The green-tinted world of the PVS-14s flickered as a secondary flare ignited somewhere near the Coon Valley bridge. The smell hit Cronauer before the visual did—a sickening mix of spilled diesel, ozone, and the sour, heavy scent of wasted milk.

He was parallel to the old creamery now, hugging the logging trail that overlooked the valley floor. Dave’s warning about the “contraband calories” audit wasn’t just chatter; it was a crime scene. Through the grainy phosphor of his goggles, Cronauer saw the creamery’s loading dock illuminated by the harsh, wobbling beams of truck-mounted spotlights. A group of men in mismatched tactical gear—the “Road Audit” crew—were frantic, tossing crates into the back of a flatbed while two bodies lay unmoving near the intake pipes.

“Cronauer, you’re too close,” Dave’s voice hissed in his ear, stripped of its usual warmth. “The transmission from the creamery just went dead. DHS didn’t do this, man. It’s the local ‘auditors.’ They’re cleaning out the nodes before the matte-black birds can get there.”

“I see ’em, Dave. They’ve got the bridge blocked. If I stay on the vein, I’m silhouetted against the limestone.”

Cronauer shifted his weight, the BMW GS idling with a low, nervous thrum. He had to cross the valley floor to get to Brett’s stash. There was no “around.”

Suddenly, a spotlight swung up from the creamery lot, catching the reflective striping on Cronauer’s panniers for a fraction of a second.

“Biker! On the ridge!”

The shout was followed immediately by the rhythmic thump-thump-thump of a semi-auto rifle. Dirt sprayed Cronauer’s boots as he dumped the clutch. He didn’t run away; he leaned into the incline, a 600-pound projectile of matte-black German engineering plummeting down the scree-slope toward the creamery lot.

“Going kinetic!” Cronauer roared into the mic.

He reached back with his left hand, snapping the AR-15 Takedown from its scabbard. He didn’t have time to shoulder it. He steered with his knees and his right hand, the GS bouncing violently over a rotted log.

A looter stepped into his path near the creamery gates, leveling a shotgun. Cronauer squeezed the AR’s trigger—a blind, one-handed burst to suppress. The rounds chewed into the gravel, forcing the man to dive.

As the GS roared into the lot, Cronauer felt a sharp, hot sting across his left thigh. A round had punched through the aluminum pannier and grazed the meat of his leg. He didn’t feel the pain yet—only the adrenaline-fueled “Marine” clarity.

He didn’t slow down. He targeted the flatbed’s fuel tank—not to blow it, but to disable. Three rounds. A plume of diesel sprayed the asphalt.

“Check the fire!” another looter screamed, thinking the fuel was a secondary explosive.

Cronauer used the momentary panic to bank the bike hard left, weaving through the maze of milk crates and discarded equipment. He hit the bridge at sixty miles per hour, the GS’s suspension bottoming out as he cleared the wreckage of a stalled sedan.

He was through.

Two miles down the dark throat of Battle Hollow, he finally pulled over under a canopy of weeping willows. He killed the engine and slumped over the tank, his breath coming in ragged, white plumes.

“Status,” Dave’s voice was a desperate whisper.

Cronauer looked down. His pants were soaked with a mix of blood and the heavy cream that had sprayed from a ruptured crate. He wiped a smudge of red from his visor.

“I’m clear of Coon Valley. The creamery is done. They took everything that wasn’t nailed down.” He hissed through his teeth as he touched the graze on his leg. “I’m hit, Dave. Just a crease. But I’m bleeding on the seat.”

“The waypoint is half a mile east,” Dave said, his voice shaking. “Get the meds, Cronauer. Before the DHS smell the blood in the water.”

Cronauer gripped the handlebars, the James Taylor track—You’ve Got a Friend—faintly playing in his left ear. A cruel irony. He kicked the bike back to life, the signal of his own survival flickering but still holding.

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