"Find out who they are." I release her reluctantly. "And make sure they understand you're protected."
I leave her standing there and head back to my bike.
I need to talk to Rogue.
Get him to run that partial plate.
Figure out who the fuck is surveilling Grace.
Because if someone's targeting her, they're about to learn why the Shotgun Saints made me their enforcer.
Rogue's in the clubhouse office when I find him, surrounded by ledgers and laptop screens.
"Need a favor," I say, closing the door behind me.
He looks up, pushing his glasses up his nose. "What kind of favor?"
I show him the photo, the partial plate number. "Need you to run this. Fast."
"What's this about?"
"Someone's watching Grace's clinic. Following her on vet calls."
Rogue's expression sharpens. "Phantom know?"
"Not yet. And it stays that way until I know what we're dealing with."
He studies me for a long moment. "You sure about that? This could be club business."
"It's my business." My voice comes out harder than intended. "Grace is my business. So I handle it."
Rogue raises his hands. "All right, brother. I'll run it. Give me an hour."
"Thirty minutes."
"I'll do what I can."
I pace the hallway outside the office, my mind working through possibilities.
A rival club targeting Phantom through his daughter?
Somebody with a grudge against the Saints?
Random psycho who fixated on Grace?
None of it feels right.
My phone buzzes. Grace:
There's a note on my truck.
My blood goes cold.
Don't touch it. Stay inside. I'm coming.
I'm on my bike and heading back to the clinic before Rogue can call me back.
Grace is standing inside the clinic office when I arrive, staring out the window at her truck.
