"Shit." I sat up abruptly, the post-sex haze clearing. "There's something I need to tell you. Something Sarah told me."
Tank's expression sharpened. "About the network?"
"About us. About Phoenix." I took a breath. "Cross knew exactly when and where we'd hit the transport. Someone inside has been feeding him information. Maybe for weeks. Maybe longer."
Tank went still beneath me.
"The bomb on my bike," I continued. "Someone had to know which one I was using. Someone who watched me ride it every day during lessons."
"The prospect on gate duty." Tank's voice was flat, cold—certain. No hesitation, no question in his tone.
I stared at him. "How did you?—"
"He's always there. First person anyone sees coming in, last person they see going out." Tank satup, his jaw tight. "I noticed weeks ago that he watched you differently than he watched the rest of us. Tracked your movements. Filed it away as probably nothing—thought maybe he was just curious about the new guy. But the bomb, the timing, the precision of every attack..." He shook his head slowly. "It's him. Has to be."
The pieces clicked into place with a clarity that made me feel stupid for not seeing it sooner.Of course.The prospect was invisible precisely because he was always there—background noise, part of the scenery. The perfect cover for a spy. He'd watched my riding lessons, knew exactly which Sportster I was using. He'd seen us leave for the warehouse, noted which direction we went. He'd overheard planning sessions, logged the comings and goings of every member.
And I'd walked past him a hundred times without a second glance.
"We need to tell Hawk." I was already reaching for my clothes. "Now. Before he realizes we know."
Tank was already moving. "Let's go."
The church room filled with tired, confused faces.
Men emerged from bunks and common areas, summoned by Hawk's bellowing. The chapel had never felt so crowded—nearly every patched member had responded to the call, filling the seats along the long table and lining the walls when chairsran out. Irish hobbled in on crutches, refusing to be left out despite Rosa's protests—I could see the fresh bandage on his leg, the pain he was trying to hide. Blade took his usual seat with Declan beside him, the burns on Declan's forearms wrapped in clean gauze, his face marked with lighter bandages where the less severe burns were already starting to heal—Rosa had said those wouldn't scar, at least. Axel arrived with Kai at his shoulder, the two of them moving like they couldn't stand to be separated after the close call this morning. Ghost was there too, still on his crutches, frustration and determination warring on his young face.
I watched them all file in, searching for anything that might give the traitor away. A nervous glance. A tell in the body language. A micro-expression of guilt.
Nothing jumped out. Which meant the mole was good at hiding—or I was looking in the wrong place entirely.
Hawk took his seat at the head of the table, his gavel resting beside his hand. The room fell silent, every eye on him, waiting.
"Tyler. Tank. You called this meeting." His voice was flat, dangerous. "Start talking."
I stood, feeling the weight of every gaze in the room. Tank was beside me, solid and steady, his presence a reminder that I wasn't doing this alone.
"We have a mole." I let the words land, watching faces for reactions. Shock. Disbelief. The particular stillness of men processing a betrayal. "Someone inside Phoenix has been feeding Cross information.That's how he knew about the transport extraction. That's how they knew which bike to bomb."
Murmurs rippled through the room, spreading outward like a stone dropped in still water. Blade's expression went hard, his hand drifting toward the knife at his hip. Irish's jaw tightened, knuckles white on his crutches.
"The bomb." Tank's voice cut through the tension. "Someone knew which bike Tyler was using. Someone who watched him ride it, day after day, during every lesson. Someone who had access to the garage, who knew the compound schedule, who could track our movements without raising suspicion."
"Who?" Blade's voice was ice.
I opened my mouth to answer?—
And caught the movement in my peripheral vision.
Near the door. One of the prospects standing guard, his weight shifting almost imperceptibly toward the exit. Young, forgettable face. The one who was always on gate duty, always watching the entrance, always there when we came and went.
I knew him. Had passed him a hundred times without really seeing him. Had nodded at him, thanked him, treated him like furniture.
He'd been watching me this whole time. Watching all of us.
Our eyes met across the room. And in that split second, I saw the recognition dawn in his expression—the realization that he'd been made, that his coverwas blown, that everything was about to come crashing down.
"Tank." I kept my voice steady, my eyes locked on the prospect. "The door."
