We arrive at the Blue Kernel in Westchase Houston. It is one of the nicer places we've stayed while handling club business.

We all park our bikes under the blue beams of ceiling light. I glare at the man who walks out of the place, no doubt coming to tell us not to park here and he moves right back inside.

The air is warm, as the smell of sand and wildfire filters through my nose, the stench of death.

River jumps off his bike and goes straight inside.

I help Killer ...