Robert extends his hand, and I shake it, feeling the calculation in his grip. "Ice Pick mentioned you've been investigating some shell corporations connected to human trafficking. I'd like to help."
"Why?" I ask, because I've learned not to trust easy offers.
"Because I used to prosecute these kinds of cases before I went into private practice. And because the people you're investigating, the ones bankrolling the Reapers, they've been on my radar for years." His expression hardens. "I couldn't touch them when I was with the DA's office. Too much political pressure, too many connections that went too high. But now? Now I can work outside the system."
"You want to take them down."
"I want to burn their entire operation to the ground and make sure they can't rebuild." He pulls out a tablet, bringing up documents. "Ice Pick sent me the information Condor pulled on those shell companies. I've been digging, and I've found connections you wouldn't believe. City officials, real estate developers, even a few names in law enforcement."
My stomach drops. "Law enforcement?" I spoke to Cara the other day and she told me about the women she works with; the ones who tried to report and were ignored, dismissed, or warned to stop asking questions. This fits too neatly.
"Low-level, mostly. A few detectives who look the other way, some patrol officers who provide advance warning when raids are coming. Nothing high enough to completely compromise investigations, but enough to give the traffickers an edge." He swipes through more documents. "The corporate structure is brilliant, I'll give them that. Money laundering through legitimate businesses, shell companies that own other shell companies, layers upon layers designed to obscure the source of funds."
"Can we prove it?"
"With the recordings you have and some additional digging? Yes. But it's going to take time, and you're going to need more than just audio files. You need witnesses, paper trails, something that directly connects the money to the trafficking."
Ice Pick shifts beside me, his jaw tight. "The Reapers are the muscle, they move the girls, and they handle the logistics. But they're getting paid by someone, and that money's got to come from somewhere."
"Exactly. Follow the money, and you'll find your Collector." Robert closes the tablet. "I've got contacts who can help, people who owe me favors from my DA days. But this needs to beairtight. One mistake, one leak, and they'll bury the evidence and everyone involved."
"Including us," I say quietly.
"Including you." Robert's expression softens slightly. "I won't lie to you, Ms. Langley. What you're attempting is dangerous. These people have killed for less than what you're threatening to expose. If you're not absolutely committed to seeing this through, no matter the cost, then walk away now."
Ice Pick doesn’t interrupt. But I can feel the weight of it on him; this isn’t just about Saints Outlaws anymore. This is a line that can’t be uncrossed once stepped over.
I think about the missing women, the faces I've memorized from reports and flyers. Girls who had futures, dreams, and people who loved them. Now they're just statistics, bodies recovered from shallow graves or still missing, presumed dead.
"I'm committed," I say, my voice steady despite the fear coiling in my gut. "Whatever it takes."
Robert nods, something like respect flickering in his eyes. "Good. Then let's get to work."
We spend the next hour going over legal strategy, discussing what we need to build a prosecutable case that won't get thrown out on technicalities. Robert is brilliant, I'll give him that, breaking down complex financial structures into simple terms and explaining exactly how we can trace the money back to its source.
But the whole time, I'm aware of Ice Pick beside me, his presence a constant weight. His hand hasn't left the small of my back, and every time I shift, I can feel the heat of him seeping through my clothes.
It's distracting. More than distracting, it's making it hard to concentrate on anything except the way his thumb occasionally brushes along my spine, casual touches that feel anything but casual.
When we finally leave, the sun's starting to set, painting the sky in shades of orange and red. Ice Pick doesn't head back toward the compound. Instead, he takes a different route, winding through back roads until we're in an area I don't recognize.
"Where are we going?" I shout over the wind.
"You'll see."
He pulls off the main road onto a dirt path that leads up a hill. At the top, there's a clearing that overlooks the city, lights beginning to twinkle in the gathering dusk. It's beautiful in a way that makes my chest ache, this view of a place that's both dangerous and home.
Ice Pick kills the engine and climbs off the bike, offering me his hand. I take it, letting him help me down, and we stand there for a moment just looking at the view.
"I come here sometimes," he says quietly. "When I need to think, when the club gets too loud and I need space to breathe."
"It's beautiful."
"It is." But he's not looking at the city. He's looking at me, his dark eyes intense in the fading light. "You did good today. With Robert, and with the strategy. You're tougher than you look."
"I've had to be. Women in my profession, we either get tough or we get eaten alive."
"Is that what happened to you? Someone try to eat you alive?"
