Page 26 of Contracted to the Bikers

Could Harlan Briggs really be Escar’s partner, an external operator, running the same system from the outside?

I pull up property records and cross-reference addresses. My breath slows, becoming sharp and focused. The office location loads on the screen, and I blink, checking it again to make sure I’m not imagining it. Harlan Briggs’ office is just four blocks away from the clubhouse. He’s been their neighbor for years.

I sit back slowly, contemplating what this means. If he’s the partner on the outside, the man who organized the attempt on my life and killed the US Marshals tasked with protecting me, then there’s no way he is just four blocks away and doesn’t know where I am.

He’s been close all along, not reacting or chasing me. Which can only mean one thing—he’s building something bigger. His involvement with Escar goes beyond me. The implications settle in my chest like ice. There are years’ worth of evidence here that suggests what I uncovered against Escar was just the tip of the iceberg. Perhaps the attack wasn’t just retaliation; it was to stop me digging any further.

Somehow, my attempts to protect myself have only entrenched me deeper into this mess. Like quicksand, the more I’ve tried to free myself, the further I’ve sunk.

Chapter 11

Boone

I don’t sleep much. I haven’t had a full eight hours’ sleep in years, not since I was a kid. Too many years of learning that quiet doesn’t mean safe. That stillness doesn’t mean nothing’s coming. So, most nights I lie there, staring at the ceiling, listening. Always on alert, always at war, even when I’m not.

The clubhouse breathes at night. There are the familiar sounds of wood settling, pipes groaning, and the chorus of chirping cicadas outside. Someone shifts in their sleep down the hall, the bed creaking. Normal sounds, except tonight something’s off. There is a subtle shift in the air that has me on high alert.

Perhaps it’s because I know Sloane has been hiding something ever since she went back to work yesterday. She missed putting Jessy to bed, unheard of since she’s been here, which can only mean one thing, she uncovered something important, something she doesn’t want to share with us. When she turned Rook away from her bed earlier, I knew something was definitely up. He drank himself into oblivion, so I know he’s out for the count now. His snores drifting across the corridor confirm it.

I hear Sloane’s door open, softly, carefully. It’s not the sound of someone getting up for water or restless pacing. It’s deliberate, trying not to make any noise. She’s sneaking out. I sit up without thinking, already moving before my brain catches up. I don’t turn on a light. Don’t make a sound, I just step into the hallway in time to see her slipping down the stairs, fully dressed, hair tied back, moving like she doesn’t want anyone to notice, which means she definitely doesn’t want anyone to follow. So, that’s exactly what I’m gonna do. I wait five seconds, just long enough to throw on some clothes and give her a head start, then I follow.

The night air is cooler outside, and the compound is quiet, bikes lined in shadows, security lights casting long stretches of pale yellow across the ground.

She’s already at the gate. She’s moving quickly, her steps purposeful. Any lingering doubt that this might simply be a midnight stroll to get a breath of fresh air is gone. She’s not wandering or unsure. She knows exactly where she’s going. That’s what worries me.

I keep my distance as she heads down the road, staying in the dark where I can, boots silent on the sidewalk.

She quickly covers the four blocks. I know where she’s headed before she even stops. Harlan Briggs’ office. I’ve been past this building a hundred times. Brick front, glass doors, the kind of office building that appears on dozens of streets. It’s clean, respectable, the kind of place that looks like it belongs to someone legitimate.

It doesn’t.

She walks straight up to the entrance, not hesitating when she sees the security guard inside. She’s prepared for this. The guard is an older guy. He’s working the night shift, which means he’s probably underpaid and bored, unlikely to ask too many questions, but then again, the fact that he isn’t sleeping on the job suggests he takes it seriously.

Sloane pauses for half a second, perhaps rehearsing her lines one last time, then steps inside. I can’t hear what she says, but I see the guard react. There’s only a brief moment of hesitation before he lets her in.

My jaw tightens. Everything about that is wrong. It’s too easy. It screams trap.

I move quickly, circling the building instead of going through the front. There’s a side entrance I’ve seen before. It’s no doubt locked, but locks aren’t infallible. The main problem is that there’s a camera pointed right at it. Avoiding the camera, I find a service door where the camera slowly sweeps, creating a blind spot for a few seconds. I check it, and that too is locked. I glance back toward the street. There’s no movement, no witnesses. I dart back out of the line of sight as the camera sweeps back around. Once it’s turned away from me again, I shoulder the door once, twice, and on the third hit, the latch gives just enough for me to force it open with a quiet crack.

I make it inside just before the camera captures me and let out a sigh of relief as I enter the dark corridor. I move quickly but controlled, as I follow the sound of voices.

I slow as I get closer, staying tight to the wall, listening.

“…should’ve stayed out of it—”

“…boss wants the files—”

My hunch that Sloane has uncovered something is right. I round the corner just enough to see the three men. One is already down, sprawled near a desk, a fire extinguisher on the floor beside him. Of course, Sloane isn’t going down without a fight. Pride swells in my chest that she took one of the bastards on and won. But there are still two against one; it isn’t a fight she can win. She’s backed up against the wall now, breathing steady, eyes sharp, cornered like a rabbit in a snare.

The second man stands between her and the exit. The third is holding a knife, the blade glinting in the fluorescent overhead lights. He steps closer, his body language leering and excited, the kind of sick fuck that gets off on this. I’ve known plenty of guys like this. When shit hits the fan, they claim they were just following orders, but they take pleasure in torturing others, in abusing power. “End of the road, sweetheart.”

Even now, Sloane remains strong, refusing to let them see her fear. I admire her strength, her bravery, but even the best soldiers need their unit to defeat the enemy. I move before the men can react, stealthily moving through the shadows of the corridor, becoming one with the darkness. Silent until the last second.

I strike like a viper, lashing out before they even notice I’m there and grab the nearest one—closest to the door—arm around his throat, pull him back hard, cutting off air before he can shout, and he drops like a sack of cement. I don’t try to soften his fall.

The one with the knife turns, almost in slow motion, confusion making him lethargic, giving me the upper hand. With my size, people don’t expect me to be fast. I use that to my advantage, letting him think he has time before I close the distance in a flash. I drive all three hundred pounds of my bulk into him, knocking the wind from his lungs and throwing him off balance.

But he recovers faster than I expected. He’s considerably shorter than me, ducking under my fist as I swing for him. The blade flashes, and hot pain immediately rips across my ribs. I don’t stop. I can’t.