hit closer to home. Mandy—Thor’s Little Girl—leaving her new accounting office downtown, 5:43 PM yesterday. Professional in her pencil skirt and blazer, red hair pulled back in that severe bun she wore to look older, more serious. Her new firm, specializing in the accounts of members of alternative lifestyles, was doing well. She deserved peace. Thor's truck sat across the street where he waited to pick her up—a daily routine since their engagement.
But Thor wasn't the only one watching. A different Serpent, this one on foot, smartphone out like a tourist taking pictures. Except his lens stayed trained on Mandy, catching her from multiple angles as she waited for Thor. The image quality was good enough to see the engagement ring catching the light, the small smile that crossed her face when she spotted Thor's truck.
My coffee had gone cold. I didn't care.
I opened the folder I'd labeled "Heavy Kings Vulnerabilities," though the name made me sick. Sixty-three photos I'd pulled from various sources, all taken in the last six weeks. The Serpents had been busy.
Wiz's younger sister outside Mesa Community College, backpack slung over one shoulder, completely unaware of thecamera tracking her to her car. She was studying to be a nurse, first in her family to go to college. Wiz had sold his '47 Knucklehead to pay her tuition.
Dex's AA meeting at St. Catherine's, Tuesday evenings. They'd caught him smoking outside afterward, talking to his sponsor. Two years sober, fighting every day to stay that way. The Serpents had found his weakness and documented it.
At least I'd matched their vigilance.
My pen scratched across paper, tactical notes filling the page. Entry points, vulnerabilities, protection protocols. The military intelligence tablet – a souvenir from my last deployment that I definitely wasn't supposed to have – ran pattern analysis on the data. Heat maps showed concentration of surveillance, timeline analysis revealed increasing frequency.
The conclusion was inescapable: they were building target packages.
In Afghanistan, we'd done the same thing before major operations. Document everything, find the pressure points, plan for maximum impact. The difference was we'd been hunting terrorists. The Serpents were hunting families.
I pulled up the aggregate data, let the algorithm do its work. Sixty-three photos. Seventeen locations. Every major member's vulnerability mapped and cataloged.
The final image made everything crystallize. A wide shot of the chapel at Riverside Gardens, Mandy and Thor's chosen wedding venue. Taken from the hill overlooking the property, showing every entrance, every exit, every place a shooter could position himself. In the corner of the photo, barely visible, a surveyor's marker. They'd been measuring distances.
Eight weeks until the wedding. Eight weeks for the Serpents to perfect their plan.
I closed the folder, leaned back in my chair. The office felt smaller suddenly, the walls pressing in. All my preparation,all my security measures, and I'd missed this until almost too late. They'd been patient, methodical, professional. Everything a good enemy should be.
But they'd made one mistake. They'd let me see the pattern.
And that’s all I needed.
King'sTavernsatquietin the pre-dawn darkness, a sleeping giant waiting to wake. I pulled into the empty lot at 6:30, half an hour before anyone else would arrive. The neon signs were dark, the bikes that usually lined the front absent. Just me and the weight of what I had to say.
My key turned in the lock with a familiar click. The door swung open to release the mingled scents of last night—cigarette smoke, spilled beer, leather, and that indefinable smell that marked this place as ours. Home, in every way that mattered. I flicked on the lights, watching them buzz to life, casting pools of amber across scarred wooden floors.
The meeting room sat at the back, past the bar and pool tables. More private than the main floor, with thick walls that had heard decades of club business. Votes taken, wars planned, brothers mourned. The weight of history pressed down from the exposed beams, whispered from the photographs lining the walls. Duke's father stared down from one of them, Big Mike in his prime, arms crossed, cut pristine. Watching. Always watching.
I spread my materials across the massive oak table, careful not to scratch the surface. Duke's father had built this table with his own hands, spent months getting the grain just right. You could still see the axe marks underneath if you knew where to look, proof that beauty came from violence properly applied. Just like the club itself.
The surveillance photos went down first, arranged in a timeline that told the story without words. Serpents at the warehouse. Amy at the hospital. Mandy leaving work. Each image another piece of evidence, another reason for war. I'd printed them on heavy stock, laminated the key ones. Details mattered when you were trying to change minds.
My tactical recommendations came next. Security protocols, personnel assignments, budget requirements. Everything Duke would need to make decisions, laid out with military precision. No emotion, just facts. Let the photos provide the gut punch. The recommendations would show the path forward.
Coffee. The ancient pot behind the bar gurgled to life as I measured grounds with the same precision I applied to everything else.
While it brewed, I changed into my cut. The support shirt was fine for working, but this was official business. The leather settled across my shoulders like armor, patches proclaiming my place in this family. Secretary patch on the left, military service pin below it, years of membership marked in subtle ways only brothers would recognize. I'd earned every thread, every piece of brass. That had to count for something when I stood up and told them our enemies were circling.
I caught my reflection in the window—tired eyes, set jaw, shoulders square. Looked like a man preparing for a briefing that could go sideways. Which wasn't far from the truth. Duke trusted me, but he also knew my tendency to see threats everywhere. Thor would follow Duke's lead, unless something hit close to home. Then all bets were off.
Through the window, headlights swept across the parking lot. Duke's Road King pulled in first, chrome catching the security lights. He moved with that easy confidence that marked him as a leader, every motion deliberate but relaxed. Thor's truck followed, music thumping loud enough to rattle windows.He'd never learned subtlety, probably never would. Different approaches, same destination.
My spine straightened automatically. Muscle memory from a hundred briefings, presenting bad news to officers who didn't want to hear it. The difference was those officers couldn't ignore intel that might get soldiers killed. Duke and Thor could decide I was being paranoid, file this under Tyson's military mindset seeing enemies everywhere.
I arranged the photos one more time, ensuring the most damning evidence sat front and center. Amy at the hospital. Mandy under surveillance. The chapel marked for angles and distances. Let them try to dismiss those as paranoia.
The front door opened, boots on hardwood announcing their arrival. Duke's measured stride, Thor's heavier tread. They were talking, Thor's laugh echoing off the walls.
