“All vetted. All watched.” He shook his head. “But someone either slipped through the vetting, or…”
“Or someone we trusted betrayed us.”
The words hung in the air, heavy with meaning none of us wanted to accept.
“I’ll tear the fucking place apart.” Rafe’s expression hardened. “Review every access log, every camera feed, every member and staff member who’s been through those doors in the last two months. Someone got in, which means someone left a trail. No one’s that good.”
“Do it.”
“And when I find them—” He met my eyes, and the promise was unmistakable. Rafe knew how to make people disappear as well as the rest of us. Other than Snow, no one was as good as him. “When I find them, we’ll have a conversation about boundaries.”
Gus arrived twenty minutes later, looking harried from the drive. He read the situation the moment he walked in—three grim faces, photos on the desk beside the envelope, and the kind of tension that meant we were at war.
“Tell me,” he said simply.
Between the three of us, we explained the surveillance, the threat, and the demand that Oliver and Ophelia leave. He listened without interrupting, his expression growing grimmer with each detail.
“Surveillance like this costs money,” he said, setting down a photo of the Greymarch grounds. “High-end equipment, long-term positioning, access to a secure facility—none of that comes cheap. Someone funded this.”
“Can you track it?”
“Possibly. Purchase records of the equipment, certainly. If they rented a property near Greymarch for the stakeout, there’s a paper trail.” He glanced at Rafe. “And getting inside the club would require either bribery oran existing relationship with someone who has access. Either way, money changed hands.”
“Run it,” I said. “Whatever you need.”
He nodded, already pulling out his laptop. “I’ll start with suppliers in Scotland. Cross-reference them with any unusual transactions in our member database—large withdrawals, payments to unfamiliar accounts. If someone on the inside was bought, I’ll find the receipt.”
For the next hour,we worked the problem.
Rafe set up in the corner with his own computer, pulling feeds and access logs from the club’s servers. The familiar rhythm of his typing filled the library—rapid bursts, followed by long pauses, then muttered curses as lead after lead went cold.
“Another dead end,” he said after the fourth such pause. “The catwalk access logs show nothing unusual. Standard maintenance visits, all during closed hours, all by vetted personnel.”
“Which means either the logs were altered, or whoever did this had legitimate access,” Callen suggested.
“Or they found another way up.” Rafe loaded a schematic on his screen. “There’s an external fire escape on the east side. It’s alarmed, but if someone knew the system…”
“Check it,” I said. “Every possible entry point. I want to know every way someone could have gotten up there without triggering your sensors.”
Gus worked from the sofa, multiple windows open on his screen as he reviewed financial records no one should have the ability to access. He typed deliberate sequences on the keyboard.
“The equipment used for those exterior shots,” he said without looking up. “There are only a handful of suppliers in the UK who stock that level of kit. I’m cross-referencing purchases in the last six months with known associates, anyone who might have a connection to us.”
“How long?”
“Days, maybe longer. Money’s good at hiding, especially when the person spending it knows what they’re doing.” He glanced up. “But I’ve also got feelers out to some contacts in the banking sector. If any large or unusual transactions moved through Scottish accounts in the last two months, they’ll flag it.”
I sat at my desk, staring at the photos I’d spread across the blotter.
“The positions,” I said, thinking aloud. “They’re not random. This one was taken from the ridge beyond thegarden wall—that’s a difficult climb in daylight, let alone at night. And this angle here, through the conservatory glass—you’d need to know exactly where to stand to get this shot.”
Callen looked over my shoulder. “Someone who’s been here before. Or someone who did extensive reconnaissance.”
“The guest list,” I said. “Everyone who’s visited Greymarch in the last year. Deliveries, maintenance workers, anyone who’s set foot on the property.”
“I’ll have Millie pull the records.” Callen made a note on his phone. “What about the staff? How many people work the grounds?”
“Six. All of them have been with the family for over a decade. I’d trust any of them with my life.”
