“I’ll handle it,” I answer.
“You always say that.” French smirks, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.
“Because it’s always true.” The bluff tastes like rust.
She shakes her head, grinning. “Fine. But if you end up on the six o’clock news with a byline that reads,‘Local Harlot Hunts Phantom Security Guy,’I’m not bailing you out again. I’ll just design a commemorative shot glass.”
“Make sure it says ‘Rebel: died doing math.’”
She laughs, the sound warm and wicked, and for a moment, the tension breaks. That’s what I love aboutFrench. She doesn’t judge. She just throws glitter at the apocalypse and dares it to shine.
When she’s gone, the silence folds back in. I print what little I have. The half-redacted file, the timestamp from Alex’s last call, and the sealed data tag that mocks me in gray. I fold and then tuck them into a manila folder, slide my Glock into the small part of the bag I keep in my bike’s saddlebag, and zip it.
If Carter Bishop’s connected to Alex’s death or the money trail, then sitting here isn’t going to get me answers.
Outside, the compound breathes like something alive. The low hum of the perimeter, the dark bulk of the ring, the bar’s neon like a sleeping heartbeat. My bike waits, its chrome flashing in the light, an iron promise. I swing my leg, feel the familiar ache as leather and metal align.
I don my helmet. The visor catches the compound’s glow and fractures it into a thousand tiny maps, each a path I might take. I don’t tell them. I can’t. If I’m wrong, I’ll drag every sister into a war that’s not ours. If I’m right, I’ll be the one draped in the consequences.
A text buzzes my phone without an ID. No number, a single line:
Nice work, Treasurer. Keep the books balanced.
My stomach drops as if I just swallowed a stone. Attached is an image of my spreadsheet, with a line circled reading "A. Slade Logistics LLC."
They’ve been watching. Not just the club, but me. That realization burns more than whiskey ever did.
I kick the bike to life. The engine growls, a deep animal beneath my boots. I twist the throttle, and the street swallows me. The city opens like an old wound.
Riding in the dark is like meditation. The cool air sharpens my edges. Heads turn; the world notes our passage. I thread through back roads, not looking for fireworks but for a name where a face should be.
I pull over at a diner that smells of grease and of good decisions gone wrong. The kind of place where nobody asks for ID and everyone knows how to keep a secret. I sit at the counter, eat fries like they’ll mend my nerves, and thumb through the printed file until the letters blur.
Alex’s name glows faintly under the fluorescent lights, as if the page itself remembers him. The world moves on, but paper doesn’t. Paper remembers everything.
I flip through directories until a shadow blinks. A forwarding address tucked inside a courier manifest. Nothing direct, just a courier who moves late-night “private consignments” for cash. Couriers never ask questions. They move things, people, and sometimes truth, disguised as merchandise.
There’s a pickup scheduled in three days at a warehouse on the edge of Long Beach. Private handoff. Time-stamped. Everything anonymous. Everything is perfect if you were laundering a name through a shell.
I tuck the last fry between my teeth, swallow, and feelthe familiar knot of adrenaline. If this is the trail, this is my map. If it’s a trap, it’s a nice one, too neat, too professional.
When I get back on the bike, the night presses my jacket against my skin. I ride clean, with no theatrics or aggression. I’m a shadow on two wheels.
Back at the compound, I park and kill the engine. The security lights wash the yard in harsh white, and the gate closes with a thunk. Inside, the clubhouse sleeps, except for the small light over the office.
I stand for a second and just breathe. The swirl of risk and memory is dizzying. Ghosts haunt me not because they’re irretrievable but because they keep demanding accounting.
I grip the manila folder, fingers curling tight. The name Carter Bishop is both a target and an invitation. My throat tightens around the truth I don’t fully know. There is a ledger to close and a debt to settle. Some ghosts send invitations instead of knocks. Tonight, mine wrote his name in the margins.
I place the folder on my desk, then slide into the chair and stare at the glowing monitor and a familiar picture of Carter Bishop until my reflection blurs with the images.
I shouldn’t be thinking about him. But I am, and it’s not because of the way he looks at me now.
It’s because I’ve seen him before. The memory creeps in like fog.
Dawn crests over the cemetery. Wet grass and the smells of stone, lilies, and cold earth permeate the air.
I’m visiting Alex’s grave early in the morning, before traffic and noise. Before the world starts pretending everything is fine.
