"And now you don't have a laptop to do it with." He closes it back up and sets it aside. "Condor might be able to salvage the hard drive, pull your files off it. But you're going to need a new machine."
I slump back against the couch, frustration building in my chest. "Great. That's just perfect. The Reapers have a bounty on my head, I'm trapped in an outlaw motorcycle club's compound,and now I can't even work on the story that got me into this mess."
"You're not trapped. You're protected."
Protection here isn’t just muscle. It’s approval. If the women didn’t trust me, if Tess or Cara thought I was dangerous to the balance of this place, I wouldn’t still be breathing Saints Outlaws air.
"Feels the same from where I'm sitting."
Ice Pick moves around the couch, dropping onto the cushion beside me with a weight that makes me bounce slightly. He's too close, his thigh almost touching mine, and I have to resist the urge to either move away or move closer.
"What you need is a break," he says, his voice low. "You've been staring at screens and files for days. Your brain needs rest."
"My brain needs to solve this case before someone else dies."
"Your brain's going to short-circuit if you don't give it time to process." He stretches out, all casual confidence, and I hate how good he looks doing it. "Come on. Let's go for a ride."
"A ride? Are you serious? The Reapers are watching this place."
"Let them watch. You think I'm scared of those assholes?" He stands, offering me his hand. "Besides, you're going stir-crazy in here. I can see it. You need air, space to think. And I need to check in on some club business across town anyway."
I should say no. Should stay here where it's safe, where the walls are thick and the gates are locked. But he's right about one thing. I am going stir-crazy, and the idea of being anywhere but this compound, even for an hour, is too tempting to resist.
"Fine," I say, taking his hand and letting him pull me up. "But if we get shot at, I'm blaming you."
"Wouldn't have it any other way."
Ten minutes later, I'm back on his bike, arms wrapped around his waist as we pull out of the compound. Sterling givesus a look from the guardhouse but doesn't try to stop us. The gate rolls open, and then we're on the road, wind whipping past us as Ice Pick opens up the throttle.
It feels like freedom, even though I know it's an illusion. The Reapers are still out there. The traffickers are still operating. The Collector's still pulling strings from somewhere in the shadows. But for this moment, with the sun on my face and the rumble of the bike beneath me, I let myself pretend none of that matters.
Ice Pick takes us away from the city, out toward the industrial district where warehouses and factories sit like forgotten monuments to better economic times. He slows as we approach a storage facility, pulling into a parking lot that's mostly empty except for a few work trucks and a black SUV that looks too expensive for this neighborhood.
"What's this?" I ask as he kills the engine.
"The business I mentioned. Stay close, keep your mouth shut, and let me do the talking."
We head inside, and the temperature drops at least ten degrees once we're out of the sun. The facility's clean but impersonal, rows of storage units stretching into the distance like a maze. Ice Pick leads the way with confidence, like he's been here a hundred times before.
We stop at unit 247, and he unlocks it with a key from his pocket. The door rolls up, revealing a space that's been converted into something between an armory and a workshop. Guns line the walls, everything from handguns to rifles to things I can't even identify. Boxes are stacked in the corner, labeled with codes I don't understand.
"Holy shit," I breathe, taking it all in.
"Yeah, we don't usually bring civilians here." Ice Pick moves to one of the boxes, checking its contents. "But you're not really a civilian anymore, are you? Not after everything you've seen."
"Is this legal?"
"Some of it. Most of it, actually. We've got licenses for the majority of these weapons. The rest?" He shrugs. "Gray area."
"That seems to be your specialty."
"It's how we survive. Can't be all white hat when the world's painted in shades of black." He finishes his inventory and locks the unit back up. "Come on. There's someone I want you to meet."
We walk deeper into the facility until we reach another unit, this one already open. A man stands inside, mid-forties with graying hair and sharp eyes that assess me the moment we appear. He's wearing expensive shoes, a tailored suit that probably costs more than my entire wardrobe, and there's an air of authority about him that says he's used to being the smartest person in any room.
"Ice Pick," the man says, his voice smooth and cultured. "Right on time."
"Robert, this is Ava, the journalist I told you about." Ice Pick's hand settles on the small of my back, possessive and protective. "Ava, this is Robert Samson. He's a lawyer, specializes in corporate structures and financial crimes. Vulture vetted him,” Ice Pick adds, low. “That’s why we’re here.”
