“He described the kit, though,” Diaz continued. “Materials, install time, price point. It matches rumors I’ve heard out of other regional series. Same style bottle. Same horn trigger. We’re looking at a supplier who’s been doing this a while.”
“Any idea where he’s based?” Hank asked.
“We’ve got a few leads,” Diaz said. “Nothing I can share yet. Just know this. You didn’t just catch one dirty team. You stepped into the middle of somebody’s income stream. That puts you, and anyone close to you, on their radar.”
A cool thread slid down Hank’s spine. He glanced at Bree; she stood very still, jaw tight, but her eyes were steady.
“We can handle attention,” Hank said. “We have before.”
“I figured,” Diaz said. “Still. Watch your backs. You see that sedan again, or anybody asking weird questions about tech, you call me. Direct.”
She handed him a card. He slid it into his pocket.
“You have a lot of those out there?” he asked.
“More than I like,” she said. “It’s a small town. I intend to keep it that way instead of letting it become a cautionary tale.”
She tipped two fingers in a casual salute, then moved off toward her cruiser.
Bree watched her go. “She’s scary,” she said. “In a reassuring way.”
“That’s the best kind,” Hank said. “Keeps people honest.”
He slid an arm around her shoulders and felt her lean into him, light and warm.
“You still in?” he asked quietly. “Knowing that whoever ran this little black-market speed shop isn’t thrilled with us.”
“Do they know my name?” she asked.
“Not from me,” he said.
“Then I’m in,” she said. “Besides, Einsteins of the world don’t get to scare me back into a life that’s already too small.”
That made something fierce and protective rise in him again, but there was pride there, too.
“All right, then,” he said. “Let’s go eat with people who are happy we’re here instead of plotting revenge.”
The Breakwater Bar was packed, which was exactly what he’d expected on Cup night.
String lights crisscrossed the ceiling, casting the whole place in a warm, golden glow. The staff rolled up the big garage doors at the front to let in ocean air. Surfboards and old race photos lined the walls; trophies perched on high shelves beside jars of seashells.
Gabe Ortiz manned the bar, big shoulders filling out a faded band T-shirt, dark hair pulled back. He’d swapped a mechanic’s creeper for a bar mat a few years back and never quite lost the grease-under-the-nails vibe.
He looked up when Hank, Bree, Brian, and Colby stepped in and grinned.
“Copper Moon’s new favorite son,” he called. “Get your ass over here, James.”
Lena Ortiz appeared at his elbow, curls piled on top of her head, a bar towel thrown over one shoulder. “And bring that pretty painter with you,” she added, eyes dancing.
Bree laughed, the tension of the day easing off her shoulders as they wove through the crowd.
“Congratulations,” Gabe said when they reached the bar, sticking his hand across to Hank. “Hell of a race.”
“Thanks,” Hank said, shaking it. “Place looks good.”
“Winning does that,” Lena said, leaning over to kiss Bree’s cheek. “How are you, honey?”
“Tired,” Bree said truthfully. “Happy. Mildly terrified about the idea of wiring a warehouse.”
