Five shifters, two humans. Both comfortable, relaxed, moving through the space like they'd never once considered thepossibility that the people they chose to be near could kill them without effort.
That's the part I don't understand. That's the part I've never understood.
There's a garage attached to the building — three bays, lifts, a wall of tools that looked well-used. I'd noticed it on the way in. A couple of bikes up on stands, parts organized on shelving. But nobody was working on anything that looked like a customer's vehicle. Just their own bikes, from what I could tell. More hobby than business. The whole setup had the feel of a clubhouse — guys hanging out in a space they built for themselves, tinkering with their own toys. The bar was the same. Good nachos, decent beer, zero other customers.
I stayed for ninety minutes. Ate my nachos, which were better than they had any right to be. Drank my IPA, which was a solid local craft — some mountain brewery I'd never heard of. Worked through two reports and an acquisition summary for the Portland property that closed last week. Every twelve minutes I did a sweep of the room, which I know is excessive but I've never been able to stop doing it.
Nothing changed. Nobody approached me. Knox stayed in his office. The pastry guy stopped glaring after about twenty minutes and went back to his glazes. The one with the spreadsheet — I didn't catch his name — refilled a cat's water bowl outside and pretended he hadn't.
The cat sat on the windowsill the entire time. I like cats. They're rational. They assess risk, they maintain distance, they leave when conditions aren't favorable. More people should behave like cats.
I closed my laptop at 4:15, packed my bag, left thirty percent on the nachos because the service was fine and I'mnot an asshole, and walked out. The cat was gone. The rental — a Hyundai Sonata, the only tier with heated seats, which matters when you're driving through mountains in early spring — started on the first try. Small mercies.
The hotel is twenty minutes away. Pinewood Inn off the highway, three stars, continental breakfast, firm mattress. I've stayed in worse. Spokane was worse. That motel smelled like mildew and regret and the jalapeño poppers from the bar across the street were the only thing keeping me sane.
I drop my bag, hang my jacket, loosen my collar. Sit on the bed and pull out my phone.
Daniel picks up on the second ring. "How'd it go?"
"They're shifters, Daniel."
Silence. Then: "What?"
"The property owner is a shifter running a motorcycle club out of a bar on five acres. I counted five shifters and two humans."
"Nico, I had no idea. The file said—"
"The file said independent bar owner, motorcycle enthusiast, resistant to previous outreach. It didn't say anything about shifters." I rub the bridge of my nose. "After Delgado, you told me—"
"I know what I told you. And I meant it." Daniel sounds genuinely upset, which is one of the reasons I've worked for him for two years and haven't quit. He's not a bad guy. He's a middle manager who gets his information from the same system I do. "The property assessment came from Langford's office. I'll find out what happened."
Langford. Senior VP of acquisitions. The kind of man who looks at a map and sees dollar signs where homes should be. I'venever met him in person. I've seen his signature on approvals and his initials on property reports and that's enough to know he's the type who considers communities a zoning obstacle.
"He refused the offer," I say. "Didn't even let me make it."
"Already?"
"Before I finished my second sentence. Said he didn't need to hear it."
"Shit." Daniel exhales. "Okay. Come home. I'll reassign—"
"I'm going to stay a few days."
"Why?"
Good question. The answer is: because Knox said no before I opened my mouth, which means he's been approached before. Because the property is five acres in a location that makes no commercial sense unless you know something about the area I don't. Because I drove three hours to get here and I haven't finished my assessment and I don't leave work incomplete.
"Due diligence," I say. "The property assessment is thin. I want to see the surrounding area, traffic patterns, commercial viability. If Langford wants this parcel, I want to know why."
"You're not going to change the owner's mind."
"I'm not trying to. I'm doing my job." I kick off my shoes. "Three days. I'll have a full report."
"Be careful."
"They're not dangerous, Daniel. They're mechanics who run a bar." Even as I say it, I hear how stupid it sounds. They're apex predators who run a bar. The distinction matters even if the nachos were good.
"I meant be careful with Langford. If he finds out you're digging into why he flagged this property—"
