“Who was that?”
“Cable. He needs me at the clubhouse.”
She watches as I pull my cut on.
“Club business.” Not a question. Just the quiet understanding of a woman who knows exactly what this world is and has decided to accept it.
“Yeah.”
She moves to the coffee machine, and I watch her, feeling the weight of what is waiting at the clubhouse and everything it means for the next two days.
“Sophia.”
She looks over her shoulder, and something shifts in her expression, warm, certain, and completely unguarded. “Go,” she says. “I’ll be here when you get back.”
Crossing the kitchen, I cup her face in both hands, tilt it up, and kiss her, fully and without hurry.
She kisses me back the same way.
When I pull back, she is looking up at me with those eyes.
“I’ll see you tonight.”
“I’ll be here,” she says. We have a brief last kiss before I pick up the keys and head to the door.
Memphis is sitting directly in front of it.
“Move,” I tell him.
Memphis doesn’t move.
“Memphis.”
One amber-eyed blink.
He doesn’t budge, so I step around him and head outside toward the bike.
The trip to the clubhouse is without incident, and Cable meets me at the clubhouse door with that focused stillness of a manwho has been sitting on something significant and is ready to put it on the table.
“Come see this.”
We go to the back room, just the two of us, the clubhouse is quiet at this hour. He opens his laptop and turns it toward me.
Hacienda footage.
The familiar satellite image, walls, perimeter, guards moving in their patterns. But Cable has overlaid something new. It’s a complete security rotation map, every guard, every camera, every blind spot marked and timed.
“It’s done,” he says. “Full mapping. South, north, east, west, everything. Entry points, exit routes, patrol patterns down to the minute.” A pause. “The blind spot on the north wall holds for eleven minutes between rotations. Eleven minutes is enough.”
I look at the screen, the hacienda walls, and everything behind them. “And the movement? Getting us there without being tracked?”
Cable pulls up a second screen. Routes, border crossing points, and vehicle arrangements on the Mexican side. A timeline that moves two clubs from Las Vegas to twenty-five miles outside Mexico City without leaving a digital footprint anywhere that matters.
“We ride to the border in small groups, nothing that draws attention. Vehicles are waiting on the other side. We leave the bikes at a contact’s property on the US side… clean, untraceable, fast.”
Focusing on the screen for a long moment, I take in every detail.
Then Cable pulls up something else.
