Chapter Three
The tracker was exactly where he expected to find it.
He pocketed the device and stood, scanning the empty street. Saturday morning in downtown Fayetteville—quiet, sleepy, nothing moving except a stray cat crossing three blocks down.
No black sedan today. But that didn't mean they weren't watching.
Cipher walked to the bus stop on the corner of Bragg Boulevard and waited. Six minutes later, a city bus pulled up, doors hissing open for passengers who didn't exist this early on a weekend.
He stepped aboard, nodded at the driver, and dropped into a seat near the back. When the bus lurched forward, he reached under the seat and pressed the tracker to the metal frame.
Let Morrow's people chase a bus route for a while. See how they liked corrupted data.
He got off at the next stop and walked back to the flower shop. Laura's car was in the small lot behind the building now—she'd arrived while he was handling the tracker. Through the front window, he could see her moving between coolers, already working.
Always working. Like motion could outrun the fear.
Cipher pushed through the door.
Laura spun at the sound, scissors raised like a weapon. When she saw who it was, something complicated crossed her face—relief and wariness tangled together.
"We're not open yet."
"I know."
He let the door swing shut behind him, taking in the shop with fresh eyes.
Yesterday he'd been focused on her, on the sedan, on the immediate threat.
Today he noticed the details—the hand-lettered signs, the worn hardwood floors, the coolers that hummed a little too loud because they needed maintenance.
A business running on fumes and stubbornness.
"If you're here for your memorial order, it's not ready." Laura set down the scissors. "Third Thursday, remember? Not second Saturday."
"I'm not here for flowers."
"Then what?"
He crossed to the counter, close enough to see the dark circles under her eyes. She hadn't slept. Probably spent the night staring at her ceiling, waiting for something to happen.
"Your delivery van had a GPS tracker on it," Cipher said. "Magnetic mount, stuck to the undercarriage. I removed it."
Laura went pale. "You—what?"
"It's gone. Attached it to a city bus. Anyone watching your location is going to get very confused."
She stared at him like he'd started speaking another language.
"Why?" The word came out barely above a whisper. "Why would you do that?"
"Because I don't like men who track women without their knowledge.
" Cipher leaned against the counter, keeping his posture relaxed even though every instinct wanted to scan for threats.
"And because I know who's doing it. Vincent Morrow.
Runs gambling operations across Cumberland County.
His muscle was watching your shop Thursday. "
Laura's hand found the counter edge, steadying herself.
"You know about—"
"I know your father died owing forty thousand dollars. I know Morrow's crew is applying pressure. And I know you didn't sign anything, didn't agree to anything, and shouldn't owe a single cent."
"How do you know all that?"
"I asked questions. Got answers."
Her jaw tightened. That flash of backbone he'd seen yesterday—it was stronger today, cutting through the fear.
"I didn't ask for your help."
"No, you didn't."
"And I don't need some biker playing hero because he feels sorry for the scared florist."
Cipher almost smiled. Almost.
"I don't feel sorry for you. I feel interested in a gambling operation that's been bleeding civilians in my club's territory for twenty years without anyone noticing." He held her gaze. "Morrow's a problem. You're caught in the middle of it. Those are two separate issues."
"Are they?"
"For now."
Laura studied him—really looked, the way she probably looked at flowers when she was deciding which stems to cut. Reading him for damage, for weakness, for signs he was lying.
"What do you want from me?" she finally asked.
"Right now? Information. What do you know about your father's gambling?"
"Nothing." The word came out bitter. "I knew nothing. Not until he died and I found a locked box in his garage full of betting slips and IOUs."
"You have documentation?"
"I have photographs. The originals are in my van." She laughed, short and humorless. "Which apparently had a tracker on it. So much for keeping them safe."
"The tracker's gone. Your van's clean."
"For now. What about tomorrow? Next week?" Laura shook her head. "They sent me a text yesterday. Said it would be a shame if something happened to my shop."
Cipher's hands curled into fists at his sides. He made himself relax them.
"Show me."
She pulled out her phone and handed it over. He read the message—Nice shop. Shame if something happened to it—and felt the cold calculation settle into his chest. Standard intimidation. Effective because it was vague, because it promised everything and nothing.
"You screenshot this?"
"And forwarded it to my email. Evidence."
Smart. Smarter than most people would be with fear clouding their judgment.
"They're going to escalate," Cipher said, handing back the phone. "That's how these operations work. Surveillance, then threats, then property damage. If you still don't pay after that—"
"They hurt me." Laura's voice was steady. "I know. I've been reading about debt collection tactics since Thursday."
"And?"
"And I can't pay forty thousand dollars. I don't have it. The shop clears maybe three hundred a month after expenses—that's profit, not revenue. I'd have to work for eleven years just to pay back the principal, and that's assuming they don't charge interest."
"They charge interest."
"Of course they do." She laughed again, that same bitter sound. "So what are my options? Sell the shop and hand them everything I've worked for? Take out loans I can't repay? Run?"
"No." The word came out harder than he intended. "You don't run."
Laura's eyebrows rose. "Excuse me?"
"Running doesn't work. Men like Morrow—they have contacts everywhere. You'd spend the rest of your life looking over your shoulder." Cipher stepped closer, close enough that he could smell the flowers on her skin. "You don't run. You fight."
"Fight how? I'm a florist. I make wedding centerpieces and sympathy sprays. I don't—"
"You fight by letting people help you who know how to handle men like Morrow."
Her chin lifted. "People like you."
"People like my club."
The words hung between them. Laura's eyes searched his face, looking for the catch, the angle, the reason a motorcycle club would care about a flower shop owner's gambling debt.
"What's in it for you?"
"Morrow's been operating in our territory for two decades. Taking money from people who can't afford to lose it. Breaking bones when they can't pay." Cipher held her gaze. "We protect our community. That includes civilians who get caught in crossfires they didn't start."
"I'm not part of your community."
"You are now."
Something shifted in her expression. Fear and wariness were still there, but underneath—something else. Hope, maybe. Or the beginning of trust.
"I can't pay you," she said quietly. "I can't pay anyone."
"Nobody's asking you to pay."
"Then what do you want?"
Cipher considered the question. What did he want?
He wanted the shaking in her hands to stop. He wanted the dark circles under her eyes to fade. He wanted to find Vincent Morrow and make him understand exactly what happened to men who threatened women under Black Ops Brotherhood protection.
But he couldn't say any of that. Not yet.
"I want to make a phone call," he said instead. "Use your landline, not my cell. The club needs to vote on getting involved."
"Vote?"
"We don't act without consensus. That's how it works."
Laura was quiet for a long moment. Then she stepped aside and gestured to the phone mounted on the wall beside the register.
"Help yourself."
Cipher crossed to the phone and dialed from memory. Legion picked up on the second ring.
"Compound."
"It's Cipher. I'm at the flower shop."
"Status?"
"GPS tracker on her delivery van. Removed and relocated. Text message threat received yesterday. Morrow's crew is escalating." Cipher kept his voice level, aware of Laura watching from across the shop. "I'm requesting a table vote on his operation."
Legion was quiet for three seconds—an eternity from a man who made decisions under fire for a living.
"You sure about this?"
Cipher looked at Laura. At her capable hands, still stained with flower dye. At the fear she was fighting not to show. At the backbone that kept her standing when everything told her to crumble.
"I'm sure."
"Church tonight. Eight o'clock. Bring everything you've got on Morrow."
"Copy."
Cipher hung up and turned to face Laura.
"Tonight," he said. "The club votes tonight. Until then, you don't stay here alone. You lock up when I tell you. And if anyone approaches you—anyone you don't recognize—you call me immediately."
"I don't have your number."
He pulled a card from his wallet—plain white, nothing but a phone number printed in black ink—and set it on the counter.
"Now you do."
Laura picked up the card, turning it over in her fingers. "This feels like a lot of trouble for a florist you barely know."
"Maybe."
"Why?"
Cipher headed for the door. He paused with his hand on the glass, looking back at her over his shoulder.
"Because some things are worth protecting. And some debts aren't meant to be paid."
He walked out before she could respond, the morning sun hitting his face as the door swung shut behind him.
Tonight, the club would vote.
And then Vincent Morrow would learn what happened when he threatened someone under Cipher's protection.