The road to Belfast was long, heavy, stretching through miles of asphalt that seemed to have no end. This was not a ride for pleasure. It was necessity. The problems with Stahl had spread too far, and Jimmy was part of it. You had to go back to where it all began.

You rode out of Charming in formation. The Harleys roared low and steady, the truck following behind with the rest of the gear. The wind cut across your face, the smell of fuel and burned rubber mixing with the cold morning air. The road was long and monotonous, but no one complained. Everyone knew why they were riding.

Hours on the road blurred together. Stops were short and to the point. Fuel, a cigarette, quick coffee, then back on the bikes. No one dragged out conversations. The tension was there, even in the silence between the engines.

He did not fall back. He kept pace, sometimes pulling alongside, throwing a brief glance from under his brow as if checking if you were alright. He did not ask. He did not need to. It was enough that he was there. When you stopped, he was always somewhere within reach. Sometimes leaning against his bike near you, sometimes standing just behind you, watchful, scanning everything around.

He did not say much, but his presence was constant. Solid.

The crossing made everything heavier. The bikes and the truck were loaded up, the whole process taking longer than it should, and the cold, damp air settled into your bones. The sea was rough, waves slamming against the sides, the deck creaking under the weight of the machines. No one slept properly. It was not that kind of journey.

When you finally reached land, Belfast greeted you with grey skies.

The city felt heavy. Quiet in a way that did not mean peace. Narrow streets, old buildings, walls marked by history and tension that could be felt under the skin. This was not your ground. Every step here mattered.

You stayed at Maureen Ashby.

The house stood slightly aside, unassuming, but safe as anything could be in a place like this. Inside it was warm, the air carrying the scent of tea and old wood. The contrast with the outside was almost unnatural.

Chibs changed the moment he stepped into this city.

He was quieter. Sharper. His eyes moved more, lingering on things the others did not notice. This was his place, his past. He did not speak about it, but it showed in the way he carried himself, in the tension in his shoulders, in the constant awareness that never left him.

He stayed close.

Not in an obvious way. Not something anyone would call out. But always within reach. When the tension started to build, when the talk turned to Jimmy and it became harder to breathe, his hand found yours.

Brief. Firm.

No words. No look.

As if it was natural. As if he knew exactly when you needed it, even before you did.

Evenings at Maureen’s were quiet, but heavy with tension. The conversations were focused, circling around Jimmy, where he was, who had seen him, how to get to him. Every detail mattered. Every mistake could cost too much.

Chibs listened more than he spoke. When he did speak, his voice was low, steady, certain. He knew this place. He understood how it worked.

And when night settled in and the house grew still, he did not stop watching. Even sitting still, even when he seemed relaxed, there was something in him that remained ready.

And every time the tension crept back in, his fingers tightened around your hand again.

Short. Steady.

Enough.