Chapter 8 - Bellamy #2
The garage goes silent. Even the hum of Beck’s laptop seems to pause.
Bishop’s jaw tightens, a muscle jumping beneath his skin. “Explain.”
Beck’s shoulders cave inward. He exhales, the sound whistling between his teeth. “Remember how we randomized the chip serialization?” His fingers twitch toward his hair again. “Great for not getting caught. Terrible for tracking stolen merchandise.”
Cruz straightens. “But the chips have trackers.”
“Not GPS.” Beck shakes his head, the movement too fast, too jerky. “More like digital fingerprints. They verify authenticity, not location.”
My stomach knots. “How many did they get?”
Beck’s eyes dart to his screen, then back to me, pupils blown wide. “Without the e-manifest from the truck—which is hopefully already crushed beyond recognition and forgotten in a junkyard—I’d have to count every chip by hand.”
“Ballpark it,” Gage says, voice tight.
“Two hundred.” Bishop’s voice cuts through the room like a knife. “Give or take.”
Cruz leans back against the workbench, arms crossed. The fluorescent light catches the tension in his forearms. “So we’re still holding five hundred.”
I cut my gaze to Rafe. “And we’re sure someone took care of the truck?”
He dips his chin. “We’re sure.”
“Okay.” My tongue darts across my lower lip. Rafe’s jaw tightens, the shadow of stubble darkening as he clenches his teeth. The sleeves of his black t-shirt strain against his biceps, and I force myself to look away before he catches me staring.
“So let’s cash out and bounce. Then we find who stole from us, steal our shit back, cash that out too. Problem solved,” Gage says, drumming his fingers against the table.
“We can’t.” The words fall like stones into still water.
“Why not?” Gage’s eyebrows pull together.
I shake my head. “We had a specific cash-out plan over several states, but we don’t know who these assholes are. They could be at a casino with two bins worth of chips, trying to cash out right now.”
“It’d flag their system,” Beck says, his fingers hovering over his keyboard. “And considering they have to know one of their deliveries was hit yesterday, they’ll be on high alert for any other suspicious behavior.”
“Which means,” Lola says, jabbing her finger toward the corner of the garage where plastic bins sit half-hidden behind the couch, “they’re a fucking liability. And I’m not going to federal prison for this. Just saying.”
“No one is going to prison,” I assure her despite the growing knot in my stomach.
Cruz shifts his weight, crossing one ankle over the other. The leather of his boot creaks. “We could try fencing them.”
Bishop shakes his head immediately. “You’d be lucky to get half value.”
“And anyone who would,” Rafe adds, “isn’t someone you want owing.”
There’s weight in that, more than the words themselves. Not just risk of getting caught—leverage. The kind that doesn’t go away once it’s attached to you.
Gage’s knuckles whiten around the edge of the counter before he pushes off, the soles of his boots scuffing concrete. “So what—we just sit on half a million?” His shoulders roll forward, that familiar restless twitch I’ve seen since we were kids. “Half’s better than nothing.”
Bishop pivots toward him, stance widening slightly. “Better than in the ground? Better than ten-to-twenty?”
“You don’t know that, man,” Gage counters.
Cruz clears his throat, gaze fixed on a point between them. “Depends on the fence. Madeline might bite.”
Bishop’s head snaps toward him, eyes narrowing to slits.
Cruz doesn’t flinch, just holds the stare.
“Who’s Madeline?” Lola’s fingers curl around her coffee cup, knuckles whitening.
“Coco and Madeline go back thirty years or so. If anyone is going to fence it, it’d be her,” Cruz says. “And lucky for us, Ma’s been having me handle most of those meetings with Madeline for a couple years now. If whoever hit us is working the same circles, we need to reach her first.”
Bishop’s throat works once. “She’ll take the risk?”
Cruz’s shoulder lifts a fraction of an inch. “She’ll take a meeting.”
The silence that follows speaks volumes.
Lola’s gaze darts between them, the rim of her nearly-empty coffee cup tap-tap-tapping against her thigh. “Well, I’m not seeing a better option than the fence who won’t immediately flip on us.” Her chin jerks toward the plastic bins. “Anyone else have a better idea?”
Rafe shakes his head, the muscle in his jaw flexing once, twice. “I don’t like it. But I don’t think it’s a bad idea to pose a hypothetical to Madeline either.”
Bishop exhales, the sound like air escaping a punctured tire. His fingers drum once against his thigh before going still. “Keep your ears to the ground. The chips are our first priority, but we’ll figure out who stole from us.” His gaze slides to Gage, lingering there. “Don’t do anything stupid.”
Gage’s lips peel back from his teeth, a flash of white that doesn’t reach his eyes. Nothing like the warm curve he’d offered me an hour ago.
“I’ll hit up Madeline this morning,” Cruz offers, voice low, steady.
Lola catches my eye. Her right eyebrow arches a fraction of an inch, her head tilting toward Cruz.
I press my lips together, a knot forming between my shoulder blades.
She narrows her eyes, her chin dipping toward Cruz again, more insistent this time.
I nod at my sister and turn. “I’ll go with you.”
Gage’s boot scrapes concrete as he pushes off the counter. The air around him practically vibrates, and everyone else goes still, like prey animals sensing a predator. “So what about the rest of us,” he says, voice tight. “We’re sidelined again?”
Bishop’s posture doesn’t change. Not a single muscle shifts. “We lay low.”
Gage’s exhale whistles through his teeth. “And do what in the meantime?”
“Nothing. No jobs, no casing the casinos, nothing risky.”
Gage’s shoulders tighten, his fingers curling into loose fists at his sides. The words hit him like a physical blow, while the rest of us just watch.
“Guess I’ll sit here and count all the money we can’t use,” Gage drawls, glaring at his brother.
“Bells, we leave in ten minutes,” Cruz tells me, already reaching for his keys.