I felt a flash of irritation rather than concern. Crystal was petty, vindictive, and humiliated. Of course she’d try to stir up trouble. But what could she possibly tell the Wolves that wouldmatter? Club girls didn’t know shit about our actual operations—we’d learned that lesson years ago.
“Let me guess,” I said. “She’s telling them about our gun routes? The warehouse locations she doesn’t actually know? The ATF investigation she heard about third-hand at a party years ago?”
Glitch’s laugh was dry. “Probably. Girl thinks she knows more than she does.”
“Exactly.” I leaned back in my chair. “We’ve never been stupid enough to discuss real business around club girls. Whatever she’s selling, it’s outdated or wrong.”
“Still want me to keep an eye on her?”
“Yeah. But don’t lose sleep over it.” I picked up my pen again. “Crystal’s a nuisance, not a threat. She doesn’t have anything the Wolves could actually use.”
“You sure about that?” Handful asked, his eyes narrowing.
“I’m sure. She’s been hanging around the edges for years, but she never had access to anything that mattered. Best she can do is confirm we exist, and the Wolves already know that.”
Glitch made a noise of agreement. “Fair enough. I’ll let you know if anything else comes up.”
After he hung up, I went back to my receipts. Crystal was a problem that would solve itself. She’d run her mouth, realize she had nothing of value to trade, and eventually slink off to cause drama somewhere else.
I had more important things to focus on. Like the woman who’d just staked her claim on me in front of everyone in a retail parking lot.
Chapter 23
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— Dutch —
Iwas in bed but not sleeping. Couldn’t sleep, not with the image of Indira destroying Crystal playing on loop in my head. The way she’d straightened her spine. The cold precision in her voice. The look on Crystal’s face when she realized she’d picked a fight she couldn’t win.
My woman was a fucking warrior.
When Glitch’s name flashed on my screen just before eleven, I felt the first prickle of unease.
“Get to the clubhouse,” he said. No preamble, no explanation. “Now.”
“What’s going on?”
“Just get here, Dutch.”
I pulled on jeans and crossed the yard to the clubhouse in under ten minutes. Glitch was waiting in the main room, tablet clutched in one hand, face grim.
“Show me,” I said.
He handed it over without a word.
The screen displayed a text message thread—screenshots from a burner phone the Wolves had used to contact Glitch. Three photos of Indira.
My stomach dropped. Ice flooded my veins.
Indira walking into her apartment building.Click.
Indira at the coffee shop near her office.Click.
Indira in the Murphy’s Hardware parking lot that very afternoon, her face turned toward me, unaware she was being watched.Click.
The tablet trembled in my hands. I forced my fingers to loosen before I cracked the screen.
Beneath the photos, a message:Give us Montana or the woman will suffer the consequences. You have 48 hours.
