"No," I growl, clicking my key fob to unlock my Jeep door.
I do not get off on murder.
That'shiskink, not mine.
Not mine, not mine, not mine…
I chant this inside my head as I pull out of the parking garage and head east…
Chapter 14
Caleb
The sun is just beginning to rise above the tree line outside my log mansion. Backlit mountains capped by the perfect spread of roiling cloud cover turns the entire landscape into a surreal mixture of colors.
Green grass and trees, peppered by the darker browns of wood.
Pink, orange, coral, purple sky.
And a feeling in the air that today is important.
If I were the kind of man who brags about his highlights on 'hashtag mountain life' like an entitled asshole, this golden-hour photo op would get attention.
Spoiler alert: I'm not.
So I'm the only one who will ever know this moment existed.
The story of my life, perhaps.
I'm thinking about Ryan Adamson's security setup. A completely unnecessary kind of overkill that shouldn't be in a small-town gym unless you're hiding something…interesting.
Encrypted camera feeds that didn't just resist my initial probes—they actively told me to fuck off.
Physical access controls better than some banks I've robbed.
Network architecture that screams "I paid a professional who knows what actual threats look like."
Your average gym bro doesn't know the difference between WPA2 and WPA3, let alone implement air-gapped systems.
But Ryan built a fortress around Iron River Fitness. The kind of fortress that makes a man wonder what exactly requires that level of protection.
Trade secrets for revolutionary TRX modifications?
Client privacy for Idaho Falls' moderately affluent fitness enthusiasts?
No. That's not what our boy Ryan here needs the security for.
I take a sip of the lukewarm coffee, then set the mug down and touch my sternum where Scarletta's face is inked on the skin—the throat-fucking scene Posie inked, years before I ever met her.
Stella Six Feather's recollection of 'the psychopath with the bird tattoos' was all I had.
Turns out, it was all I needed.
Stella came right out and said that Ryan killed Posie. No hesitation at all.
It's a ridiculous claim. Not to be trusted. I like Stella. That final, fourth CNC she did for the auction house was chef's fucking kiss. She agreed to everything—for bonuses, obviously. A literal gang rape courtesy of European princes and dukes. Earls and barons. Marquess and viscounts.
But that's still the number one film requested by members when they come to stay at the Cheyenne Club. It's been number one for years.
