Total pages in book: 45
Estimated words: 41664 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 208(@200wpm)___ 167(@250wpm)___ 139(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 41664 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 208(@200wpm)___ 167(@250wpm)___ 139(@300wpm)
Yeah. I’d just pinged the fucking marshals. The kind of alert that triggers a small blue LED in a quiet office and alerts a junior analyst, “Eyes on this access.” If they were smart, they’d log and wait. If they were twitchy, they’d walk it up the chain and send an attitude in a suit.
Either way, the clock had started.
I closed every door I’d opened and scrubbed the fingerprints, then did it again, and again a third time because paranoia was the only reason I was alive. When the code went still, I leaned back and finally let out the breath I’d been banking. It might have been enough, but only time would tell.
Time to loop in Kane.
I grabbed the tablet off the desk and stalked down the hall toward his office, my shoulders tight. The clubhouse felt different on mornings like this. Quieter. Like a hangover after a race night buzz.
A couple of brothers’ voices drifted from the kitchen, low and grumbling about eggs being too runny. Somebody banged around in the garage, a tool clattering on concrete. Normal noise. My world.
Nitro crossed the hall with a black Pelican case and an expression that meant the world should be grateful he was on our side. He jerked his chin. “You look like you fought a modem and lost.”
“Modem’s dead,” I threw back without slowing, catching the quick flash of a grin before he disappeared into the garage.
Kane’s door was cracked, but I still rapped my knuckles on it and waited for him to call out, “Enter.”
He sat behind his custom desk made of black walnut, heavy enough to anchor a hurricane. The afternoon bled through the window, slicing light across spreadsheets and track maps. He didn’t look up when I stepped in. His eyes were focused on the dual monitors propped on the corner of his desk. Race data scrolled across the screen—lap times, fuel usage, and telemetry shit that bored most people but Kane tracked like scripture.
“You look like shit,” he muttered, still watching the screen.
“Not here for makeup tips.” My voice came out flat, but sharp. I slammed the door shut with my boot. “We’ve got a problem.”
That got his attention. Kane turned, leaning back in his chair, arms folding across his chest. He studied me the way only he could—like he already knew the story but wanted to hear how bad I’d make it sound.
“Tell me I won’t need bail money,” he rumbled.
“Depends on how allergic the marshals are to curiosity.”
He lifted his gaze, but his eyes didn’t flicker. Not once. Kane didn’t posture; he processed. After a second, he raised one brow. “You sure?”
“Positive.” I tapped the tablet and slid it to him, then paced once across the rug, glasses sliding lower on my nose as I raked a hand through my hair. “I went in quiet. Breached DOJ archives.” My lips twisted. “Still tripped a wire. Silent ping. Marshals’ll know somebody touched her file.”
Kane watched me steadily for a beat, his expression unreadable. Likely wondering when the fuck I’d gotten so damn sloppy.
Then his head ducked, and he read fast, eyes flicking over my bullet list—holes I’d fix, patches I’d lay, and covers I’d thicken until they were bulletproof. “You can shore it?”
“Yeah.” My mouth thinned. “But if the fed who rubber-stamped this mess wants to keep stamping, she shouldn’t be left alone in a shitbox apartment with a deadbolt I could open with a butter knife and two minutes. If any of the partners catch wind she’s here…” My jaw clenched. “They’ll finish it.”
Kane rubbed a thumb along his beard, eyes narrowing. “And now the marshals know we’re looking.”
“Yeah.”
Silence stretched, broken only by the hum of his monitor fans.
Finally, Kane leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, eyes locked on me. “We keep her close. No one outside us hears this until we decide otherwise.”
I nodded once, the tight coil in my chest easing half an inch.
“We’ll move her if we have to,” he grunted. Then he cut me a sharp look. The kind that measured. He was gauging me the way he did every brother when a line in the sand wasn’t about territory or money but about a woman.
We’d been brothers long enough that I knew what he was asking without words. If this wasn’t just about her being in WITSEC anymore. Whether this was club caution—or something else.
Eventually, he asked, “How close are you planning to stand, Jax?”
I didn’t flinch. “Close.”
Silence stretched again, heavy as an engine block. Then a ghost of a smile touched his mouth.
“Figured.” He leaned back, his chair creaking under his weight. “I hired her because she’s good. But if this turns hot, she’s not just an employee—she’s under our protection.”
It was a question and a promise all at once.
“Agreed,” I muttered.
The desk phone buzzed. Kane hit the speaker. “Yeah.”