Chapter Thirty-One
Evan
I keep my tool belt on, my eyes down, and my hands focused.
That’s the trick — look like you belong, like you’ve done this a thousand times, like the only thing you care about is getting paid and getting out.
The garage smells of hot metal and old oil.
The roof work is done for today, I should’ve left an hour ago, but I stay late, wiping down my saw, stacking scrap, making it look like I’m a contractor who takes pride in clean edges and tidy lines, and occasionally staking his damn claim to the club bartender in front of everyone when a customer steps out of line.
That’s a mistake I never should’ve made; I’m supposed to keep my head down, infiltrate, and get inside the clubhouse to get the information Midnight needs to take on the Twisted Devils.
But the second I looked through the window and saw that asshole in the bar approach Molly, I stopped thinking about the job the second I saw his hand on her wrist.
Goldie and Mayhem have already drifted into the clubhouse.
Tank’s in the bay with a bike up on a stand and a wrench in hand and a string of curses drifting from his mouth.
From the looks of things, he’ll be done soon — either with the job, or just done enough to call it good and go get a beer.
Bishop is somewhere in the building; he moves quietly, mostly so he doesn’t have to talk to anyone.
I wait until the clubhouse settles into its late-hour rhythm. Fewer voices. Fewer footsteps. People lulled into laziness after dinner and a few drinks. People who think they’re safe and secure, surrounded by nothing but friends.
Eventually, Tank sets down his tools and drifts inside, giving me a friendly nod as he leaves.
I get to work. It doesn’t take much to trigger a circuit breaker if you know what you’re doing — load a couple of heavy-draw machines, run one, then fire up another, and wait for the lights to shut off.
Then I unplug the machines, grab my flashlight from my tool belt, assume a confused look on my face, and walk into the back hallway. To the parts of the building regular people don’t wander into.
I pass a door marked STORAGE. Another marked PRIVATE.
The corridor lighting is nearly pitch-dark back here.
I clock the surroundings and security fast: deadbolts, the way the doorframes are reinforced, and the cameras — two obvious ones, one aimed down the main hall and another that catches the corner by an office.
My phone sits in my pocket like a live round, but I don’t take it out yet.
I drift to the office. The door’s half-cracked. I pause, listening.
Nothing.
I slip in.
The office smells like paper, ink, and leather.
A bulletin board on the far wall is crowded — names, photos, a couple of maps, including one of Ironwood Falls with pins marked in it, all calling out club resources, safe houses, storage facilities.
There’s a desk with stacks of invoices and a ledger that looks like it’s been handled a thousand times.
I pull my phone out, quick and practiced, screen dimmed low.
One shot of the board.
Click.
A second shot, this one close enough to catch the names in the top corner.
Click.
The map, the photos — they all get captured by my camera.
Then I angle toward the desk, snapping a photo of the ledger’s open page, of business in Ironwood Falls, of names of people that Molly probably knows.
Click.
I move in closer, look it over, note the businesses, the contacts, the income, the expenses, and take photo after photo. I open the desk drawers, find a stack of papers, including a schematic of the clubhouse and its security systems, and spread them all out.
The schematic — the heart of the operation. I stare at it longer than I should.
This is for June.
I photograph it quickly, and then set the papers back in the drawer exactly as I found them.
Then I step back into the hallway, shutting the door behind me with a quiet click.
I head back down the hallway toward the garage, and I’m halfway there when a shadow enters the hallway in front of me, coming from one of the rooms marked PRIVATE.
My whole body goes still.
Bishop fills the space in front of me. He doesn’t step in. He doesn’t have to. He’s broad-shouldered, calm, and his eyes are sharp in a way that makes the hairs on my arms lift.
“What’re you doing back here?” he says.
I let out a breath like I’m irritated to even be asked. “Trying to find the damn breaker box. Figured I’d see if I could fix the fucking thing and save you all the trouble.”
“Which brought you all the way back here? You shouldn’t be back here, Evan. You lost?” he says.
I do a one-shoulder shrug. “Building’s a maze. Half your doors are labeled like you’re hiding gold bars. All I want to do is look at your fucking electricals. See if I can make myself useful after you all helped me out with this roofing job.”
“Those doors are labeled that way so people don’t wander,” he says. “People who wander find trouble.”
“Yeah? Is Mayhem back here? Cause I thought he was in the clubhouse.”
Bishop’s eyes flicker. It’s a tiny movement, but it’s the kind that says he’s not buying the act.
“What door did you open?” He says.
I glance back down the hallway and give a half-hearted shrug.
With someone like Bishop, who seems to have a functional bullshit-meter, lying isn’t going to do me any good.
Honesty with a layer of lies is the way to go.
“One with the words PRIVATE on it. Thought it might’ve had the breaker box in it. Turns out it was just some office.”
Bishop stares at me for a long second. The silence stretches, thick and tense, and I can hear my breathing like it’s too loud in my skull.
Finally, he steps aside — just enough to give me room.
“Breaker box is in the maintenance closet. It’s three doors down on the right,” he says.
“Good to know,” I reply, as if I’m grateful but not too grateful.
I walk toward the doorway at a normal pace.
Not rushed. Not slow.
Bishop watches every step.
When I pass him, his voice drops low, casual, lethal. “You do good work, Evan.”
My pulse kicks hard, but I keep my expression blank. “Thanks.”
Then he adds, “Don’t get curious about things that aren’t your job.”
I stop like I’m considering snapping back.
Instead, I turn my head slightly, meet his eyes, and give him a bored look. “I’m not paid enough to be curious.”
Bishop holds my gaze another beat, weighing me, or, fuck, diagnosing me, considering he’s a damn doctor. Then he nods once. “Go ahead.”
I walk to the maintenance closet. It takes me all of five seconds to open the box and reset the breaker. The lights come back on. When I exit the closet, Bishop’s still there, still watching.
I try to ignore him, though his eyes make the phone in my pocket feel like it weighs a ton. I give him a wave, then head to the garage.
I head to my tools and finish cleaning up, put away my flashlight, and pretend my hands aren’t shaking.
From the corner of my eye, I see Bishop step into the garage doorway.
He says nothing, just watches me.
And when he finally turns away, the weight doesn’t lift.
Because I know that look.
I didn’t get caught.
But I was seen.
And in this world, being memorable is the first step toward being dead.