Chapter Twenty-Six #2
The room goes completely silent.
Static chuckles without any humor. “Brand new camera. Same tree. Better model than the one we’d bought.”
Even Deek doesn’t have a smartass comment for that.
Slate picks up his beer again but doesn’t drink it.
“They weren’t hidin’ from us.” His eyes meet Sin’s through the screen.
“They were lettin’ us know they’d seen us, and that now they were watchin’ through their lens.
” He sets the bottle back on the table with a quiet thunk.
“If Ghost’s right…” he glances back at the satellite image, “… this is the first new thread we’ve had to pull in four years. ”
I pull the ownership structure onto the screen.
The first company appears, then another, then another beneath that.
Arrows spread across the display until they stop looking like individual businesses and start looking like a spiderweb.
Deek whistles low. “The hell am I lookin’ at?”
“Layers.” I zoom in. “Every company owns another company. Different names, different addresses.” Another click. “But the paperwork never really changes.”
I highlight the first signature, then the second, then the third. “They’re all using the same nominee directors.” Another click. “The same accounting firm.” Another click. “The same legal office.”
Static leans closer to the screen from Montana. “So somebody’s launderin’ ownership.”
“They’re burying it.” I bring up the financial transfers, lines connecting one shell company to the next until they all eventually circle the same handful of accounts.
“It keeps changing hands on paper.” I trace one path with the cursor.
“Money leaves here… lands here… disappears through three more companies… then ends up right back where it started,” I state.
Sin nods. “Same money.”
Slate’s jaw tightens. “So, where’s Calloway in all this?”
I let the ownership chart sit on the screen for another second. “That’s what I haven’t answered.” I exhale slowly. “I can prove he’s connected.” I tap the screen once. “I can’t prove what he is.”
Slate scratches thoughtfully through his beard. “Could be runnin’ the whole damn thing.”
“Could be.”
“But could also be answerin’ to somebody else,” Slate offers.
I shrug. “Could be.”
Static lets out a low grunt. “Hell of a lotta coulds.”
“Yeah.” I nod once. “Which is why I’m not guessing.”
Slate scratches thoughtfully through his beard. “Reckon it don’t much matter.”
Koa looks over. “How do you figure?”
Slate shrugs one shoulder. “Top, middle, bottom…” His eyes stay on the ownership chart. “He’s still part of it.”
“And that’s enough,” Sin states. Every eye shifts toward him. “Ghost’s proved the connection. That’s all I need to put Calloway in the chair…” I look up. “Ghost, you put every piece of this on one tablet.” He taps the photograph of my bike sitting beside the paperwork. “Everything.”
I nod once. “It’ll be ready.”
Sin’s gaze moves around the room before settling briefly on the screen where Slate and the Montana chapter still watch. “Calloway gets one chance to explain himself.”
“And if he doesn’t?” Static asks.
The corner of Sin’s mouth almost moves. “Then he explains himself to the barrel of my gun.”
The room settles into silence again.
Not in uncertainty, in decision.
The photograph of my bike still lies on the table.
The grainy image of the figure outside Sage’s apartment still hangs on the screen.
Nobody looks away from either.
Not one of us is thinking about paperwork anymore.
Somebody hunted one of ours.
Now we’re hunting back.
Church breaks a little after six, and I find Sage exactly where I expect to, at my workstation, surrounded by the regulatory complaint documentation she’s been building since yesterday.
She doesn’t look up when I walk in. She keeps reading, highlighting, making notes, attacking the paperwork with the same determination she’s brought to every problem since the day I met her.
She is scared.
She is working anyway.
I pull a chair up beside her instead of taking the one across the table.
The files spread between us until the timber disappears beneath legislation, funding reports, and handwritten notes, each new page carrying another piece of the puzzle we’d spent the better part of two days trying to pull apart.
Hours slip by without either of us noticing.
The clubhouse grows quieter around us as brothers drift off to bed one by one. Doors close, footsteps fade overhead, and somewhere outside, a bike rolls through the front gate before the engine finally falls silent.
Neither of us looks up. At some point, Sage exhales slowly and rubs at tired eyes before reaching for another file.
I stop her.
She looks at me.
Without saying a word, I turn the page she’d been reaching for and slide it a little closer. A faint smile touches the corner of her mouth. Not because we’ve found an answer, but because she knows she’s not looking for it alone anymore.
My hand settles over hers where it rests on the table. This time, she turns her hand beneath mine, our fingers threading together so naturally it feels like they have always belonged that way. She squeezes once, then keeps reading.
So do I.
Tomorrow we’ll go after Calloway.
Tomorrow we’ll start pulling at whatever’s waiting behind Montana.
Tomorrow can be a fight.
Tonight? Tonight it’s just the two of us.
Still here.
Still fighting.
Together.