Reeves exchanged a glance with Mercer, who nodded almost imperceptibly. He opened the folder and slid several glossy photographs across the table toward me.
My blood turned to ice.
The photos showed me at the compound, but not as I remembered being there. In one, my image had been expertly spliced into what looked like a party scene, my posture suggestive as I leaned against a shirtless man whose face was just out of frame. In another, I appeared to be counting money, surrounded by bags of white powder that I knew had never been there. A third showed me climbing onto the back of Rancor’s motorcycle, which I’d never been on.
“These are fake,” I whispered, my mouth gone dry. “I never -- You made these up somehow.”
“Photoshopped? Altered with some fancy AI program? Perhaps,” Reeves shrugged, the casual gesture belying the threat in his eyes. “But they’d look convincing enough to a judge. Enough to justify charges for prostitution, drug distribution,conspiracy…”
“That’s insane,” I said, pushing the photos away. “You can’t just fabricate evidence.”
“We’re not fabricating anything,” Mercer spoke up, her voice softer than Reeves’ but no less firm. “We’re simply preparing contingencies. In case our request for cooperation is denied.” Was it my imagination, or did Mercer look uncomfortable with my interrogation?
My hands trembled harder, and I balled them into fists. “What do you want from me?”
Reeves leaned forward, his expression saying he had me right where he wanted me. “Information. Access. Eyes and ears inside a criminal organization that has, thus far, managed to operate just beyond our reach.”
Mercer approached the table and placed three small objects on the surface. They looked like small, innocuous everyday objects. A button, a thumbtack, and what appeared to be a tiny plastic air freshener shaped like a pine tree sat in front of me and I got a sick feeling in my stomach.
“Listening devices,” she explained, her tone matter-of-fact. “State of the art.”
I stared at the tiny objects, each no bigger than my thumbnail. “You want me to spy on them.”
“We want you to help us protect the community from dangerous criminals,” Reeves corrected. “Men who’ve killed, who traffic drugs and young girls. They believe they’re above the law.”
The faces of the people I’d met flashed through my mind. Hannah’s warm smile, the club members who treated me with nothing but respect, Marcus… They didn’t match Reeves’s description, and none of them would ever hurt a child like he was suggesting, but I couldn’t deny what Marcus had told me about his past. He’d killed a man. He’d gone to prison. Butcontext mattered, didn’t it? Marcus owned the shit. I couldn’t blame him either. I’d have wanted to do the same thing. Would have if I’d been strong enough. So, no. I wasn’t picking up what these assholes were throwing down.
“I can’t help you,” I said, the words barely audible. “They trust me. Besides, I can’t lie worth a damn.”
“That’s exactly why it has to be you,” Mercer said, almost sympathetically. “Look, we’re not asking you to put yourself in danger. Just place these devices where they won’t be found, then walk away. You never have to know what we hear.”
Reeves tapped the photos again. “Of course, if you prefer to face charges based on this evidence, that’s your choice. Though I imagine it would be difficult to find work with a record for prostitution and drug offenses. Housing too, for that matter.”
My carefully built life, the apartment I’d fought to keep, the job that barely paid my bills but was honest work, all of it hung by a thread these two could snip with a single call. I’d been homeless before. I couldn’t go back to that. Couldn’t face the streets again, the hunger, the constant fear.
“Where?” The question tasted like defeat on my tongue.
Mercer pulled out a small notepad. “The main clubhouse kitchen. Should be easy enough with access. We know you’ve been inside, so this should be a walk in the park.” His smile was anything but reassuring. He looked like an evil villain about to kick a puppy that’d pissed on his Italian shoes. “Under a cabinet or shelf, somewhere not immediately visible. The meeting room where they hold club business. And if possible, Rancor’s personal quarters.”
My stomach lurched at the last request. “Rancor? I can’t get into his apartment. I’ve never been there.” The lie came easily, an instinctive protection of the one private space Marcus had shared with me. Besides, I’d lied before when I said I couldn’t lie. I couldn’t lie to myfriendsworth a damn. Someonelike this fucking bastard, I could lie to all fucking day with a fucking smile on my face.
Reeves studied me for a moment, then nodded. “The first two will be sufficient. For now.”
“How am I supposed to get into their meeting room? I’ve never studied the inner workings of a motorcycle club, but I don’t imagine it’s much different from TV. They’re not going to just talk about their business in front of God and everyone.”
Reeves simply shrugged. “You’ll figure something out.”
“When?”
“Today,” Mercer said. “Now. They’re expecting you, aren’t they?”
I nodded mutely. The devices seemed to grow on the table before me, morphing from tiny objects into massive burdens I was being asked to carry.
Reeves gathered the photos, sliding them back into the folder. “We’ll be listening. Not just to what the devices pick up, but to make sure you fulfill your end of this arrangement.”
“And if I do this,” I said, fighting to keep my voice steady, “you’ll leave me alone? Get rid of those photos?”
“Complete this successfully, and we’ll discuss a more permanent arrangement,” he replied silkily, the non-answer hanging between us.
