"Agreed." I take a long pull from the bottle, appreciating the bitter coldness. "I'll have Ghost increase surveillance on their known locations. Rotate security at the clubhouse and shelter."
Vulture nods, satisfied with the plan. We've worked together long enough that extensive discussion isn't necessary for routine security measures. "How's our girl holding up?" he asks, the question casual but intent serious.
I consider how to answer. Cara's confrontation with Mercer revealed painful truths about her abduction—truths that implicate our club's past actions in her suffering. Vulture knows some of it, but not the personal details about Kane's sister.
"Strong," I say finally. "Stronger than she has any right to be, considering what she's been through."
"She did good work at the warehouse," Vulture acknowledges. "Those women trusted her immediately. Made extraction ten times smoother."
"She wants to help at the shelter next week. Work with the new rescues as they adjust."
Vulture studies me over his beer. "And you're okay with that? After what happened last time?"
The memory of the shelter attack rises unbidden—Cara fighting for her life, the assassin bleeding out on the floor. "We'll increase security. Rotate members for protection detail."
"Not what I asked, brother." His voice softens slightly. "This thing between you two—it's complicated. Club needs to know where your head's at."
The question is fair. As VP, my personal attachments affect club decisions, especially when they involve ongoing operations. But what exists between Cara and me defies simple categorization. Not the relationship we had before, not merely club business now.
"My head's where it needs to be," I assure him. "Protecting the club, finishing what we started with Hargrove. Cara's part of that mission now, whether I like it or not."
He accepts this with a nod. "Fair enough. Just remember?—"
A commotion from the bar interrupts him. Raised voices, glass breaking, the unmistakable sound of a scuffle. We're on our feet immediately, moving toward the door.
The scene in the main bar area seems normal at first glance—customers at tables, bartender serving drinks. Then I spot the source of the disturbance: Zip has a man pinned against the wall near the restrooms, forearm pressed to his throat.
"Problem?" I ask, approaching casually despite the tension radiating from both men.
"Caught him taking pictures of the building and members," Zip explains, not relaxing his hold. "Phone's full of surveillance shots."
The man—mid-thirties, nondescript in jeans and a work shirt—glares defiantly despite his compromised position. "Public place, man. Free country."
"Let's continue this conversation somewhere more private," I suggest, nodding toward the back office.
Zip escorts our photographer none too gently through the employee door, away from curious customers. Once in the office, Vulture locks the door while I relieve the man of his phone.
"Who are you working for?" I ask, scrolling through dozens of photos of our bar, members coming and going, license plates.
"Nobody, man. I'm just?—"
Zip's hand connects with the back of his head, not hard enough to injure but sufficient to interrupt the obvious lie. "Try again."
"Fuck you, biker trash," he spits, abandoning his casual facade. "You think you're untouchable? You have no idea what's coming."
Ice forms in my veins at the implied threat. "Why don't you enlighten us?"
He smirks, confidence odd for a man surrounded by three MC members in a locked room. "You hit that warehouse, freed that merchandise. Big mistake. Some people lost a lot of money last night."
"And you're what? The messenger?" Vulture asks, voice deceptively calm.
"Just a guy doing a job." His eyes fix on me. "But there are others. Lots of others. And they're not taking pictures."
The warning in his words is clear. I hand his phone to Zip. "Check for connections, then wipe it clean. I want to know who he's reporting to."
"You can't—" the man begins.
"We just did," I cut him off. "Count yourself lucky we're only taking the phone. Next time you're caught surveilling our business, the conversation won't be this pleasant."
