It was people like Leon who reminded him why it was worth the fight. An elderly widower, struggling for money, who had done everything he could to help Alex through her tumultuous upbringing. How he’d opened his door to her and her siblings, when the world had dealt them a poor hand. There was no doubt in Sam’s mind that had they asked, he would have given them the shirt off his back, too. There were good people in the world.

Leon was one of them.

That was worth fighting for.

With a nod, Sam turned from the building and tucked his hands into the pockets of his bomber jacket. The summer sun was shining, but a breeze ran through the city, sending a little chill through the air. Sam took out the mobile phone Etheridge had provided for him and tapped the screen a few times until he opened up his Maps app. A few clicks and he a thick blue line ran through the image of the Bronx, guiding him directly to the High Five bar in Laconia. It was a mile and a half walk, and Sam was keen to stretch his legs. Having spent years as a sniper, Sam was used to prolonged periods of consciousness. The lack of impact that jetlag had on him used to wind Lucy up, as he was usually full of energy despite the change in time zones. But after the last few weeks, he could feel a surge of tiredness echo through his body, and he stopped at a small coffee shop as he turned onto Boston Road. Moments later, he emerged with a double shot flat white and continued on his walk. He passed a number of outlets, from car parts to laundromats, weaving in and out of the locals. While not as enticing as Times Square or the more tourist centric parts of the state, Sam found the business of the community quite calming. Normal people, just trying to get by.

Alex Stone fit this town.

He picked up the pace and soon the phone beeped, encouraging him to turn off and head down Dewitt Place until he came to Gun Hill Road. Smiling at the name, Sam crossed the street, taking in the Eastchester Branch of the New York Public Library. The building itself had seen better days, and Sam couldn’t help but compare it to a prison block. He turned down Fenton Avenue; the street lined with setback buildings behind metal fences. It was quaint, and Sam wondered why, of all places, a biker bar would pitch its flag here.

Still wondering, he approached the row of bikes parked outside and then glanced up at the sign.

High Five

This was the place.