By two in the afternoon, the relaxed, domestic vibe of the penthouse is completely gone.
The sharp morning light that flooded the glass hours ago is now swallowed by a dark, steel-tinted storm rolling off the ocean. Heavy gray clouds hang low over the mountains, casting a cold shadow across the polished hardwood floors.
The wooden dining table – where Locke and I shared blueberry pancakes, coffee, and ridiculous 80s pop lyrics only a couple of hours ago – is now buried under a war room setup. Rolled-out maps cover the grain, held down at the corners by heavy brass paperweights, laminated blueprints, and three separate encrypted laptops.
In the world of outlaw motorcycle culture, a room configured like this is practically sacred ground. It’s an altar reserved strictly for patched brother
