“ATF! OPEN UP! FEDERAL AGENTS!”
Doors slam, boots thunder, the whole building shakes. I press myself against the wall, holding my breath, fear clawing up my throat.
My body goes still as the shouting and pounding intensifies, rattling every frame in the house.
The photo in my pocket is slick against my palm, my fingers trembling as I press my back to the wall, willing myself smaller, quieter, anything but seen.
Boots thunder against the wooden floorboards downstairs.
I hear Whale’s voice—rough, defiant, asking what’s going on, but the agents aren’t answering, just ordering everyone down, hands up, move, move, move. Someone slams a door and glass breaks, the sound sharp and final.
I want to run. I want to vanish, to be anywhere but here. But my legs won’t move. I’m caught in the tide of it all, mind whirring with questions that don’t matter anymore: Did they come for Jinn? For the club? For the guns I always pretended not to see?
The surge of panic finally jolts me loose, adrenaline overriding fear as I clutch my bag tighter and scan for any way out. The front is lost—nothing but shouting, boots, the scrape of guns and radios—so I slip back into the hallway, pulse thudding in my throat, and make for the kitchen at the rear of the clubhouse.
The back door is just beyond the counter, half-shadowed, the porch visible through smudged glass. I can hear agents storming in from the front, the chaos rising behind me, but hope flickers—a thin chance to slip away, unseen, into the deepening twilight.
I move as quickly and quietly as I dare, ducking beneath the window, heart hammering so hard I’m afraid someonemight hear it. The world narrows to footsteps and the creak of floorboards as I ease the door open. Cool air and the scent of wet grass hit my face—freedom is so close I can taste it.
I step out onto the porch, shoes barely touching the weathered planks, already imagining myself melting into the yard and then into the night. But before I can take another breath, there’s a presence to my left—a flash of movement, an agent rounding the corner with his weapon raised and his voice sharp with command.
“Stop! Federal agents—hands where I can see them!”
I freeze, a cold weight dropping through my stomach. There’s no point in running now. My body is already obeying, hands rising, bag slipping from my shoulder to the floorboards. For a second, the entire world is just the echo of my own breath, and the distant, wild wish that I could have left this place behind just a little bit sooner.
The agent strides closer, his vest reading ATF, face set in that hard, no-nonsense way. His voice is cruel—just a man doing his job, certain of his purpose.
“Name,” he demands, not lowering the weapon even as he scans me head to toe.
I raise my hands higher, trying to keep my voice steady even though my heart is galloping. “Carrie Saxe. I was just here for a party last night. I left early, realized when I got home I’d forgotten my phone, so I came back to find it. That’s all, I swear.”
He narrows his eyes, not quite convinced. “You came all the way back here, now, for a phone?”
I nod, hoping I look harmless, just another girl caught at the wrong place, wrong time. “I work late. Didn’t think anybody would mind.”
He studies me a beat longer, the noise of agents shouting inside and boots on old wood filling the air behind us. “Show me some ID, please,” he says, and I nod, already fishing for mywallet with slow, careful movements. The whole time, I keep my breath even, hoping the story holds, praying he can’t see the wild panic barely hidden in my eyes.
I find my ID and hand it over, trying to swallow the tightness in my throat.
He glances at the card, comparing it to my face, then to the name I gave him. The seconds stretch and the porch feels colder with every heartbeat. Behind him, I can hear more agents moving through the house, boots on tile and muffled orders exchanged in clipped voices.
He studies me for another moment, then hands back my ID. “Sit tight, Carrie. Someone’s going to need to ask you a few more questions.”
I nod, lowering myself onto the porch steps. The relief that he’s not dragging me off in cuffs is tempered by the dread of what comes next. I glance out across the yard, the sky turning from dusk to true night, and I wonder if there’s any way to go back to who I was before this day began.
I sit on the porch, hands tight around my bag, mind racing. Voices from inside filter out through the cracked door—commands, radios, questions barked back and forth. It’s impossible not to listen for any name I know.
A few minutes pass before another agent approaches, younger and less rigid, holding a tablet and a notepad. He squats beside me, softer in his questioning.
“We’re sorting everyone out. You said you were here for a party. Did you see anyone else when you came back?”
I shake my head, keeping my story simple. “No, I just came in, grabbed my things. I was hoping to get out before anyone noticed.”
He nods, tapping the screen. His tone is almost sympathetic now. “You know some of the guys who were picked up today, right? JC, Blade, Wrecker?”
The words make my heart skip. “What do you mean, picked up?”
He glances back at the house, then lowers his voice. “They’re under arrest. ATF swept the property and found evidence. They’re being processed now.”
