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“Yeah, but the keypad isn’t responding,” Slash said.

“Did you enter the right code?” Coal asked.

Slash’s dark expression warned Grimm that the question had offended him, but Grimm didn’t care. “I’m the fucking treasurer,” Slash said.

“So what?” Grimm asked.

“So, I know the fucking code,” Slash insisted.

“Prove it.” Slash muttered something beneath his breath and led the way inside. The music hit Grimm like a physical force. Bodies crowded the main room, grinding against one another beneath flashing red lights. Cobwebs covered the rafters, fog rolled across the floor, and someone had placed glowing skulls behind the bar. It looked like hell had opened a nightclub.

Grimm moved through it without anyone touching him. People saw the PRESIDENT patch on his chest and stepped aside. The few too drunk to notice were pulled out of his path by someone with better instincts. He had never needed to demand respect inside his clubhouse. The consequences of disrespecting him were well known.

One of the bartenders caught his eye and held up a whiskey bottle. Grimm shook his head. He never drank before the race started. Too much could go wrong when hundreds of people gathered on his property, and he refused to dull his senses for any of it.

Slash unlocked the hallway leading to the club’s offices. The music faded once the heavy door shut behind them. Grimm’s office was at the end of the hall. Nothing inside it had been decorated for the party. Nobody had been stupid enough to try.

The safe was concealed behind a reinforced panel in the wall. Slash entered the code, but the keypad remained black. “See?” he asked.

“Power interruption?” Grimm asked.

“The safe has a battery backup,” Slash said.

“Which means someone disconnected it,” Grimm said.

Coal closed the office door behind them as Grimm crouched and examined the thin seam surrounding the panel. There were no scratches or pry marks. Whoever had tampered with the safe hadn’t accessed it from the front.

“Check the security feed,” Grimm ordered. Coal crossed to the monitors on the other side of the room. Four cameras covered the hallway, office door, balcony, and rear entrance. The live feeds were operating, but when Coal pulled up the earlier footage, the screen froze.

“How far back?” Grimm asked.

Coal tried another camera. “Everything before eight forty-seven is gone.” Grimm checked the time. It was 9:12. Someone had cut the recording twenty-five minutes earlier.

“Lock the gates,” he said.

Slash pulled out his phone. “Nobody leaves?”

“Nobody,” Grimm said.

“What about the race?” Coal asked.

“It doesn’t start until midnight.” The Devil’s Run had taken place every Halloween for eight years. Nothing had stopped it. Not police threats, torrential rain, or the year a rival club had tried to burn down their garage. Grimm didn’t intend to cancel it now, but he also wasn’t letting a thief leave his property with a hundred thousand dollars belonging to the Rage Runners.

“Get Bones in here,” he told Coal. “I want the wall opened without damaging the safe.” Coal sent the message as a knock sounded at the office door. Three quick strikes, a pause, and then two more. It was club code. Slash opened it, revealing one of the prospects.

“Gate’s secured,” the young man said. “But there’s a woman outside demanding to speak with Grimm.”

“Then tell her I’m busy,” Grimm said.

“She says it’s about the Devil’s Run,” the prospect said.

“Who is she?” Grimm asked.

“Wouldn’t give me a name,” he said.

“Then she can leave,” Grimm said. The prospect hesitated, and that was a mistake. Grimm slowly looked up. “Something else you want to say?”

The kid swallowed. “She said if the race starts, somebody’s going to die.”