“What do we know?” I ask, looking from face to face.
“Not much.” Rafe’s voice comes from behind me. When I turn, he’s leaning against the closed garage door, arms folded across his chest, one ankle crossed over the other.
“Any idea who hit us?” My fingertips tap against the plastic cup. “And remind me how this job landed on our radar again?”
Bishop cuts in before Rafe can answer, jerking his chin toward my brother. “Coco’s working her contacts. Meanwhile—Kid. Talk.”
Beck’s fingers freeze over the keyboard. He drags both hands through his hair, leaving it standing in wild tufts, then shoves his laptop forward with enough force that his coffee sloshes dangerously close to the edge. “So.” His voice cracks. “We’re fucked.”
The garage goes silent. Even the hum of Beck’s laptop seems to pause.
Bishop’s jaw tightens, a muscle jumping beneath his skin. “Explain.”
Beck’s shoulders cave inward. He exhales, the sound whistling between his teeth. “Remember how we randomized the chip serialization?” His fingers twitch toward his hair again. “Great for not getting caught. Terrible for tracking stolen merchandise.”
Cruz straightens. “But the chips have trackers.”
“Not GPS.” Beck shakes his head, the movement too fast, too jerky. “More like digital fingerprints. They verify authenticity, not location.”
My stomach knots. “How many did they get?”
Beck’s eyes dart to his screen, then back to me, pupils blown wide. “Without the e-manifest from the truck—which is hopefully already crushed beyond recognition and forgotten in a junkyard—I’d have to count every chip by hand.”
“Ballpark it,” Gage says, voice tight.
“Two hundred.” Bishop’s voice cuts through the room like a knife. “Give or take.”
Cruz leans back against the workbench, arms crossed. The fluorescent light catches the tension in his forearms. “So we’re still holding five hundred.”
I cut my gaze to Rafe. “And we’re sure someone took care of the truck?”
He dips his chin. “We’re sure.”
“Okay.” My tongue darts across my lower lip. Rafe’s jaw tightens, the shadow of stubble darkening as he clenches his teeth. The sleeves of his black t-shirt strain against his biceps, and I force myself to look away before he catches me staring.
“So let’s cash out and bounce. Then we find who stole from us, steal our shit back, cash that out too. Problem solved,” Gage says, drumming his fingers against the table.
“We can’t.” The words fall like stones into still water.
“Why not?” Gage’s eyebrows pull together.
I shake my head. “We had a specific cash-out plan over several states, but we don’t know who these assholes are. They could be at a casino with two bins worth of chips, trying to cash out right now.”
“It’d flag their system,” Beck says, his fingers hovering over his keyboard. “And considering they have to know one of their deliveries was hit yesterday, they’ll be on high alert for any other suspicious behavior.”
“Which means,” Lola says, jabbing her finger toward the corner of the garage where plastic bins sit half-hidden behind the couch, “they’re a fucking liability. And I’m not going to federal prison for this. Just saying.”
“No one is going to prison,” I assure her despite the growing knot in my stomach.
Cruz shifts his weight, crossing one ankle over the other. The leather of his boot creaks. “We could try fencing them.”
Bishop shakes his head immediately. “You’d be lucky to get half value.”
“And anyone who would,” Rafe adds, “isn’t someone you want owing.”
There’s weight in that, more than the words themselves. Not just risk of getting caught—leverage. The kind that doesn’t go away once it’s attached to you.
Gage’s knuckles whiten around the edge of the counter before he pushes off, the soles of his boots scuffing concrete. “So what—we just sit on half a million?” His shoulders roll forward, that familiar restless twitch I’ve seen since we were kids. “Half’s better than nothing.”
