Chapter Nineteen
WHEN WE GET home, we all shuffle inside fast, like we’re afraid of getting caught. Like something’s chasing us.
Damian shuts the door and Wyatt swings the case onto the kitchen table with a dull thud.
“We need eyes on the perimeter,” Ryder says to Jake. “You got the cameras on?”
“They’re off,” says Jake.
“I’ll get them going,” says Damian, shrugging out of his jacket. “I’m going to work out, anyway.”
Ryder nods once. “Fine. Keep an ear out.”
Damian heads downstairs.
“I don’t think we’re gonna have any problems,” says Wyatt.
“Don’t be so sure,” says Ryder. “Always assume the worst.”
“None of them are loyal,” says Wyatt, “I promise you. They were throwing their cuts on the ground when we left. They feel cheated. They didn’t know Hargrove funded the club, they didn’t know they were wearing patches for a lie, and they’re mad.”
“We’ll see,” Ryder says, unconvinced. His gaze flicks to the case.
Jake is already at the table, flipping open the latches and lifting the lid. His whole expression changes to pure gratification at the sight of the drives packed into the foam-lined interior.
“No way.” He reaches in and lifts out the little black brick. “HSM token,” he says. “Hardware Security Module. It’s the key. Means the drives are encrypted, just like I thought.”
He looks up at all of us.
“This is good news.” He can’t quite hide the edge of excitement in his voice.
“If Silas encrypted his archive with this, the drives Hargrove’s cleanup team stole are probably locked the same way.
Without the key—” he dangles the brick slightly, looking smug, “—they might’ve hauled off a bunch of locked boxes. ”
“Ha,” says Wyatt on a low breath. Ryder doesn’t say anything, but I think his shoulders ease a fraction.
Jake sets the token back in the foam, snaps the lid shut, and grabs the handle.
“I’m taking this upstairs,” he says, “and I’m going to see what we’ve actually got.”
He’s halfway to the stairs before anyone even has time to answer, unable to stand to leaving the puzzle untouched for another second.
Ryder opens one of Jake’s cupboards and pulls out a bottle of wine, holding it up by the neck.
“Jake got me this when I was recovering,” he says, and reads the label proudly. “Barolo. Two thousand sixteen. Piedmont.”
Ryder could be trapped in a burning restaurant and he’d still take the time to examine the wine collection.
Wyatt leans against the counter, arms folded, watching Ryder pop the cork clean and pour three glasses. He hands one to me and one to Wyatt.
“You two did good work today,” Ryder says, lifting his glass to eye the wine as it catches the kitchen light. “Sit,” he says, motioning to the living room. “Relax. I’ll make dinner.”
He grabs a pan from the cupboard and sets it on the stove.
“Go,” he repeats, waving his hand. “Sit down. Drink. I’ll call you when it’s ready.”
Wyatt nudges me with his shoulder and steers us out of the kitchen.
The living room is going dim as the sun sets. Wyatt turns on a lamp. It’s quiet except for the clang of metal on metal coming from Damian’s room. He takes a recliner and I sit near him on one end of the couch, the wine glass warm in my hand.
Wyatt takes a sip and his nose scrunches the tiniest bit, almost imperceptible.
“You hate it,” I say with a small laugh.
“I don’t hate it,” he replies. “I…respect it.”
I snort. From the kitchen, Ryder calls, “It’s good wine.”
Wyatt lifts his glass toward the doorway. “It’s good wine.” He shrugs at me. He’s really more of a whiskey guy.
The sound of chopping starts up in the kitchen, a knife hitting a cutting board, making a slightly disjointed domestic rhythm against the occasional clang of the weights downstairs.
I take a sip of the wine. It’s dark and earthy, and I like the way the heat of it down my throat seems to burn off the feeling of the clubhouse. As if it left a residue.
“How are you feeling after today?” Wyatt asks me.
“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “I think it went well. But it’s…weird to go back, you know?”
“Yep.” He exhales. “I sure do. Unbelievable how much everything’s changed in such a short time. It’s just a corpse of a memory now.”
“Yeah,” I agree. “A bad one.”
I pick at the edge of my wine glass, thumb sliding over the smooth rim. “I used to always be trying to hide in there, you know? In that place. Like, hoping no one would notice me. But with Billy gone…seeing how it’s all kind of over, I didn’t feel as scared anymore.”
“Yeah,” he says, eyes crinkling at me warmly. “I know what you mean. I could see the difference. You weren’t afraid to hold your head high and be heard today.”
His forearm catches the lamplight when he lifts his glass—tanned skin, even in October, faint bruising that’s fading, the line of muscle underneath.
“It felt good.” I take a deep sigh, and realize that I feel surprisingly relaxed. “I felt stronger…”
I take a sip, thinking about how different today felt, and then remember the man on TV. The one from Dewy’s. I almost forgot to tell them.
“Oh!” I say quickly. “The man on the TV behind Hargrove! The one Babydoll said came through and took all the boxes? I know him.”
“How?” asks Wyatt. “Through Billy?”
“No. He spoke to me one night when I was at Dewy’s with Jake and Damian. The night someone took my picture and put it up on that bounty board? I think it was him. He knew my name. And…he was with Silas the night they took me. The night Silas shot Ryder.”
“What?” Wyatt looks shocked. “That same guy? He looks like Hargrove’s aide or something.”
“Yeah, it was him.”
Wyatt’s eyes narrow. His brow furrows. He sets his glass down on the coffee table like he needs his hands free.
“You’re sure?” he asks.
“Of course. I remember him so clearly.” I stare at the dark TV screen and see the clubhouse TV instead. Hargrove’s face, the scrolling chyron, that man behind him in a tie.
Wyatt takes a a deep breath. “Okay,” he says. “We need to tell Jake, as soon as he comes down. We need that face. If Silas has anything with him in it, we need to tag it.”
“Okay,” I answer, feeling weirdly overstimulated. I notice my heart is beating quickly.
He shifts his hand off the armrest and leans forward, reaching out for my knee and resting his hand there.
“I hate that he knew your name,” he says, a rough edge to his voice. “I hate that he touched your life at all.”
“Ha.” I laugh bitterly. “Me too.”
Wyatt’s gaze holds mine, his bright, warm blue eyes that can always see right through me. For a second I’m not thinking about the TV, or the hangar, or Billy, or Silas. I’m thinking about the one bright thing in that whole dark place: him.
“I didn’t think I’d miss anything about it,” I say softly. “The clubhouse. I thought going back would just make me feel sick.”
“And it didn’t?”
“Maybe a little,” I say with another small, bitter laugh. “But it also…” I glance at him. “It also reminded me of not being alone in there. Of us.”
Wyatt’s mouth tightens. “Yeah, honey. I know what you mean.”
His hand feels heavier on my knee. Warmer. His fingers squeeze lightly. “I hate what it cost you,” he says quietly. “But somehow in the middle of all that shit I still have nice memories of us.”
“Yeah.” My voice comes out rougher and quieter than I mean it to be.
His thumb moves in small strokes. “And now we’re out, and I’m still here,” he says.
I blink, stupidly reassured by this. Yes, he’s here.
Since we got out, we haven’t had the time together that we had in the clubhouse.
But that doesn’t mean we never will. We’ve been busy.
God—running, hiding, dealing with all this fucking aftermath.
But one day we’ll get back to normal. We’ll work side by side at Leathernecks.
I can’t exactly picture the future, but I believe in it more now than I ever did before.
Just then, footsteps hit the stairs, hard and heavy, and Damian comes up into the room, his hair damp at the temples, shirt clinging a little at the collar. He smells like sweat and adrenaline.
“Is dinner ready yet?” he asks, rolling his shoulders.
From the kitchen, Ryder’s voice carries over the chop-chop rhythm. “Ten minutes.”
“Fuck, I’m hungry.” He glances over at us, oblivious to Wyatt’s hand on my knee, our serious expressions. “Is there any more wine?”
“In the kitchen,” says Wyatt, his hand lifting from my knee. He straightens in the recliner, and gives me a wink.
Ryder serves chicken piccata. Chicken cutlets, browned at the edges, sauce glossy with lemon and capers. I’ve never had it before, but it’s delicious.
We’re all eating—Damian like he hasn’t had a real meal in days—but Jake barely touches his plate. He’s too excited and distracted.
“Well?” says Ryder after a few minutes. “What did you find?”
“It’s promising,” Jake says. There’s a spark in his tone.
Damian’s mouth curves. “That’s the creepiest way to say ‘evidence.’”
“The token’s legit,” Jake continues. “Which means the rest of the system was built around it.”
“Okay,” says Ryder. A prompt.
“Meaning if the drives from the clubhouse are encrypted the same way, the cleanup team can’t just plug them in and erase files.” He taps the table once with his knuckles, vibrating with contained satisfaction.
“And what’s in our case?” Ryder asks.
“I haven’t opened everything. I did a skim. Labels. Dates. Basic metadata. Enough to understand what kind of mind built it.”
Damian snorts. “A rat mind.”
Jake’s eyes flash. “A paranoid one,” he agrees. “But organized. The way it’s labeled…it looks like he separated what he considered useful.”
“So it is a curated selection?” Wyatt asks.
Jake nods. “It’s trending that way.”
Wyatt’s gaze slides to me, quick and loaded, then back to Jake.
“When Max and I were in the clubhouse today,” he says, “the TV was on. Hargrove was giving a statement outside the courthouse. There was a man standing behind him in a suit, like an aide or something. One of the bikers pointed him out and said he’s the one who went through the clubhouse with hired guns and took the drives. ”