Rowan.
Reapers.
Saint.
The fucking bite mark on Kellan’s neck that I’d seen in my head every time I closed my eyes.
And the bike earlier, hanging around long enough for my guys to notice, then disappearing right when they went to check.
It was a message.
I opened the drawer and pulled out the burner phone. I’d had Slate set it up months ago as a backup line, one nobody had, one that never pinged anything tied to us.
I dialed Slate.
He picked up on the first ring. “Prez.”
“Update,” I said.
Slate didn’t waste time. “Bike earlier was a scout. Didn’t come in. Just slow-rolled the perimeter, checked our gates,checked our sight lines. Plate was covered. Helmet was tinted. He left when Fuse moved to follow.”
“Any cameras catch him?”
“Got a partial, but nothing clean. He knew where our blind spots were.”
That made my jaw tighten.
“Means he’s been here,” I said.
“Or he’s got eyes,” Slate replied. “Either way, not random.”
“Any movement at Blackthorn?”
Slate paused. “Nothing direct. But we got chatter. One of our guys has a cousin with a cousin type shit, you know the deal. Rowan’s pissed.”
I leaned back in the chair, staring at the wall like it could tell me what move to make.
“Pissed enough to come?” I asked.
“Pissed enough to talk,” Slate said carefully. “Not sure about action yet.”
Rowan was a talker.
But he was also the kind of man who’d burn the world down and call it justice.
I rubbed my thumb over my lower lip, thinking.
“Keep eyes on the perimeter,” I said. “I want shifts doubled. Quiet rotations. I don’t want people getting spooked.”
“Already started,” Slate said.
“Good. And Slate…”
“Yeah?”
“If Kellan asks you anything, anything at all, you don’t answer.”
Slate didn’t laugh. Didn’t joke.
