Page 63
I hurry across the lot before Mercy can stop me. “What happened?”
Bitter looks up. His face gives away nothing, which tells me everything.
“Nothing blew,” Ghoul says cheerfully.
I stare at him.
He shrugs. “That’s good news.”
CSI sits back on his heels and wipes his hands on a rag. “Brake line’s intact. Engine looks untouched. Driver lock’s worn but not freshly forced.”
I exhale.
Then he reaches beneath the rear bumper.
“GPS tracker, though.”
The world tilts a little.
Bitter rises slowly with a small black device pinched between gloved fingers. The expression on his face empties out until there is nothing left of the man who teased me about sleeping at the clubhouse. Looking at him now, I get the sudden, cold certainty that Razor Maddox would be safer explaining himself to the police than to the Grave Prowlers’ enforcer.
My mouth goes dry. “I didn’t put that there.”
It is a stupid thing to say because obviously I didn’t, but panic doesn’t care about sounding smart.
“Nobody thought you did,” Bitter says.
CSI drops the tracker into an evidence bag. “Cheap, but effective. Battery still live.”
“How long has it been there?”
“Could be days. Could be weeks.”
Weeks.
My skin crawls. Razor could have followed me to the motel, grocery store, gas station, every place I thought I was choosing.
Ghoul’s joking disappears. “You think this is tied to the Reapers sniffing around the shipment?”
Bitter looks at the tracker and then at the word carved into my door. “No.”
The certainty in his voice gets my attention. Ghoul’s too.
“No?” Ghoul asks.
“Ravenfork checking gates, roads, and vendor access is about us. This?” Bitter lifts the evidence bag slightly. “This is Razor. This is about her.”
The distinction should make me feel better.
It absolutely does not.
CSI nods. “I’ll still compare the tracker data against what we’ve got on the bikes and cameras. Personal doesn’t mean separate if Razor is using club resources.”
Bitter’s jaw tightens. “Fine. Trace him. You don’t use her to do it.”
CSI glances up.
So do I.
