Several hours before the Vulpes had stolen the hard drive...

Monsieur Minuit narrowed his eyes as he watched the Vulpes disappear into the Montreal night, his gaze lingering just long enough for his partner to take notice. It wasn’t obvious—most people wouldn’t have caught it—but Madame Minuit knew him too well. She had spent too long reading the subtle cues beneath his mask, the way his stance shifted when he was displeased, the faint clench of his jaw when something gnawed at him.

“You don’t like her, do you, mon cher?” she asked, her tone somewhere between amused and genuinely curious.

His reply was terse, almost clipped. "No, I do not."

They both turned down a narrow alley, their boots barely making a sound against the damp pavement.

Madame Minuit let out a soft, almost exaggerated sigh. “I get a good feeling about her.”

“Of course you do,” he muttered, his voice carrying the kind of low, growling irritation that made her roll her eyes. “You two were basically flirting.”

That actually made her pause mid-step, and she turned her head sharply toward him, eyes narrowing behind her mask.

"Don’t be like that," she retorted, her voice sharper than she intended. “We have a mission, and—God forbid—I have fun or try to make friends while we do it.”

She heard herself say it, and the regret hit almost immediately.

She exhaled, adjusting her gloves to give herself a moment to reel it back. “Sorry. But you are being you right now.”

She knew he hated when she said that.

She could practically hear his teeth grinding, a sound she had come to recognize as his default reaction to frustration.

“What I’m being is smart,” Monsieur Minuit said, his voice even but edged with stubborn distrust. “We don’t know this Vulpes. We don’t know if she’s really on the side of justice or just some masked killer with a fox fetish and a vigilante complex.”

Madame Minuit let out a short, disbelieving laugh, throwing her hands up before shaking her head.

“You are unbelievable,” she muttered.

They reached a seemingly unremarkable pile of debris stacked between two abandoned dumpsters. Without another word, Monsieur Minuit grabbed a corner of the urban camo blanket draped over it and peeled it away, revealing two sleek motorcycles, their dark purple frames gleaming under the faint glow of the nearby streetlights.

Madame Minuit wasted no time swinging a leg over her bike, but she wasn’t letting the conversation drop just yet.

“She’s got a solid rep,” she said, fastening her helmet. “According to the papers, she does good work. And she isn’t a killer. I trust people who do our work without crossing that line unless they have no choice.”

For a moment, he didn’t answer. Instead, he secured his own helmet with deliberate precision before finally muttering a gruff, “Hmph.”

That was the closest thing to acknowledgment she was going to get from him.

Still, Madame Minuit couldn’t shake the feeling that, despite his usual gruff posturing, his disapproval wasn’t about Vulpes at all.

It was about her—and the fact that she liked the Vulpes in a way she hadn’t quite expected.

Two sleek, dark purple motorcycles roared to life, their engines purring like restrained thunder as they peeled out into the Montreal night, carving through the streets like phantoms in the dark. The city lights flickered off their metallic frames, momentarily casting streaks of violet across the rain-slick pavement.

The Midnights had work to do.

Even if one of them still harbored distrust toward the Vulpes, there was no time for distractions. A hitman was on the run, and if they didn’t find him before the Irish Mafia did, Montreal would become a war zone.

A blood feud was already brewing—an Italian vendetta clashing with Irish vengeance—and if left unchecked, the streets would drown in bullets, fire, and blood.

The Midnights twisted their throttles, the night swallowing them whole as they disappeared into the city's shadows.

The Midnights rode through the Montreal night, their dark purple motorcycles cutting through the silence like twin specters of judgment. Their headlights slashed across the asphalt, casting long shadows as they raced toward their destination. The deep growl of their engines wasn’t just noise—it was a statement.

They were heading past the city's edge, into the gray zone where the rule of law gave way to the law of the road. A no man's land, where Montreal’s street gangs, syndicates, and black-market dealers all bent the knee to a different breed of criminal: the outlaw bikers. Here, the Steel Nomads reigned supreme, their wheels, weapons, and whispered threats holding more power than any politician or cop could ever hope to.

And at the center of it all stood The Pit.

Once, The Pit had been a simple roadside stop, built in the late seventies as a place where truckers, travelers, and restless drifters could pull in for gas, a cheap meal, and a moment of respite before continuing down the highway. It had been a quaint little diner with a checkered floor, a flickering neon sign, and an old jukebox that played Elvis, Johnny Cash, and the Rolling Stones for anyone who had a quarter to spare.

That version of The Pit died long ago.

When the Steel Nomads took over, they didn’t just buy the place—they remade it in their image. The checkered floors had been torn up, replaced with aged hardwood stained by whiskey, blood, and time. The jukebox remained, but it no longer played the old classics. Now, it blared outlaw country, classic rock, and heavy metal, a soundtrack for men who lived by the throttle and died by the gun.

It was still a gas station, but only for those who belonged. The pumps worked, but Nomad enforcers stood watch over them, their arms inked with club patches and gang insignias, their expressions making it clear that gas here came at a cost—and not just in dollars. Outsiders paid a premium, and if they lingered too long, they learned firsthand what it meant to trespass on Steel Nomad turf.

The garage still operated, but now it did more than change tires and fix engines. This was where the Steel Nomads prepped for war. Mechanics with oil-streaked hands and eyes hardened by experience worked on club bikes, muscle cars, and armored war wagons. Vehicles that rolled out of The Pit’s garage weren’t just fast—they were fortresses on wheels, reinforced with bulletproof plating, hidden weapons, and engines fine-tuned for high-speed violence.

And then there was the bar—the true heart of The Pit.

What had once been a truck stop diner was now the beating heart of Quebec’s most feared outlaw gang. It was the biker bar of Montreal, a place where legends were made, grudges were settled, and alliances were forged over bottles of whiskey and pools of blood.

The walls were lined with history—faded photographs of long-dead Nomads, their eyes still burning with the fire of the road; bullet-ridden helmets from fallen enemies mounted like trophies; and club patches from chapters across Canada, marking The Pit as a sacred place for those who rode under the Steel Nomad banner.

The bar’s patrons were a mix of hardened bikers, smugglers, enforcers, and outlaws of every stripe. Some were Steel Nomads through and through, wearing their patches like a second skin, while others were Mafia associates, cartel dealers, and black-market kingpins looking to do business. If you needed guns, muscle, or a place to hide when the heat was on, The Pit was the place to go—assuming you had the right connections.

Tonight, the bar was alive with noise and motion, the scent of gasoline, sweat, and liquor thick in the air. The rumble of laughter mixed with the occasional crash of a bar fight, the kind of violence that wasn’t just accepted—it was expected.

And into this den of wolves, the Midnights rode.

Two figures on sleek, midnight-purple machines, slicing through the night like revenants on the hunt. They were outsiders, and every outlaw in The Pit would know it the second they rolled in. But outsiders weren’t always enemies. Sometimes, they were just the next storm on the horizon.

Tonight, The Pit was about to find out which one the Midnights were.

The garage lights burned low, casting long, flickering shadows over the concrete floor, reflecting off the oil-streaked tools scattered across the workbenches. The Pit was quiet—unnervingly so. For a place that normally thrummed with the sound of engines revving, steel clanking, and the rowdy banter of outlaws, the silence was thick, heavy, almost staged.

Inside, amidst the scent of gasoline, motor oil, and metal, a lone figure worked on a bike, his massive hands moving with the precision of a craftsman rather than the brute force of an enforcer. Alessandro "Alex" Dubois, the Red Baron, the undisputed king of the Steel Nomads, looked every inch the warrior his reputation suggested.

His sleeveless T-shirt was smeared with grease, clinging to a muscular frame carved by years of street fights, brawls, and battlefield leadership. His arms, thick and corded with power, were a living tapestry of ink, tattoos marking victories, losses, and memories of the past—some faded, some fresh, all telling a story of a man who had fought his way to the top and had no intention of letting anyone knock him down.

His mane of red hair, streaked with silver, was tied back, as was his beard, keeping them clear of the engine grease as he worked. His sharp, intelligent eyes, a hard shade of brown, caught the sudden flicker of headlights through the open bay doors, and in that instant, his demeanor shifted—from focused mechanic to predator sensing an approaching threat.

Without hurry, without panic, he stood, stretching his full, imposing height, every motion deliberate. His gaze swept over the garage, landing on the tool bench, considering what kind of statement he wanted to make with his greeting. The Steel Nomads weren’t in the business of playing nice, and Alex was a firm believer that first impressions mattered—especially when it came to uninvited guests.

His thick fingers curled around a heavy steel wrench—a comfortable weight, unassuming, but more than capable of shattering kneecaps or caving in a skull if the conversation went south. He lifted it from the bench, rolling it in his grip, testing its balance, before letting it hang casually at his side.

Then, as a final touch, he slid a heavy-caliber revolver into his belt, low on his hip where it wouldn’t be visible to anyone standing directly in front of him. He wasn’t expecting a shootout—not yet—but it would be poor form for a king to greet visitors unarmed, and Alex Dubois was very much the king of the Steel Nomads.

He stepped away from the bike, his boots grinding against the concrete, as he made his way toward the open garage doors. The Midnights had arrived.

Now the real question was: were they here to talk, or were they here to bleed?

The Midnights' bikes growled low, their engines purring as they rolled to a slow, deliberate stop just outside the garage bay. The moment they caught sight of the imposing figure standing in the open bay—the man they both instantly recognized—their movements became even more controlled.

With the kind of synchronicity that only came from years of working together, both vigilantes eased their throttles down, letting the rumbling engines settle into silence. Simultaneously, their kickstands flicked down, boots meeting pavement in a perfectly mirrored dismount.

Even in the dim light of the garage, Alex Dubois was unmistakable—a man who commanded attention without saying a word. A presence more than just a person. His sheer size, the deliberate way he stood, the way the wrench in his hand rested just loose enough to be casual but firm enough to be a warning—it all made for a hell of a welcome.

Madame Minuit’s tone was quiet, measured, but not without its usual playfulness as she stepped forward just a hair, enough to make her presence known without crossing into hostile territory.

"Well, if it isn't the big man himself," she said, her voice carrying the weight of familiarity but edged with curiosity. "Didn’t expect to catch Alex Dubois alone. That said..." her keen eyes flicked around the garage, taking in the empty space where there should have been more Steel Nomads milling about. "...Where are the Nomads? And why isn’t he riding with them?"

That last part wasn’t just an observation—it was a question wrapped in an assessment. Dubois never rode alone. If he was here, without his usual entourage of outlaws, something was off. And if there was one thing the Midnights had learned in their time hunting Montreal’s underworld, it was that when Alex Dubois broke routine, it meant something worth paying attention to.

Monsieur Minuit’s tone was unexpectedly calm, almost measured—a stark contrast to the petulant edge he’d carried earlier in the night. To Laura, it was a small but notable shift. Jean Bellerose was rarely composed when dealing with criminals. He was a force of nature, a man who thrived on confrontation, who met threats head-on with fists and fire.

He wasn’t reckless, though.

She knew him well enough to recognize that. He could play it cool when it suited him, when the right approach meant getting what they needed without resorting to violence. It was, in truth, one of the things she loved about him—the self-control that balanced out his fury, the ability to know when to break bones and when to play the long game.

And right now, it seemed, he had chosen the long game.

Perhaps it was because Dubois was alone—a rare sight, given that the man was almost always surrounded by his Steel Nomads. Under normal circumstances, Jean might have taken the upper hand immediately, pressing the advantage, pushing for control. But not this time.

Interesting.

Jean—or rather, Monsieur Minuit, as he wore the name tonight—kept his posture loose, making sure his stance didn’t signal an immediate attack. His voice was level, his words carefully chosen.

“Evening, Alex.” He let the greeting hang for a moment, casual, but not quite friendly. “We just wanted to talk. Heard that Montreal had a guest from Toronto… and if anyone knows what’s going on, figured it would be the King of the Road.”

There was respect in the words, but also an edge, a weight, the kind that came when two men at the top of their respective games acknowledged one another. A chess match with no pieces moved yet.

The question remained—what kind of mood was Dubois in tonight?

Alex responded with a low grunt, a sound that carried neither aggression nor dismissal—just a matter-of-fact acknowledgment, like a bear shifting in its den, reminding everyone it could roar if it wanted to.

He rolled his neck slowly, the movement deliberate, measured—a man who wasn’t intimidated, but wasn’t rushing to hostility either. It was a subtle flex, a reminder of the weight he carried in this city, a quiet display of dominance without excess bravado.

“Montreal gets a lot of visitors from Toronto,” he finally said, his voice carrying the gravelly weight of a man used to giving orders, not taking them. He let the words settle for a beat before adding, “You wanna narrow that down, Minuit?”

The way he said it carried an edge—not an overt challenge, but a test. He was listening, but he wasn’t about to give them anything for free. Not without knowing exactly what they were fishing for.

Laura watched the exchange carefully, her sharp mind noting the subtle dynamics at play—not just between them and Alex, but between her and Jean. He had taken the lead here, which wasn’t unusual, but lately… it felt like he had been doing that a lot.

It wasn’t necessarily a problem—Jean had always been assertive, headstrong, and fiercely determined—but over the last few months, it had started to feel like he was always stepping in first, always taking control. And that wasn’t how they worked. They were partners, equals, two halves of the same whole.

Or at least, they were supposed to be.

But lately, she had noticed the way he would speak before she could, the way he sometimes cut her off, how he seemed to dismiss her input without meaning to. She’d let it slide at first, chalking it up to stress, the weight of their work, the constant battle they waged in the shadows of Montreal.

But it had happened again. And again.

She’d spoken to him about it before, when the masks were off, when they weren’t Monsieur and Madame Minuit but Jean and Laura, just two people in love, trying to make sense of the lives they had built. He had listened. He had even apologized, in his own way.

But had he really heard her?

Now, standing here, watching him take the lead yet again, that old frustration curled around her ribs. Would he do it again if she spoke up?

She didn’t like the question. And she liked even less that she didn’t know the answer.

It was probably just anxiety, annoyance left over from his treatment of Vulpes earlier. Probably just her mind making something bigger than it was.

Probably.

Focus, Laura.

The thought was sharp, cutting through the haze of irritation and pushing her back into the moment. The mission was what mattered. Her own frustrations could wait.

She glanced between Jean and Alex, registering their conversation, but even as the words passed between them, she could tell it was mostly posturing—a verbal chess match, both men feeling each other out, seeing who would blink first.

It wasn’t getting them anywhere.

Her mind drifted to the bigger picture.

The Pit was nearly empty.

That, more than anything, set off alarms in her mind.

The Steel Nomads were the largest outlaw motorcycle gang in Quebec, one of the biggest in Eastern Canada, second or third to the giants in Ontario and the Maritimes. They were a force, a gang that rode as a pack, their mere presence in numbers a statement of power and control.

And yet tonight?

Their leader was alone, fixing his own damn bike.

That told her two things.

One: This wasn’t just a normal night of Steel Nomad criminal activity. If it were, their numbers would still be present, running protection, dealing, moving contraband—doing something to keep their machine running.

Two: Whatever was happening wasn’t urgent enough to require Alex Dubois’s direct attention. If it had been, he’d be out there leading.

Which meant…

Laura’s eyes narrowed slightly, pieces of the puzzle shifting into place in her mind.

The Nomads were tied to the Mafia, more than just muscle-for-hire—they were part of the ecosystem, a carefully placed buffer between the Mafia’s wealth and influence and the city’s criminal underbelly.

And if the Mafia was playing it quiet tonight…

Then someone was moving.

Someone big.

Someone dangerous.

Alfonso Ruso.

Or, she considered, there was someone else hunting Alfonso.

The Steel Nomads didn’t just run interference for the Mafia on occasion; they were woven into the very fabric of its operations. This wasn’t just an alliance—it was family by blood.

The Mafia had more or less helped create the Nomads, fostering them, funding them, using them as a blunt instrument whenever necessary. If the Italians wanted someone protected, moved, or hidden, the Nomads made it happen.

And if the Italians wanted someone else slowed down?

Well, that was where the Nomads truly excelled.

Laura’s mind raced through the possibilities.

She, Jean, and the Vulpes—they weren’t the only ones hunting Ruso.

The Irish Mafia was out there too, determined to settle their blood feud. Patrick Malone wasn’t the kind of man to let vengeance go unanswered, and Alfonso had given him plenty of reason to seek justice at the end of a gun barrel.

And what better way to keep the Irish occupied than with a gang of unruly bikers?

The Mafia wouldn’t need to risk their own hands in a street war if they could throw the Nomads into the ring instead.

Keep the Irish busy.

Buy Ruso time.

Let the Nomads take the bullets, the blame, the heat.

And if some of them died in the process?

Well, that was just the cost of doing business.

Alex’s words were calm, measured—but there was no mistaking the weight behind them.

"We’re done here. Now get off my property before I do something within my legal right."

It wasn’t a loud threat. It didn’t need to be.

The implication was clear—they were being allowed to leave. For now.

Laura noticed Jean’s subtle nod, so slight that no one but her would have caught it.

"Fine," Monsieur Minuit said, his voice deliberately dismissive. "Nothing of use here. Let’s go."

Nothing of use?

Her teeth clenched at the phrase.

That wasn’t true.

There was plenty of use here—the Pit was practically screaming with unspoken information. The Nomads were barely present, their leader was left behind alone, working on his bike like he wasn’t overseeing a major operation. That meant something. And she knew Alex knew more than he was letting on.

Yet Jean was willing to just walk away?

Laura forced herself to hold her tongue.

Not here. Not now.

She wasn’t about to argue in front of a criminal, especially not one as dangerous as Alex Dubois. But the decision didn’t sit right with her.

Jean hadn’t even pressed the issue.

Why?

She was already pre-planning the earfull she was going to give Jean later as they turned back to their bikes.

Laura’s mind raced with the questions she wanted answered. Why had he let this go so easily? Why hadn’t he pressed Alex harder? And more importantly—why did it feel like he had made a decision for both of them, without even discussing it?

Her fingers tightened slightly on the handlebars, her irritation threatening to bubble up—until her comms device beeped quietly.

She lifted it from her utility belt.

"This is Midnight," she answered.

Vulpes’ voice came through, light and smug.

"This is Fox. I got a nice fat chicken fresh from the hen house."

Laura smirked just so, her mood immediately shifting.

Jean, however, seemed nonplussed by the news, his voice flat.

"We’ll swing by and figure out what kind of stew to make. Be there ASAP, Fox."

The Vulpes had something concrete.

Whatever frustration Laura had felt about Jean’s unwillingness to press Alex was temporarily swept aside—because this was real progress. This was something tangible.

This was a lead.

The Midnights wasted no time. Engines roared, tires burned against asphalt, and within moments, they were back on the road, racing through the Montreal night—eager to see what kind of treasure the vulpine vigilante had unearthed.