I turned the photograph over. A date was written on the back in the same block letters as my name.
One week from today.
The second item was a single sheet of paper,folded once. I opened it, already knowing what I would find.
Two words, centered on the page:
I see you.
I sat there for a long time, the photograph in one hand and the note in the other, feeling the walls I'd built start to crack.
He'd been here. Or someone working for him had been here, which amounted to the same thing—Cross had reach inside this clubhouse, had access to my space, could touch my life whenever he wanted. The message wasn't a threat so much as a statement of fact.
I see you. I found you. I can reach you whenever I choose.
One week.
I didn't know what would happen in one week. A meeting, maybe. An ultimatum. Something worse. Cross had always liked making people wait, letting anticipation do his work for him. He'd learned patience during our years together, had perfected the art of the slow approach.
The smart thing would be to tell Hawk. Show him the envelope, explain the threat, let the club decide how to handle it. They had resources, connections, experience with the kind of danger that came wearing a human face. They'd handled Chen. They could handle this.
But telling Hawk meant telling everyone. It meant church meetings and strategic discussions and the club mobilizing to protect a man who'd only been here three months. It meant Blade sayingI told youso, and the others recalculating my value, weighing whether I was worth the cost.
It meant becoming a burden instead of a person. A problem to be solved instead of someone worth knowing.
For a moment—one long, dangerous moment—I considered telling Tank.
Just Tank. Taking the envelope to the garage, spreading its contents across his workbench, watching his face as he processed what it meant. He'd shown up for me before, had defended me to his own club without being asked. Maybe he'd do it again. Maybe he'd know what to do.
But Tank was loyal. That was the core of him, the bedrock beneath the quiet exterior—loyalty to his club, to his brothers, to the code he'd built his life around. If I told him, he'd tell Hawk. He'd have to. And then we'd be back where we started, the whole club knowing, the whole club deciding whether I was worth the trouble.
I couldn't put him in that position. Couldn't make him choose between me and his family.
I folded the photograph and the note back into the envelope, slid it under my mattress, and tried to breathe.
One week. I had one week to figure out what Cross wanted, what he was planning, how to protect these people from a threat that had followed me through the door.
Or I had one week to disappear.
The sun had set by the time I found my way back to the garage.
Tank was there, bent over the Shovelhead again, the work light casting sharp shadows across his features. The scene was almost identical to this morning—same posture, same focused attention, same sense of a man who found peace in the labor of his hands.
He was wearing a shirt this time. I told myself I was relieved.
He looked up when I entered, and I watched him register something in my face before I could smooth it away. His brow furrowed slightly, the closest thing to concern I'd seen him show.
"Everything okay?"
"Fine." The lie came easily, the way it always did. Eight months undercover had taught me to lie like breathing. "Just tired. Long day."
He studied me for a moment, that assessing gaze that always made me feel transparent. I held still, kept my expression neutral, waited for him to decide whether to push.
He didn't.
"You did good today." His voice was gruff, almost reluctant. "On the road. Better than I expected."
"High praise."
