Buzz Cut glares murder at me from the slush. The other agents keep their hands hovering over their holsters. The terrifying biker beside me just assaulted a federal agent without breaking a sweat.
"Good point," I say.
"Keys," he demands, holding out his massive palm.
I dig the keys out of my pocket, my fingers trembling so hard they nearly slip. 'Blake—our prospect—will get the Honda,' Elias growls, his voice a dark, gravelly command that cuts through the freezing mountain air. He doesn't look back at the federal agents as the roar of the incoming pack crests the hill, their headlights cutting through the snow like hunters. He tosses my keys over his shoulder without a glance; a masked biker on a blacked-out Harley catches them mid-air. 'Get in the truck. Now.'
I scramble into the passenger seat, my legs shaking so violently I nearly trip on the running board, the scent of him already filling the cab.
Climbing into the driver’s side, his massive frame shrinks the cab instantly. The truck drops into gear and pulls around the federal blockade like the sedans are mere traffic cones.
"Who are you?" I ask, watching the flashing lights disappear in the swirling snowstorm.
"Elias," he answers, keeping his eyes firmly on the road. Steady hands grip the steering wheel, displaying scarred knuckles bare of any rings. "Treasurer."
"Treasurer? Of the motorcycle club?"
"Yes."
"So you're the one I'm supposed to be working with?"
"Yes."
The man barely speaks. I babble when my nerves fray. This pairing promises absolute disaster.
"They think I committed fraud," I say, the words spilling out independently of my brain. "I didn't. My former boss cooked the books. I found the second set of ledgers. I was going to turn them in, but he must have panicked and pointed the finger at me."
Elias says nothing, continuing to drive in silence.
"I'm really good at my job," I press on, desperate to fill the dead air. "I see patterns. Numbers talk to me. People lie, but math doesn't. If the numbers don't balance, there's always a reason. I can find the reason."
A quick, side-long glance cuts my ramble short. "Quiet."
"I'm just explaining?—"
"I know."
"You know what?"
"That you didn't do it."
I blink. "How do you know?"
"I ran a background check on you three weeks ago when you applied. I hacked your server."
My jaw drops. "You hacked my server? That's illegal!"
"So is framing an employee for embezzlement," he replies, turning the truck off the main road onto a rutted gravel track. A massive iron gate topped with razor wire looms ahead. "Welcome to the Clubhouse."
The gate rolls open automatically, tires crunching loudly on the frozen gravel. Heavy timber, reinforced windows, and mounted security cameras dominate the main building. Severalsmaller outbuildings flank a massive garage and a low barracks structure.
Elias parks in front of the main doors. "Stay close to me."
"I don't think I have a choice," I mutter.
We walk inside. The cavernous main room houses a long bar, scattered pool tables, and cracked leather couches. A massive stone fireplace roars with a blaze large enough to roast a whole pig.
A group of men gather around a heavy oak table, all wearing the same leather cut that Elias wears. Broken Halos.
