Page 23 of Crown of Ash

A pause. Not hesitation. Calculation.

"That's a short window."

"I know what it is."

Another pause, longer. Marcus heard paper in the background, or the shift of a chair, the small sounds of someone already at his desk even this late in the evening.

"There are conditions," the voice said.

"There are always conditions. Bring them to the meeting."

"Marcus."

"I know what I'm asking."

The line was quiet for three seconds. Then: "Twenty-four hours. You know the location."

Marcus hung up. Stood at the fence for one more second, fingers loose around the phone still warm from two calls, and felt it: the door he'd held shut for six years, open now, and the draft coming through it. Not relief. Not dread. Just the weight of a decision that could not be walked back.

Behind him, Trip said his name once, quietly. The medical team was here, everyone else had been rerouted by Ghost in time and cleaners would be by to take care of the mess within the hour. They'd collect what data and evidence could be found and get it back to him before dawn.

Marcus turned around and went back to work.

Chapter 14

Dray hadn't given him the heads-up about the bikes. Andre's eyes were drawn to them, a formidable lineup of around thirty machines gleaming under the harsh sodium lights of the parking lot. They were arranged with military precision along the southern wall of the building, their chrome bodies throwing back distorted reflections of the surrounding area.

He found himself counting them, an old habit that had been ingrained in him over fifteen years of service. The same instinct that had him mentally noting exits in any room he entered, a silent tally that ran in the background of his mind. But all those years, all that training, hadn't prepared him for a situation where his badge was a liability rather than an asset.

The building itself was a cipher from the outside. A repurposed warehouse, its brick facade was unremarkable, blending seamlessly with the other structures in this part of town. Every window was painted black, a stark contrast to the warm brickwork, and there was no sign to indicate what lay within.

If it hadn't been for Dray at the wheel, Andre would have dismissed it as just another nondescript building in a forgotten corner of the city. But there were telltale signs that set it apart: the meticulous upkeep that contrasted with the general disrepair of its neighbors, and of course, the phalanx of bikes standing guard out front.

Andre's heart pounded a steady rhythm in his chest as he took it all in, his senses on high alert. The scent of oil and rubber wafted over from the bikes, mingling with the faint tang of city grime. The distant hum of traffic was punctuated by the occasional siren, a reminder of the world beyond this clandestine meeting place. He could taste the anticipation in the air, a metallic tang that sat heavy on his tongue.

His fingers twitched at his side, itching for the reassuring weight of his service weapon. But tonight, he was unarmed, a sheep walking into a den of wolves. He swallowed hard, steeling himself for what lay ahead.

"You good?" Dray asked, killing the engine. The headlights cut out and the lot went dark except for the yellow bug light over the clubhouse door.

"I'm a cop walking into a clubhouse full of felons at midnight. Define good."

"Define midnight." Dray checked his phone, the screen throwing blue light up under his chin. "It's 11:40."

Andre didn't answer that. He got out of the car. The door creaked and he winced at the sound of it in the empty lot, then shut it soft with his hip.

Two men were posted at the door, arms crossed, cuts on over hoodies, and neither of them moved as Dray and Andre came up the walk. The gravel under their boots was loud in the quiet. Somewhere behind the building a generator puttered and quit. The bigger one had a beard down to his sternum, black going gray in patches, and eyes that did a slow pass over Andre, jaw to boots. He took his time with it, unhurried, like he was reading a menu. Assessment, not hostility. Not yet.

"Dray." The bearded one said it flat, no warmth in it, but no edge either. A fact, stated.

"Tank." Dray's voice was easy, no strain in it, like he'd walked through this exact door more times than Andre could guess. "He's with me."

"He's a badge." Interesting that he didn't default to the epithet 'pig' like the other clubs in the city.

"He's with me."

The second man was younger, leaner, wearing a gray hoodie with the sleeves shoved up past his elbows. He hadn't said anything yet. He looked at Andre the way Zain had the first night in the safehouse: jaw set, eyes doing slow and careful calculations of the outcome if this went sideways.

"You know what this door stands for," he said. Not a question. Not the door itself, which was quite the statement. It looked like it belonged in an ancient castle… or perhaps a romanesque church. Black painted, heavy wood banded in rough iron and a heavy handle. It could have easily stood guard over a dungeon from which there was no escape. He also knew what it meant to walk through it wearing a badge.