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“So, this is about guns?”

He nods.

“And drugs?”

Another nod.

“And women,” I add, my jaw tightening. A flash of anger I can’t quite swallow. I knew the answer before I asked, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it.

He notices. He notices everything. “You have something to say?”

“No.” The word is flat. There are plenty of things I think. Very few I say aloud.

“Good.” He steeples his fingers beneath his chin as he continues to study me, searching for cracks he taught me how to hide before I hit puberty.

The Colombian Cartel doesn’t care about excuses. Delayed shipments mean lost money, lost money means bodies. Sometimes ours. Usually someone else’s.

Samuel slides a photograph across the desk, and I pick it up.

A biker. Tall enough that he seems to dwarf the motorcycle beside him. I study him, taking in the broad shoulders and heavy beard. His eyes are shrouded beneath the brim of a worn black cap. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t pose. The photograph looks like someone caught him just existing.

The second photograph is clearer, and his leather cut is old, broken in. The back patch fills the frame:

SONS OF SIN

And just beneath the patch:

NOMAD

I look up. “So, the stories are true. They never stopped existing.”

“No.” He sounds irritated at me pointing out the obvious. Samuel folds his hands. “They’ve started moving again.”

I look back down, shuffling through more photographs I don’t look at until I find the intel I need.

Name: Walker Creed.

Road name: Judge.

Age: Thirty-nine.

Background: Former Army. Current Sons of Sin member. Designated Nomad. Known to travel alone. Highly capable.

Threat Level: Deadly. Exercise extreme caution.

I snort. “Who writes these?” I wave the sheet around for emphasis.

“You know Cipher handles all our intelligence.”

“He’s dramatic.”

“He’s accurate.”

Touche. I flip back through the photographs, ignoring Samuel. Judge crouches next to his motorcycle, and black-and-grey tattoos disappear beneath his sleeves. A pale burn scar visibly twists around one forearm. Another image catches the edge of a knife scar running just under his ribs where his shirt has lifted. Someone tried hard to kill him, and they failed. Something dark and curious coils in my chest.

“What brings him into our territory?” I don’t look up as I ask the question.

“That’s what concerns me.” That has my attention, and I face Samuel.