Chapter 5 : Proving Ground
[Teller-Morrow Automotive — February 21, 2008, 3:15 PM]
"Office. Now."
Gemma's voice cut across the garage. I set down the wrench, wiped my hands, walked over.
The office was cramped—desk covered in paperwork, photos on the walls, filing cabinet that had seen better decades. Gemma sat behind the desk like a queen on her throne.
"Close the door."
I did.
She leaned back, arms crossed. "I made some calls. Oakland PD, couple of guys who know guys. Your story checks out."
"Told you it would."
"People tell me lots of things." Her eyes narrowed. "Most of them are lying."
I waited.
"You're a ghost, Cole. No family anyone can find. No friends who remember you. Just a license, a bike, and a story about wanting a fresh start."
"Some people don't have much to leave behind."
She tapped her fingers on the desk. "Trial's over. You're on permanent. Eight to five, weekdays. Overtime when we need it. You'll get paid Friday."
The tension in my shoulders eased slightly. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet." She stood, walked around the desk until she was close enough that I could smell her perfume. Expensive. Sharp. "You work here, you see things. You hear things. And you forget them. Understand?"
"I understand."
"Good." She reached past me, opened the door. "Now get back to work."
---
[TM Garage Lot — 4:30 PM]
The truck was a Dodge Ram with transmission issues. I had the pan off, fluid draining into a catch basin, when the rumble of engines made me look up.
Two bikes pulling into the lot. Not Harleys—cheap Japanese imports with custom exhausts designed to sound meaner than they were. The riders parked near the garage entrance, dismounted.
Shaved heads. Neck tattoos. The same lightning bolts I'd seen at the bar.
Nords.
They walked toward the garage like they owned it. The taller one had prison muscles and dead eyes. The shorter one was wiry, twitchy, hand resting on something at his belt.
Lowell was working on a sedan near the back. He saw them coming, went pale, dropped his wrench with a clatter.
Half-Sack emerged from the office, carrying a parts invoice. He froze mid-step.
"Well, well." The tall Nord smiled without warmth. "New management not around today?"
No patched members in sight. Bobby had left an hour ago. Tig was somewhere in the clubhouse. The lot was civilian territory right now—and these assholes knew it.
"This is private property." Half-Sack's voice cracked slightly. "You need to leave."
"Relax, half-nuts." The short one laughed at his own joke. "We're just collecting. Business tax. Darby says everyone pays."
"SAMCRO doesn't pay taxes to—"
"SAMCRO ain't here." The tall one stepped forward. "Just you, a junkie, and whatever that guy is." He gestured at me.
I stood up slowly. Set down the wrench. Wiped my hands on a rag.
"There a problem?"
The Nords turned to look at me. The tall one's eyes tracked up and down—assessing, dismissive.
"No problem, grease monkey. Just collecting what's owed."
"Nobody owes you anything here."
The temperature dropped. Half-Sack shifted nervously. Lowell was backing toward the office, hands shaking.
"You're new." The tall Nord tilted his head. "So I'll explain how this works. Darby runs the real business in this county. The wetbacks on bikes? They're dinosaurs. Dead men walking. And anyone who works for them pays us, or they stop working. Permanently."
I stepped between them and Lowell.
"Leave."
One word. No negotiation.
The tall Nord's face twisted. "The fuck did you just—"
He swung.
My body moved before my brain caught up. I slipped the punch, caught his wrist, used his momentum to pull him off balance. My elbow cracked into his ribs—once, twice. He doubled over.
The short one yanked out a knife—cheap folder, serrated edge. He lunged.
I pivoted, grabbed his knife hand, twisted. Bones ground. He screamed. The knife clattered to the concrete and I kicked it away.
Two seconds. Maybe three. Both Nords were on the ground. The tall one wheezed, clutching his ribs. The short one cradled his broken wrist, cursing through tears.
[COMBAT VICTORY: +75 XP, +50 REPUTATION]
The notification flickered. I ignored it.
"Leave," I said again. "And tell Darby that TM doesn't pay."
They scrambled up, helped each other toward their bikes. The tall one spat blood, glared at me with eyes that promised violence.
"This isn't over."
"It better be."
They rode off, engines sputtering. The lot went quiet.
Half-Sack was staring at me with his mouth open. Lowell had disappeared—probably hiding in the office. And standing in the clubhouse doorway, watching the whole thing with unreadable expression, was Bobby Munson.
He didn't say anything. Just looked at me for a long moment, then pulled out his phone and walked back inside.
---
[TM Bathroom — 4:45 PM]
The faucet handle stuck. I cranked it hard, got a trickle of cold water, ran it over my hands.
They were shaking.
Not much. Just a tremor, barely visible. But I felt it in my bones—the adrenaline dump, the aftermath of violence.
First real fight in this body.
The reflection in the mirror looked calm. Gray-green eyes, steady gaze. Cole Ashford's face, unmarked by the brief exchange outside.
My knuckles told a different story. Red, swelling. They'd bruise by tomorrow.
I breathed deep. Held it. Let it out slow.
You knew this was coming. Violence is currency here. You just made your first deposit.
The shaking stopped.
I dried my hands on paper towels that disintegrated on contact, adjusted my shirt, walked back to work.
The transmission wasn't going to fix itself.
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