The cozy Southern diner was about as old-fashioned as they ever got. One quick glance around from my seat showed that the place hadn’t been meaningfully updated in a number of decades.

Ripped inseams along my booth exposed old, yellow padding, and the weathered seating creaked with every move I made.

All of the tables were all covered with an ancient layer of felt-lined plastic that draped down the edges, keeping its shape over the many years of use.

Even the waitresses, all in their twilight years, looked like they had served this little restaurant since their better days.

My eyes pulled back to the clock.

It sat over the hostess counter, a large, easily overlookable thing that was about as decrepit and featureless as the peeling wallpaper behind it.

The time was just shy of 8 o’clock.

With my large hands still cupped around the single hot mug of coffee, I took another deep swig. A waitress glanced over my way, but I held up a hand and shook my head.

I wasn’t here for soul food.

I was here for business.

Right at the top of the hour, Business came in the shape of a boring, middle-aged man, tall and thin, wearing a wide smile like an old sweater. A bundled newspaper was clamped against his pit as he rummaged for his wallet, making friendly small talk to the hostess. She already had his to-go order ready in a bag, and he quickly paid her before excusing himself.

My booth hugged the wall. Specifically, my booth was the one halfway between the stand and the bathroom. The stranger paused beside my table, fumbling with the bundled, bagged paper. “Excuse me, what time is it?”

I glanced up nonchalantly.

“Almost time for work.”

“Yes, I do suppose that it is, isn’t it?” He hid his knowing nod with a chuckle. The man partially turned away, only to face back and reply: “If I can ask, where do you work?”

“Out west,” I answered politely. “Looking for something here in the city.”

He nodded. “Part-time, or full?”

“Full.”

“Just you, then?”

“Got a crew. Dozen and a half. Good men.”

He reached to his pocket and removed what looked like a business card. The man quickly penned something on the back, and slapped it down on the table.

“Good luck to you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some omelets and grits going cold over there…”

“Can’t have that. Enjoy the meal.”

He gave me a quick grin before leaving.

That last part was arguably the most important one. The entire conversation was a rehearsed code, but without saying the last six words exactly, the message would never be relayed properly.

It meant that I knew who he was, who his employer was, and that I had been personally invited to this meeting place.

After the man strolled back the other way, shaking his wet hands, I took a look at the business card.

Of course, there wasn’t a true word on it. Brightside Construction didn’t exist, and even if it did, this man had never built a damn thing in his life.

But the back of the card read:

Community Coffee. Veterans Blvd. Outside table, green hat, 8:30AM.

I slipped the card into my pocket and enjoyed the rest of my cup. I knew that the place was going to be close. When I paid the waitress a few minutes later, I asked for directions, then left her a tip and walked out.

Traffic held me up, but I arrived at the place five minutes before the meeting time.

Community Coffee looked like Louisiana’s answer to Starbucks, with a real hometown feel to it. Murals of local, legendary musicians in a weird, abstract style were painted on the wall above the front counter, and soft jazz was playing over the speakers.

I ordered a bagel to be polite, then excused myself outside. The patio was deserted, save for an older man lost in his worn paperback. A half-empty coffee sat in front of him, and he took another drag from his cigarette with a green hat pulled low.

Taking a seat beside my contact, I glanced at the paperback cover. It looked to be a romance novel of some sort, judging by the shirtless, sculpted male on the front.

“Didn’t know you were into that stuff.”

My contact wrinkled his nose, his bushy moustache wiggling beneath.

“Fuck off.”

We laughed together as Julian took a drink from his coffee. Over the lip of the mug, he sized me up in a glance.

“Welcome back, Grizz,” he chuckled, removing the green cap and setting it aside. “Feels like only yesterday that we were seated at a table much like this one. If I’d known it was you coming today, I’d have set us up in a private bar instead…”

“This wasn’t exactly my idea,” I confessed. “Guess I sold the idea of setting up shop here in New Orleans a bit harder than I had thought. My boss was quick to jump on that line of thinkin’.”

His eyes glanced down to my Devil’s Dragons emblem, then the word Nomad patched beneath.

“You came alone, I take it?”

“I did.”

Julian lowered the book with a broadening smile on his face, setting it closed with a bookmark in place.

“Then, I guess we’d better get to work then, yes? Why don’t you tell where we stand.”

I glanced around.

Place was still empty.

“Hunter Hargreaves wants the Devil’s Dragons to come to New Orleans if there’s room for us here. I’ve been sent to negotiate how that might work out.”

He nodded.

“How many of you are there?”

“Sixteen, maybe seventeen total.”

An eyebrow rose. “You don’t have a headcount? That’s a little sloppy, Grizz.”

“Depends on your definition of a Devil’s Dragon,” I shrugged. “Hunter’s fiancé is probably coming too.”

“She’s not an official member?”

“Sarah’s made herself a private eye,” I replied. “Formerly a police detective. She’s more an ally than a member, but you can see how our boss might willingly overlook the details.”

“A biker president, engaged to the other side of the law?” Julian chuckled, finding it strange. Admittedly, it was kind of odd. “Well. This just got interesting…”

“She’s solid,” I assured him.

“How do you know?”

“Because she helped the club storm a cartel compound on the wrong side of the border, and we didn’t exactly do things legally,” I answered. “She helped us save some girls from the sex trafficking industry, and her hands are just as dirty as mine.”

Julian paused.

“You’re shitting me.”

“Look me in the eyes and tell me that I am,” I answered gravely. “She put a lot on the line there. We all did.”

“You were there too?”

“Yeah. We brought one hell of a force with us. The cartel wasn’t expecting us to find them, let alone strike from different fronts.”

“You brought the Outlaws,” Julian replied knowingly.

I froze.

“You look surprised.”

I grunted in irritation.

“Second time in a couple of days that someone out here has known about them,” I quickly answered. “Hell, even in the desert there aren’t many people who know the name… you can kind of see why I’m confused that people here in the South seem intimately familiar.”

“Confused, are you?” He asked, coyly.

“I need answers. Why does everyone I speak to out here know the Devil’s Dragons? And who’s out here talking about the fucking Outlaws?”

Julian took another drag from his cigarette. “Who were the others?”

“Call themselves the Bayou Boys.”

“Never heard of them,” Julian shrugged, blowing a bit of smoke. “Maybe they already knew of your club. Unfinished business. There’s no telling.”

I crossed my arms.

“Fine. Start with you. The Outlaws are a secret in the Southwestern desert, and you know their name here in New Orleans. Tell me… how?”

Julian put out his cigarette in an ashtray and brushed the paperback further away. It was a sign that he was finally taking the conversation seriously.

“I am the gatekeeper to the New Orleans underworld,” he told me firmly. “Between the Houston and New Orleans ports, I rule one of the largest shipping regions in the country, which is why it shouldn’t surprise you to know that I know all about the shit that went down in the Los Angeles harbor.”

I tried to hide my irritation.

“Talon,” I scoffed.

“It’s my job to know what’s going on out in the other markets. I keep tabs, yes. Your Dragons went up against the legendary arms dealer Soroka Sarkonov and won. It makes sense that you want to get the hell out of dodge.”

Holy fucking shit.

He knew about the Outlaws… he knew about Sarkonov… this guy knew everything.

It was growing more and more apparent that I had seriously underestimated him, and that wasn’t a mistake I made often.

“You knew I was coming back,” I realized.

“Indeed,” he smiled crisply, taking a drink from his coffee. “I’ve been waiting for you, Grizz. And you didn’t make me wait long. How very considerate of you.”

I thought on those words.

“What does this change?”

“Nothing,” Julian absentmindedly waved his hand. “If anything, I know you’re quite eager to bring back good news to the tribe.”

“You might say that.”

“Good, because I have to say, your timing works for me. I already have the right initiation in mind…”

“That wasn’t the deal,” I told him. “No initiations. The offer you made was to introduce me to the right people without jumping through any fucking hoops.”

“Yes… but then you turned down that deal,” he reminded me sternly. “And besides, things have changed.”

I swallowed a groan.

“What changed things?”

“Attacking an international arms dealer comes with some drawbacks,” Julian replied coolly. “My associates are careful people, Grizz. They expect a certain level of discretion.”

“And because you know about what happened with Soroka Sarkonov…”

“Let me remind you to not act surprised,” he shrugged with a good-natured grin. “The little cartel your club took down was small potatoes… but destroy a major player in the international circuit? Every worthwhile underworld in America knows about that from Los Angeles to New York.”

He’d held all the cards this whole time.

“And all these underworlds, these organizations… do they know who toppled Sarkonov?

“Hard to say,” Julian answered, scratching the backs of his fingers thoughtfully. “I know because I was aware of your Devil’s Dragons charter, and I knew about the original group in Los Angeles. Talon, unsurprisingly, doesn’t want to talk about what happened. It appears that he has wants certain measure of plausible deniability.”

“He wasn’t there when it went down,” I confirmed. “Not him or his men. We fought our mutual enemy alone.”

“Talon has covered his tracks well enough. It seems that the last thing he wants is the name of the Devil’s Dragons attached. You see, other groups would not make the distinction between his charter and yours, so he’s been very careful… You don’t have to worry about fallback. In fact, your club has done the world a huge favor by removing Soroka from power.”

“Well, at least I can report that back,” I grunted angrily. This conversation wasn’t going anywhere near what I wanted.

“Don’t be too disappointed, my friend,” Julian reached forward to clasp me on the shoulder. “Your motorcycle club will still have their seat at the table. But now, you need to earn it.”

“And organizing the Outlaws means nothing now?” I asked bitterly.

“Au contraire,” Julian smiled. “Putting together the Outlaws is what saved your case. It is because of that accomplishment that you’re even being considered.”

“Square one, then.”

“Yes.”

The back of my neck was prickly with irritation. Staring him in the eyes, I scratched the spot with my weary fingers and leant back in the seat.

Our last little adventure had completely fucked us over here, which meant doing things the hard way. The Devil’s Dragons weren’t seen as careful, powerful people anymore, but as a band of gunners with a goddamn death wish – and we’d drawn a too much attention…

“Initiation,” I sighed. “Tell me more.”

A smile crossed Julian’s lips. “I believe the last time you were here we discussed your capacity for armed protection…”