Page 167 of Reckless

That’s all I need.

I leave the catwalk at the same steady pace. No point letting him know the hunt just changed direction, and halfway down, I cut left instead.

The rows of pallets swallow me whole, giving me cover as I circle behind him. By the time I hear the faint click of the camera shutter, I’m already close enough to reach out and grab him.

He never sees me coming.

One hand fists the back of his jacket. The other slams him face-first into the concrete, hard enough to knock the wind right out of him.

The camera skids away across the floor. “Fuck!” He twists hard beneath me, reaching for the radio clipped to his vest, but I wrench his arm up behind his back.

“You really wanna lose that shoulder?”

He freezes.

Good choice.

I strip the radio free, then the phone, dropping both into my pocket before dragging his wrists together behind him and locking the zip tie down until the plastic bites.

He grunts through clenched teeth. “You Defiance?”

I haul him upright and walk him backward until his shoulders hit a steel support with enough force to rattle it. “What gave it away?”

He spits blood onto the concrete. “You boys don’t know when to quit.”

A smile pulls at one corner of my mouth. “Nah.” I cinch another tie around the beam holding him to it. “We’re actually famous for the opposite.”

His eyes flick toward the camera lying a few feet away—big mistake. I follow his gaze, pick it up, and scroll through the gallery. Photos of the clubhouse parking lot, leather cuts, Sage’s vehicle, Piper on the street, and the meeting area fill the screen. Every shot is carefully framed, building a file, building leverage.

My jaw tightens, and instinctively, I pull the memory card free.

“No…” The plea is barely more than a breath.

I look at him. “You don’t get a vote, asshole!”

The card snaps clean between my fingers. A second later, the camera follows, smashing against the concrete with a crack that echoes through the warehouse. The photographer stares at the broken camera and lets out a mocking chuckle. “Calloway’s gonna lose his shit.”

I crouch in front of him and slip my hand into the inside pocket of his jacket. He jerks instinctively. “Relax.” My fingers close around a worn leather wallet. I flip it open, thumbing past a couple of credit cards until I find what I’m looking for—a driver’s license.

I study it for a second.

Ryan Gilbert.

Thirty-four.

Henderson address.

I pull the license free, then toss the wallet back into his lap.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

I don’t answer straightaway. Instead, I look at the license one more time, committing every detail to memory before I slide it into the pocket inside my leather cut. Then, I meet his eyes. “I’m learning your name.”

He lets out a short laugh, trying for confidence. “You think having my address scares me?”

“No.” A smile tugs at one corner of my mouth. “I think knowing where to start should scare you.”

The laugh dies.