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That catches him off guard.

If he handed an unknown man potentially dangerous information without asking questions, he'd be a fucking idiot.

“What did you do with it?”

“Put it in my safe.”

“Did you plug it into anything?”

“No.”

Smart.

“Did Calder ask about it?”

“No.”

“Did anyone?”

His hesitation is answer enough.

Callie sees that too. “Smoke.”

He exhales. “A couple of weeks after Calder died, some guy came in asking about the Mustang.”

I feel Callie tense. “What guy?”

“Never gave me a name.”

“Description.”

Smoke describes him.

“Mercer?” Callie asks me.

“Maybe.”

Smoke's gaze snaps to her. “Who the fuck is Mercer?”

“Gavin Mercer. Fixer. Enforcer. Works for an organization that moves money, weapons, and information. He's looking for you.”

Smoke goes very still.

“He's suspected in at least six deaths.”

Callie's fingers tighten around the arm of the chair.

“He's been in Blackridge,” I continue. “And we believe whatever Calder left behind is what he wants.”

“Fuck,” Smoke says.

“Yeah.”

He stands.

“So give it to us.”

Smoke looks at me. “Us?”