Page 164 of Reckless

Chapter Thirty-One

GHOST

Midnight has a way of changing the clubhouse. The laughter dies off, the music disappears, and the only people left are the ones who have work to do.

I set the tablet on the table and wake the screen.

Every piece we’ve spent months chasing sits behind the first file.

Tonight, it all has to connect.

Sin sits at the head of the table, poker chip already resting between two fingers. Nitro is beside him, arms crossed over his chest, jaw set in the way that tells me he’s already three steps ahead of whatever I’m about to say. Koa and Bear flank the far side. Anchor leans against the wall near the door, arms folded, watching the room the way he watches everything, quiet and thorough.

And then there’s Slate and Static, sitting at the table like they’ve held a seat here for years instead of thirteen hours. They rode down from Montana the second Sin made the call, and neither one of them looks like the road cost them anything. Slate’s beard is dusted with the kind of grime that only comes off thirteen hours of highway, his cut still holding the smell of it. Static sits beside him, quiet as ever, letting Slate do the talking while he keeps an eye on everyone else.

“All right,” Sin says. The scraping of chairs stops. Someone caps a beer, and they all wait. “Ghost, walk us through it one more time.”

I bring up the first file on the screen mounted behind me and start at the beginning, because Sage and Piper deserve to hear this in order, not scattered across whatever felt most urgent at the time.

“It started as pressure,” I say. “Political leaning, threats through unregistered numbers, aimed at Sage. Then it turned into surveillance. Somebody photographed my bike outside this clubhouse.” I click through to the next image. “Then it turned into four men on the highway trying to run us off the road with Sage on the back of my bike.”

Nitro’s jaw works, the muscle in it flexing once. He doesn’t say anything yet. He’s letting me finish.

“The plates were cloned. The men were professional. I traced them back through a private security firm registered out of Montana.” I let that sit for a second before I look at Slate. “Same firm your chapter’s been circling for years.”

Slate gives a slow nod, dragging a hand over his beard.

No surprise.

Just the unmistakable look of those motherfuckers.

“Keep goin’,” he says.

I do. The break-in at Sage’s apartment. The motion sensor footage that caught a figure on the staircase who moved like he already knew the building, already knew which door, already knew he had nothing to worry about because Liam was knocked out. The package of photographs delivered to her office was meant to remind her exactly how exposed she was. Piper, two streets from the clubhouse in broad daylight, a car sitting behind her for three blocks until I put myself at the driver’s window and made sure it left.

Bear shifts forward in his chair. “He came after Sage…” He pauses. “Couldn’t get what he wanted, so now he’s circling her sister.” He looks straight at Sin. “That’s not politics, that’s predator shit.”

“Yeah,” I agree. “It hasn’t been politics for a while.”

Koa shakes his head slowly, the kind of motion that isn’t disagreement, just disgust looking for somewhere to land. “And all of it circles back to Calloway.”

“All of it,” I confirm. “Financial map, shell companies, the security firm, the accounting firm behind all of it. Every layer, same hand at the bottom.” I pull up the last document, the one Piper found less than twenty-four hours ago. “And now this, a memo. Twenty years of redirected funding, written in language too specific to be an accident. This is the piece that connects everything else directly to him. Not through three shell companies. Directly.”

Nobody says a damn thing. Around this table, that’s usually when everyone agrees.

Static breaks first, leaning forward with his forearms on the table, voice low and even. “So, he’s not just usin’ the properties.” He looks at Slate before he looks back at me. “He’s the one runnin’ the money through ’em.”

“That’s what this proves,” I say. “Twenty years of it.”

Slate sits back slow, running a hand down his beard, eyes fixed on the screen like he’s re-reading the memo a second time even though he’s still only halfway through the first pass. “We’ve had eyes on that ranch nigh on four years since Calloway took it from us,” he says. “Different owners every year or two. Different paperwork every time somebody got close enough to ask a real question.” His eyes lift to mine. “Never had a name to put on top of it.”

“You’ve got one now,” I tell him.

Slate scratches at his beard. Looks like he finally knows which door needs kicking in.

“Different jurisdiction,” he says. “Same shell company. Same accounting firm.” He taps the table once, hard enough that the sound carries. “You boys just handed us the man usin’ ’em.”

Sin’s fingers tap the tabletop once before he looks at Slate. “You’re in the room tomorrow.”