37 | Sarge #2
I hate it. Every cell in my body wants to drag her down the steps that lead below the clubhouse and find out what she knows. But he’s right. We need the whole trail, not just the end.
“I’ll stay here at the door,” I tell him. “I have the best view of the patio from here. You get some of the brothers to circulate. Don’t make it obvious. Just eyes on her at all times.”
Raydar nods once. A short, brisk movement. “Consider it done. I’ll put one of the prospects on coffee refills. Nobody notices the kid with the pot. He can get close enough to hear if she’s whispering to anyone.”
I watch him stroll away, merging into the crowd of locals and club members. I turn my attention back to the jar on the table, returning to the fake smiles and the mindless greetings.
Across the yard, Scarlett is laughing. She has a plate filled with pancakes and eggs and is leaning into a table of visitors as if she owns the place. She’s busy playing the part of the club sweetheart, but the performance is hitting all the wrong notes.
I lean back against my chair and wait. Let her play her game. I’ve spent enough time in the sand to know that the loudest person in the room is rarely the most dangerous. It’s the one who’s watching quietly.
And right now, I’m watching everything.
Just before nine, I step away from the donation table to join the crowd. It was a good call to hold this today. The turnout is solid.
People show up for the Fall weather more than the cheap food. We all live in this oven, but that doesn’t mean we like being outside in the heat. Today, no one’s needing to fight for a spot in front of the swamp coolers we place on the patio during warmer days.
I move through the tables, clapping my hand down on shoulders and nodding at regulars. I play the grateful President. Every “thank you” and “good to see you” feels like lead in my mouth. It’s not that I’m not grateful, it’s that feeling appreciative is hard at a time like this.
I keep my pace steady and my face neutral. I’m a professional. I’ve survived worse than a pancake breakfast with a traitor.
I grab a plate and scan the remaining food. Nothing looks appetizing. It isn’t because Chef doesn’t cook the best damn pancakes in a fifty-mile radius. It’s because I feel guilty for eating when Hannah could be starving.
I remind myself that eating means I keep standing. It means I keep fighting for her. My body moves like a robot as I grab the same portions I would normally eat if my world weren’t falling apart.
“Sarge!”
Gizmo’s voice cuts into my head. It’s thick with thoughts and heavy with guilt.
“Man, I’ve called your name at least five times. You’re more deaf than I thought, brother.”
He slaps my shoulder and leans in close so his voice doesn’t carry to the surrounding tables.
“I’ve got something, man. Irrefutable proof. Scarlett is dirty. She has to have something to do with Hannah going missing.”
The food on my plate no longer holds any importance. It might as well be ash. My grip tightens until the plastic begins to groan.
“What the fuck, man? You gonna keep up with the vague statements, or are you going to tell me what you have?”
I try not to crush the flimsy plate in my hands, but I need to hear the words. Need to know we can take this poisonous bitch down.
“Not now. Not here,” Gizmo says. He glances at the crowd, his eyes scanning for anyone leaning too close. “Too many ears. But I have a plan. Do you trust me?”
“I do, you’ve been solid so far.”
The words come out easily because they are the truth. But as soon as I say them, the doubt creeps in. I trust him, sure. But do I trust him with Hannah’s life? The stakes are different now. They are higher than they’ve ever been.
“Alright, man. Go ahead and sit at one of the tables. Eat and enjoy some coffee like everything is normal,” he instructs. “Stay close enough to hear what’s going on.” He must see the hesitancy on my face.
“Hey man, I can tell she means a lot to you and I’m not taking any of this lightly.” He lets out a breath and shakes his head. “She’s also my girl’s best friend and I’m not about to let either of you down.”
He gives my shoulder one last heavy squeeze before he pulls away. I watch him vanish into the smoke of the grills and griddles.
I do as he says, finding a spot at one of the long wooden benches. I sit with my back to the clubhouse and my eyes on the crowd. I pick up a fork and force myself to take a bite of the pancakes. They taste like a dry sponge.
If Giz says he has proof, he has it. Period. Now I just have to sit here and play the part of the hungry President, keeping my eyes off him while he follows through with his plan.
Usually, I’m the one pulling the strings. I’d want to know every detail before giving the okay to move. But time is a luxury we don’t have. My gut is in knots, and I’m giving Giz my full trust on this one. If I lose her... There won’t be enough of me left to lead this club.
He moves across the patio with an ease that hides any sense of urgency. To anyone else, he’s just being Gizmo. Goofy, happy, and social. He’s so believable I worry for a moment that maybe he’s not taking this seriously.
My fork brings a bite of pancake to my mouth. I chew slowly and remind myself to drop my shoulders from my ears.
Act normal.
The crowd is starting to thin out, but the patio is still buzzing. People are talking and eating, finishing their coffees and shooting the shit.
Gizmo makes it over to the other prospect, Fish, the one in charge of coffee refills. He leans in close. Their faces giving nothing away. After a minute, they part on a nod.
Fish works his way around the tables until he reaches the one diagonal from me. It’s roughly fifteen feet away. Scarlett sits there with a now empty plate.
This table was picked for a reason. I’m far enough away to keep my distance, but close enough to hear the casual conversation. Coffee hits my tongue, lukewarm and bitter. But I keep my eyes on my plate and ears focused on Scarlett.
“Hey, beautiful,” the prospect says. His voice is loud enough to carry. He sounds like a man without a care in the world. “You look like you need a refill on that coffee. Or maybe something a little stronger?” He laughs.
I see her sit up straighter in my peripheral vision. She loves the attention. Lives for it.
“Oh,” she purrs. “I thought you’d never ask.”
“If you’re looking for something a bit stronger, I was told to pass along a message from the Prez. Says he wants to see you in the clubhouse after everyone clears out.”
Scarlett’s tongue darts out to wet her lower lip. Her eyes find mine and hold my gaze. My food turns sour in my mouth, but I give her a quick chin lift—a silent confirmation.
Struggling to hide my disgust, I pretend my food is suddenly interesting. Trapping her is the only thing that matters now, and I’ll make her believe she’s won me over if it means saving Hannah.
Her face splits into a wide smile. It’s the look of someone who thinks they’ve finally won. In her mind, she’s about to become the Queen of the clubhouse. Good. Let her believe it.
Across the table, Gizmo catches the exchange. Without a second glance, he walks toward the back of the building. The plan is set, and the proverbial trap is wide open. All that’s left is for the rat to wander inside.