I didn't take his extended hand.
"I don't think I caught your name."
The hand dropped, but the smile didn't waver. If anything, it grew more amused, like I'd passed some kind of test. “I just moved down from Montana. Someone recommended your garage for Harley work."
"Someone."
"Friend of a friend. You know how it goes." He glanced around the space, taking in the bikes, the tools, the members working in the bays. His gaze passed over Ghost without stopping, lingered briefly on Blade, moved on. Taking inventory. Cataloguing assets and weaknesses.
"Nice operation you've got here. Family business?"
"Something like that."
"I can appreciate that. Loyalty's hard to find these days." Cross pulled out his wallet—leather, expensive, worn soft with use—and extracted a business card. The paper was heavy, cream-colored, with nothing but a number embossed in simple black. "Here's my number. Give me a call when you've got an opening. No rush. I'm a patient man."
He set the card on the counter and turned toward the exit.
He didn't look at Tyler.
The Sportster was visible through the bay doors, Tyler still sitting on it, his helmet in his hands, his face pale as bone. Cross walked past him without a glance, without a pause, without any acknowledgment that he existed. His stride didn't change. His breathing didn't change. He moved like Tyler was invisible—like Tyler was nothing, beneath notice, already forgotten.
He mounted his Softail, kicked the engine to life, and rode out of the lot at an easy cruise.
The sound of his bike faded into the distance.
Irish let out a breath. "That was weird. Polite guy, but something about him made my skin crawl. And why the hell didn’t he give you his name when you asked?—”
"That was Cross."
The silence that followed was absolute.
Church convened within the hour.
Hawk's fury filled the chapel like smoke, thick and choking, visible in every rigid line of his body. He stood at the head of the table with his hands braced on the wood, knuckles white, and listened while I described what had happened.
"He walked into our garage." Hawk's voice cameout low, dangerous. "In the middle of the day. Talked to our people. Left his fucking business card."
"He wanted us to know he could." Blade's tone was flat, analytical. "That's the message. He has access. Anytime he wants."
"How did he get past the gate?"
"He rode in like a customer. Prospects didn't have any reason to stop him—we don't ID everyone who pulls into the lot." Irish shook his head, frustration and guilt warring in his expression. "I didn't know who he was until Tank said. He just seemed like a guy with a bike problem."
"That's the point." Axel's voice was quiet, steady. "He's not going to announce himself. He's going to blend in, seem harmless, until suddenly he's not."
"Where's Tyler?"
The question cut through the room. Hawk's gaze swept the table, found the empty seat at the far end.
"His room. I told him to stay there until we figured out our next move."
Hawk's eyes narrowed. "You told him?"
"He was in no shape to be in this meeting. Cross got to him—not physically, but the non-acknowledgment was deliberate. A power move. Tyler knew exactly what it meant, and it hit him hard."
"What did it mean?" Ghost leaned forward, brow furrowed.
"It meant Cross doesn't need to look at Tyler to know exactly where he is." Blade's voice was cold. "It meant he's not threatened, not worried, not in anyhurry. He's got all the time in the world, and he's enjoying this."
