The Devil's Cut

East Side Lines — Munro

The compound settles the way it always does at night — slow, familiar, disciplined.

I walk it alone.

Not because I have to, but because it reminds everyone that when I give my word, I follow it myself.

I start in the bays. Oil on concrete. Engines cooling. Men working without looking up until they realize who's passed them.

"Anyone seen a new bike come through?' I ask.

Heads shake. Quick answers. No one hesitates.

Good.

If it had crossed this ground, it would've left a mark — attention, gossip, something.

I move through storage cages and the outer lot under the floodlights. Same result. Empty of anything new.

By the time I reach the edge of the compound, I already know the answer.

"Boss."

One of my lieutenants falls into step beside me.

Knows better than to crowd.

"Say it."

"Didn't hit our side. But word's going around. A bike got moved east."

East side.

Iron Serpent territory.

"Clean move?" I ask.

"Yeah. Intact. Whoever took it didn't strip it or flash it."

That means it was handled carefully. Not joyriders. Not amateurs.

I nod once. "Then it's not ours."

We walk a few more steps before I stop.

"Set up a meeting," I say. "Iron Serpent. Neutral ground."

The lieutenant doesn't ask why.

Doesn't ask how urgent.

"Who with?" he asks instead.

"Rafe," I answer. "If he's available."

He already knows the answer to that.

"I'll make the call."

"Tomorrow," I add. "I don't want this sitting."

He nods and peels away, already dialing.

I stand for a moment longer, looking out past the gates toward the city lights bleeding into the dark.

Lila didn't push. Didn't dramatize the loss. She just asked if I could help.

So I am.

This isn't about territory.

This isn't about Iron Serpent.

It isn't even about the bike.

It's about my word.

And east side or not, that's something no one gets to interfere with.