Skip grins. “Ooo, secret spy glass. Love that for us.”
Stefano doesn’t react. He just turns and walks.
“Cuts, brothers,” Maverick says to Spike and me, gesturing toward one of the staff members waiting discreetly nearby.
We shrug out of our cuts without a word.
Handing over club colors in someone else’s territory feels wrong. Vulnerable.
But that’s the point.
Tonight, we’re not the Iron Shadows.
Tonight, we’re businessmen.
Spike rolls his shoulders once, jaw set.
I flex my hands, working tension out of my fingers.
Maverick leads us through the building for several long moments before we turn one final corner.
The library doors are already open.
Inside, a man stands near a massive desk pretending to admire a display case, but his eyes flick toward us the second we enter.
He straightens.
“Gentlemen,” our guest says smoothly. “I was beginning to wonder if I’d be dining alone.”
Maverick steps fully into the room.
“You are not here to dine,” he says calmly.
The doors shut behind us with a quiet, decisive click.
“Shame,” the man says, inhaling slowly. “Smells incredible.”
“I was told you have an offer for me,” Maverick replies, already seated, posture relaxed like he’s discussing art instead of blood.
The man laughs lightly. Confident. Too confident.
“Straight to business. I respect that. My name is Clinton. Word on the street is those desert bikers sold you weapons that misfired. Got your men killed.” He shakes his head in mock sympathy. “Tragic. I’m here to offer assistance. No one should have to deal with unreliable partners.”
“And what,” Maverick asks calmly, folding his hands on the desk, “could you possibly offer me that I do not already possess?”
“Weapons,” Clinton says, smiling wider. “Proper ones. Serial numbers never registered. Never test-fired. Manufactured by my own people. No middlemen. No weak links.”
Maverick tilts his head slightly.
“I do not know you,” he says. “Or your men. Why would I trust that your homemade weapons function any better than the ones I bought from the Shadows?”
Clinton’s grin sharpens.
“I was hoping you’d ask,” he says, leaning forward eagerly. “We can arrange a demonstration. Tomorrow evening work for you?”
Maverick doesn’t answer immediately. He taps one finger against the desk once.
“I’m going to need far more than theatrics,” he says smoothly. “I have survived this long because I do not gamble on strangers.”
