Pearl swooped by, dropping off another platter of eggs, and leaned down to whisper, “Y’all be careful out there. Steiner’s got friends in high places, and a lot of money buys a lot of bullets.”She winked at Gunner, then kissed the top of Bronc’s head before heading back to the kitchen.
Across the table, I watched Aspen lean close to Papa, her hand on his forearm. She whispered something, and he covered her hand with his, squeezing gently. For a second, I felt a pang—a memory of something lost. But it was gone as quick as it came.
Bronc tapped the table again. “Alright. Gunner, Arsenal, roll out tonight. Wrecker will feed you everything he’s got by sunset. The rest of you—run the routes, keep the businesses up, and keep your ears open. We’re not letting anyone in this pack get blindsided again.”
He paused, blue eyes sweeping the table. “And if you see anything strange—witches, vamps, or anything that doesn’t smell right—you call it in. No more solo heroics.”
Everyone nodded. The meeting adjourned itself, and the noise picked right back up, louder than before.
I finished my coffee, then stood to go. Gunner followed. Outside, the Texas sun was already burning off the night, the world turning gold and bright.
He clapped me on the back. “Bet you wish you’d stayed in Chicago, huh?”
I snorted. “You kidding? This is home. At least here I know who wants to kill me.”
He laughed. “Fair. Race you to the truck?”
I grinned. “You’re on.”
We ran, both of us a little lighter for it, the weight of the past few weeks fading with every step. There was work to do, wolves to hunt, secrets to uncover. But for the first time in a long while, I looked forward to it.
Let the world try to keep up.
Recon was my element. Nothing calmed my nerves like long hours of surveillance, the taste of burnt coffee and the slow piecing together of a target’s life from patterns and probabilities. Gunner wasn’t built for patience, but he played the part—he could sit for hours, as long as you gave him a snack every forty minutes and let him snark about the parade of idiots we watched from the battered pickup parked outside the Morgantown Pack’s “compound.”
The place was a joke. Three metal buildings: a machine shop, an auto body garage, and a dive bar that looked like it survived on meth and karaoke. Supposedly thirty wolves belonged to the pack, but most of the traffic was in-and-out muscle types—never the same faces twice, no females, no pups, and not a single sign of a real home. It was a front, and not a good one.
Steiner, their Alpha, wasn’t even here. Wrecker finally found his true headquarters outside Fort Worth. We hit the road and headed east with a list of several businesses he apparently owned. A fancy restaurant, a dive bar, and a high-toned strip club were included in the mix.
“Interesting that there’s no sign of an MC patch in sight.” Gunner said, voice low. “I think that’s just bullshit back in Morgantown just for show.”
“He’s compensating,” I said, keeping the camera on Steiner. “Everything about this operation is surface. No real discipline. No family.”
“Maybe he ate them,” Gunner said, deadpan. “Wouldn’t be the first psycho Alpha who culled his own pack.”
I nodded, not disagreeing. The itch in my scalp told me there was a bigger game in play—maybe trafficking, maybe worse.
Just past 2200, a black Escalade rolled up. Steiner got in, followed by his muscle, and they headed west. I nudged Gunner awake. “Showtime.”
We tailed them for 25 miles, right to the outskirts of downtown. They parked at a fancy-looking strip club disguised as some kind of oasis. He went through a side entrance marked PRIVATE. There were valets in bow ties and fancy cars in the parking lot.
“What the fuck is this place?” Gunner muttered. “Think we’re overdressed?”
“Stay sharp,” I told him, palming my knife. “If Steiner’s meeting, he’s meeting someone with teeth.”
The club inside was a fever dream—mirrored walls, leather booths with blackout curtains, bartenders in designer dresses pouring top shelf for a crowd of men who looked like they were handling million-dollar business deals. Others could have been members of the Russian mob. The bouncers were the biggest tells: they wore tailored jackets, but the bulges under their arms said they preferred Glocks to persuasion.
We took a table at the back, ordered two beers, and watched. Steiner moved like a man who owned the world, never looking twice at the talent, heading straight for a private booth by the stage. He sat, back to the wall, his muscle flanking him, eyes everywhere.
Then the first dancer came out, and I nearly dropped my glass.
She was five feet, six inches of perfection. Legs like blades, blonde hair in a waterfall down her back. Her skin glowed under the lights, but it was the eyes that got me. Blue, sharp, and all business, like she saw everything and cared about none of it.
Gunner whistled, low. “Holy hell. That’s not your average party favor.”
My heart hammered so hard I thought I’d bust a seam. She stalked the stage, fluid and perfect, never once glancing at the crowd. On the second turn, her eyes locked with mine. For a half-beat, the whole club faded out. Her expression shifted—recognition, then shock, then something like shame. She looked away so fast it felt like I’d been shot.
I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. The rest of the set was a blur. When she finished, Steiner’s man flicked a folded bill onto the stage, and she scooped it up, vanished behind the curtain.
