Chapter Fourteen #2
The overhead lights throw pockets of warm yellow across the table where two empty pizza boxes sit in the centre.
Wyatt and I are drawing the layout of the clubhouse on them in as much detail as we can remember.
Wyatt’s drawn the main hangar layout and surrounding outbuildings on his box, I’m marking out the bedrooms on mine and trying to list the people who live in the clubhouse, as well as those who live offsite.
Most of the club members live in their own homes.
Only a small number actually live full-time in the hangar.
I’m trying to pull from memory who lives where.
Jake has his laptop open in front of him.
Ryder is watching us intently, arms folded, the line of his shoulders tight, and Damian sits sideways in his chair, one ankle on his knee, the other bouncing.
Wyatt circles the areas on his map meant to indicate Billy’s office and Silas’s tech room. “These have biometric locks, only Billy and Silas’s fingerprints will open them. I have access to the boardroom and the armory, but it’s the office and tech room we’ll want to get into.”
“If only you’d cut that asshole’s fingers off,” Damian says to Ryder. The image—Silas’s head turning, snapping—hits me unexpectedly, making me flinch.
“Hindsight’s twenty-twenty,” Jake quips.
I shake it off and point to my pizza box.
“Silas’s room is up here, next to Billy’s.
And here,” I point a bit further down my sketchily-drawn hallway, “is the second-floor bathroom. There’s a utility closet in there that vents to the tech room.
If we took the vent cover off I could probably crawl down into it. ”
Four heads swivel toward me at once.
“The fuck?” says Damian.
“You sure?” Ryder asks, skeptically. “Seems like a bit of an oversight if you’re putting biometric locks on the front door, no?”
“I’m sure,” I say. “I’ve seen the vent. You can just unscrew the cover off.”
“Well, shit,” says Jake, looking up from his phone. “That’s convenient, now isn’t it?”
Ryder frowns. “Well, that’s one possible ingress, then. Just leaves us with the office.“
“For those locks,” says Jake. “I might be able to spoof the signal from the inside if I can get at the wiring or the board, but I’d have to see the hardware first. No promises.”
“Good,” says Ryder. “In any case, we can’t stake the whole thing on cracking those two doors. If we can get into them, great. If not, we take what we can from everywhere else and get the fuck out.”
“In and out,” echoes Damian. “No hero shit.”
“We need eyes on the building,” Wyatt says. “The leadership team is essentially wiped out, but we don’t know who’s left at the clubhouse.”
“How many people do you have on that list?” Ryder points to the column on my pizza box: Who lives in the clubhouse.
I run my finger down the list and count. “Fourteen,” I say, circling one name. “This guy’s been missing for months and might be dead, but I left it on in case he comes back. Better safe than sorry.”
Ryder nods. “What about quiet times? Any dead hours?”
“Mornings,” answers Wyatt, “but you sometimes have people crashed out in the main area. And weekdays—you’d be surprised how many of these guys have day jobs.”
“Okay, and what’s this?” Ryder points to two long rectangles Wyatt drew behind the hangar.
“Barracks,” he says. “No idea what function they serve. They weren’t used for anything as far as I can tell, and they’re newly constructed. I think they’re empty, but I never had a chance to look into them.”
“So all we have to do is figure a safe way in.” Ryder flattens his hands on the table, fingers spread. “Okay, so here’s how this is going to work. I’ll handle perimeter. Jake’s on tech—locks and cameras. Damian and Wyatt are inside muscle, tactical call if anything smells wrong.”
“And me?” I ask.
He turns, surprised at the question. “You stay here.”
“Excuse me?” My spine goes rigid.
He holds up a hand. “Don’t test me on this.”
But I can’t stop myself. “If you go in without me, you’ll miss things. You—you don’t know that building like I do.” The idea of the four of them inside the O.D. clubhouse is making panic flutter in my throat.
“Wyatt will be there,” Ryder answers.
“But what if—?”
Ryder’s eyes flash as he cuts me off. “You’re not going.”
The truth is, I don’t even know what I’m afraid of. Just them, being there, in that dark, twisted world. I suddenly wish we could all just turn and drive back to the cabin.
As if sensing my rising distress, Wyatt lays a hand on my forearm.
“This is what we do, sweetheart,” he says, his low voice strong and reassuring. “We’re not rushing in blind. We’re taking precautions.”
I blink. Somehow the touch of his skin on mine grounds the anxiety spinning out from my center. But not completely.
“It’s not safe,” I murmur.
Ryder exhales through his nose.
“We’ll walk through it tomorrow,” he says to the others—not to me. “That’s enough for tonight.”
Chairs scrape. The meeting is adjourned.
Jake starts stacking plates and empty cans, Damian gathers up the pens and the pizza boxes. Wyatt pushes his chair back with a small wince.
I still sit there thinking about the four of them going into hell without me, when I know that hell like the back of my hand.
“I’m gonna call it,” Wyatt says, bracing a hand on the table as he stands. “My ribs are filing a formal complaint.”
“Good night,” I say softly.
He drops a quick kiss on the top of my head. “Good night, sweetheart.” Then he disappears down the basement stairs.
Ryder lingers in the kitchen, wiping down the table. Jake and Damian wander into the living room. I wish we could just stay here, like this, forever, and forget about the O.D. and the clubhouse and Hargrove.
But the conversation is closed. They won’t leave this end untied. I get up slowly and follow Jake and Damian out to the living room.
On the TV, the opening menu of some shooter game fills the screen. I curl into the corner of the couch while they argue over loadouts and maps, controllers clicking in their hands, the TV throwing shifting blues and reds over their faces.
Eventually, my eyes grow heavier as the game noises blur together—gunfire, explosions, Damian’s triumphant cursing, Jake’s wounded protests. My eyes slip closed, and I flutter them open, over and over, meanwhile getting more and more comfortable in my corner of the couch.
The next thing I’m aware of is warmth—big hands sliding under my knees and behind my back, the world tilting as I’m lifted. I surface just enough to feel my head loll against a familiar chest and the shift of muscles.
I’m dreaming. Floating to safety in arms big enough to contain all of me. Arms strong enough that I can finally let go.