"Forty-eight hours," I say. "Let's find this bastard."
"We'll find him." Cole's expression flattens, dangerous. "Then I'll handle it."
The way he says it leaves no room for legal process or federal authority.
And the terrifying part is I'm not sure I'd stop him.
He reaches into his truck and pulls out my go-bag, hands it over. Then produces a keycard. "Marriott, room 412. It's paid through tonight. You need somewhere to work that's not a federal building. Use it."
I take both, understanding the logic. A hotel room gives me privacy the field office doesn't.
"Thank you."
"Get some rest. You're running on fumes." Not a suggestion. An assessment.
I watch him pull back onto the highway heading south, then get into the Bureau sedan and head back to Portland. The afternoon light is fading by the time I reach the Marriott.
Room 412 is empty—Cole already cleared out his things when he left. I spread my files from the go-bag across the desk, set up my laptop, try to create some semblance of workspace. The exhaustion is real now—I've been running on adrenaline and coffee since the crime scene last night.
I work for two hours, cross-referencing shell company data and financial records, before my stomach forces me to acknowledge I haven't eaten since yesterday. I lock the room and head down to grab food from the lobby restaurant.
Twenty minutes later, I return with a to-go container. The door is slightly ajar.
I didn't leave it that way.
Training kicks in immediately. I draw my service weapon, approach from the side, scan for threats. The room is empty when I clear it, but someone's been inside.
The files from my go-bag are spread across the desk, pages out of order like someone photographed them and replaced them carelessly. My laptop is in a slightly different position than I left it. Someone cloned the hard drive, copied my research, took everything I've compiled on Kline and the investigation.
It's professional operational security. They knew what they were looking for, got in and out efficiently, didn't bother trying to hide it.
On the bathroom mirror, written in my own lipstick: "Stop or she's next."
Underneath, taped to the glass: a photograph of Gemma Holloway behind the bar at Ironside, taken recently based on her clothing and the background details.
Gemma. He's threatening Gemma, and Cole will burn the world down for his sister.
10
COLE
Shelby's voice comes through the phone tight and strained, but I hear the edge underneath. "My room was breached. Files photographed, laptop accessed. They left a message."
I'm already moving toward my truck, keys in hand. "What kind of message?"
"Threat. Against Gemma." She pauses. "Photo of her at Ironside Bar. Recent. The message says 'Stop or she's next.'"
Cold fury locks into place. "You secure?"
"Room's clear. I've got my weapon, door's locked and chained."
"Stay there. I'm calling Church." I end the call and dial Will before my truck engine turns over. He answers on the first ring.
"Emergency Church," I say. "Threat against Gemma. Full Brotherhood, now. At the bar."
"I'll make the calls." Will's voice goes flat, dangerous. The president who built a legitimate club from men trained for war. "Gemma?"
"Keep her with you until I get there."
