She nods, understanding. "Be safe."
"Always am."
I leave her on the porch, heading to the SUV parked nearby. As I start the engine and pull away, I check the rearview mirror to see her silhouetted in the doorway, watching me go.
Focus, Tank. Deal with Mitchell first. Sort out your feelings later.
The drive into town takes just under twenty minutes, the roads empty in these pre-dawn hours. I follow King's directions to the Blackwater Motel, a run-down place on the outskirts where the rooms go by the hour as often as by the night.
I spot Shadow's bike parked discreetly behind a convenience store across the street. Pulling in beside it, I cut the engine and step out.
Shadow materializes from the darkness like his namesake, moving with the silent skill that makes him invaluable for surveillance.
"Room 14," he says without preamble. "Rage is watching the back exit."
"Any movement since he checked in?"
Shadow shakes his head. "He made a few calls. Tried the police station first, but at this hour he only got the night dispatcher. Then called someone named Bryce. Asked about Jenny's brother."
He's gathering intel. Smart. Methodical. The kind of cop who does his homework before making a move.
"Has he been drinking?" I ask, thinking of what Amelia told me about his escalating violence when drunk.
"Brought a bottle in with him. He's put away at least half of it in the last hour."
Drunk and angry makes for a dangerous combination, but it also means he'll be sloppy. More likely to make mistakes.
"Okay. I'm going in. You and Rage stay out here, keep watch. If things go sideways, you hear gunshots, you call King immediately. Then you get the hell out of here."
"We're not leaving you," Rage says, appearing on my other side with his usual perfect timing.
"This isn't up for debate," I tell them firmly. "Mitchell's a cop. If this goes bad, the club can't be connected to it. This is my personal business, not club business."
They exchange a look, clearly not happy with the order but understanding the logic behind it.
"Give me twenty minutes," I continue. "If I'm not out by then, call King, then leave. He'll know what to do."
With reluctant nods, they agree. I start toward the motel, then pause, turning back.
"One more thing. If you hear a gunshot and then see me walk out alone, drive away. Don't approach me, don't call, just go. Get back to the clubhouse and wait for King's instructions."
"Jesus, Tank," Rage mutters. "You planning on doing something stupid?"
"Just covering all contingencies," I say with a shrug that feels too casual for the weight of the moment.
Before they can argue further, I cross the street toward room 14. The motel is silent, most occupants either passed out or gone for the night. A single light burns behind the grimy window of Mitchell's room.
I consider my approach. I could knock, pretend to be motel staff, catch him off guard. But no—a man like Mitchell, he deservesto see me coming. Deserves the fear that comes with knowing exactly who I am and why I'm here.
Without hesitation, I kick the door in, the cheap lock giving way easily under my boot. The door slams against the wall as I step into the room, filling the doorway with my frame.
Derek Mitchell sits on the edge of the bed, a half-empty bottle of whiskey in one hand, his service weapon in the other. He's younger than I expected, maybe mid-thirties, with the kind of clean-cut good looks that make people instinctively trust him. The perfect disguise for a monster.
He's on his feet instantly, gun trained on my chest, eyes wild with a mixture of fear and rage.
"Who the fuck are you?" he demands, voice slightly slurred from the alcohol. "How did you find me?"
I close the door behind me, calm as if I've been invited in for coffee rather than having a gun pointed at my heart.
