Chapter 5
Float led them down roads that didn't exist on any GPS.
Gravel turned to dirt turned to packed earth as he wound through hollows and over ridges, the kind of back-country routes that only locals knew. His bike ate up the terrain like it was made for it, and behind him, Delaney's Jeep kept pace without hesitation.
She could drive. He'd noticed that back at the studio lot—the way she'd handled the confrontation, the smooth extraction of the drive, the steady hands when most people would have been shaking.
But watching her navigate these roads in his mirrors, headlights cutting through the growing dark, Float realized she was more than capable.
She was dangerous in ways he was only beginning to understand.
They'd been watching her for weeks. The thought made his blood run hot every time it surfaced.
Surveillance crews didn't just show up and threaten people—they planned.
Mapped schedules. Documented patterns. Which meant somewhere, someone had files on Delaney Cross.
Her morning routine. Her client bookings.
The way she moved through her days without knowing eyes were on her.
Float gripped the handlebars tighter and pushed the thought down. Anger wouldn't help right now. Focus would.
He'd chosen the river bluff cabin for a reason.
It sat on Ridgerunner property, one of the safe houses the club kept for situations exactly like this.
High ground with sight lines in three directions.
River access at the back if they needed an emergency exit.
And most importantly, it wasn't connected to any of the properties Garvey's crew had already compromised.
The cabin materialized out of the tree line as they crested the final ridge—a weathered structure perched on a limestone bluff, the river glinting silver below in the last light of sunset.
Float killed his engine and waited for Delaney to park beside him.
She stepped out of the Jeep and looked at the cabin, then at the view. Her face was hard to read in the fading light, but something in her posture shifted—a fraction of the tension bleeding out of her shoulders.
"It's beautiful."
"It's hidden." Float swung off his bike. "Come on. Let's get you inside before we lose the light."
He grabbed her bags from the Jeep while she gathered her camera equipment. The cabin door was unlocked—no point in locks when the entire property was patrolled by Ridgerunners—and inside smelled like cedar and dust and the river that ran below.
Float flipped the lights and did a quick sweep. Kitchen stocked with basics. Bedroom in the back with a bed that looked recently made. Bathroom functional. Windows intact, sight lines clear.
When he turned around, Delaney was standing in the doorway with her bags, watching him with those sharp eyes.
"Checking for monsters under the bed?"
"Checking for cameras."
Her expression flickered. Right. She knew exactly why he was looking.
"Find any?"
"No." Float moved past her to grab the rest of her gear from the Jeep. "But I'm going to check the perimeter before it gets full dark. Stay inside until I'm back."
"I'm not a child."
"Never said you were." He stopped in front of her, close enough to see the gold flecks in her hazel eyes. "I said stay inside. There's a difference."
Something sparked between them—challenge, attraction, the push and pull that had been building since he'd shown up at her studio door. Delaney held his gaze for a long moment, then stepped aside to let him pass.
"Fine. But if you're not back in twenty minutes, I'm coming to find you."
"Wouldn't expect anything less."
The perimeter took fifteen minutes.
Float walked the tree line, checked the road approach, confirmed the river path was clear. No signs of surveillance. No fresh tire tracks. No indication that anyone knew this cabin existed beyond the brothers who used it.
But that didn't mean they were safe. It just meant they were hidden for now.
He found Delaney at the kitchen table when he got back, laptop open and the backup drive plugged in. She'd spread her photos across the screen, thumbnail images he couldn't make out from the doorway.
"Perimeter's clear."
"I heard you coming." She didn't look up from the screen. "You walk heavy for someone who's supposed to be sneaky."
"Didn't realize sneaky was part of my job description."
"Isn't that what bikers do? Sneak around handling business nobody's supposed to know about?"
Float crossed to the kitchen and started going through the cabinets. Coffee. Good. He'd need it.
"We're not sneaky. We're direct." He found a pot and filled it with water. "Other people just don't like watching."
"Mmm." Delaney's attention was back on the photos, her fingers moving across the trackpad as she zoomed and scrolled. "Come look at this."
He abandoned the coffee and moved to stand behind her chair. Close enough to catch the scent of her hair—something clean, like citrus and summer. He filed it away and focused on the screen.
"This is the Brush Creek property." She pulled up an image of a cabin exterior, late afternoon light warming the wood siding. "Standard listing shot. But look here."
She zoomed in on the edge of the frame. A white van, partially hidden by trees. Two men at the back with equipment cases. One on a ladder near the roofline.
"They're installing cameras." Float leaned closer, his chest nearly brushing her shoulder. "Can you get faces?"
"Working on it." She pulled up another image, a different angle. The van's license plate was visible, blurred but readable. "I've got the plate. And here—"
Another zoom. The man on the ladder, caught in profile. Wiry build. Forgettable face.
"That's him." Float's voice went cold. "That's the one who smashed your camera."
"His name is Ellers." Delaney's tone was clinical. "I heard the other men call him that when they came to the studio tonight. Rick Ellers."
Float memorized the face, the name, everything about the image. Cottonmouth would want this. Proof would want to trace the van. The whole club would want to know exactly who'd threatened one of their own—
One of their own.
The thought caught him off guard. Delaney wasn't club.
She was a witness, a photographer who'd stumbled into something bigger than a property shoot.
But standing here in the cabin with her photos spread across the screen and her scent in his lungs, Float couldn't think of her as anything less than his responsibility.
His to protect. His to keep safe.
His.
"How many more?" he asked, forcing his voice level.
"Seven shots with crew members visible. Three with equipment I can identify. The plate's the best lead—you can trace registration, find out who owns the van."
"Proof can handle that."
"Good." She sat back in the chair, rubbing her eyes. "Then we have something to work with."
Float didn't move from behind her. He should. He should go make the coffee, call the compound, do something productive instead of standing here breathing in the smell of her hair like some kind of obsessed—
"You're staring."
Her voice was amused. Float felt heat crawl up the back of his neck.
"Just thinking."
"About?"
"About how you're not scared." He moved around to the side of the table, giving himself some distance. "Most people in your situation would be falling apart right now. You're cataloging evidence like it's just another day at the office."
Delaney looked up at him, and something in her expression softened. "I spent four years photographing things that would give most people nightmares. Documenting operations that never officially happened. By the time I left, I'd learned that fear doesn't help you survive. Preparation does."
"Is that why you hid the drive?"
"That's why I hid the drive." She reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out the small device, turning it over in her fingers. "First thing the Army teaches you about intelligence—make copies. Store them somewhere secure. Never trust that you'll have access to the original."
Float watched her hands, the steady way she held the drive that contained evidence worth killing for.
"You're not what I expected."
"What did you expect?"
"Someone who needed rescuing." He shook his head. "You're not that."
"No." Her eyes met his, steady and sure. "I'm not."
The moment stretched between them, heavy with something Float wasn't ready to name. He wanted to cross the distance between them, take the drive from her hands, and replace it with his fingers. Wanted to find out if that stubborn mouth felt as good as it looked when she was challenging him.
He didn't move.
"I should call the compound." His voice came out rougher than he intended. "Give Cottonmouth the update on what you found."
"You should." Delaney turned back to the laptop, but not before he caught the flush on her cheeks. "I'll keep cataloging. There might be more in these photos than we've found so far."
Float grabbed his phone and walked to the door, putting distance between them before he did something stupid.
Outside, the night had gone full dark. Stars scattered across the sky, and the river murmured below the bluff. He dialed Cottonmouth and waited.
"You get her settled?"
"River bluff cabin. No signs of surveillance." Float kept his voice low. "She's got photos. Crew members, equipment, a license plate we can trace. The guy who threatened her—his name is Rick Ellers. He's the one installing the cameras."
"Good work." Cottonmouth paused. "How's she holding up?"
Float glanced back at the cabin. Through the window, he could see Delaney silhouetted against the laptop screen, still working.
"Better than she should be."
"That's either good news or bad news, depending."
"Depending on what?"
"On whether you can keep your head straight while you're protecting her."
Float's jaw tightened. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Means I saw how you looked at her in the compound, prospect. And I'm seeing how you sound right now." Cottonmouth's voice was flat, unamused. "She's under club protection. That means hands off until this is handled."
"I know the rules."
"Good. Then follow them." The line clicked dead.
Float stared at the phone in his hand, then back at the cabin.
Cottonmouth was right. Delaney was under club protection. She was a witness, a target, a woman who needed safety until the threat was eliminated. Getting involved with her now would complicate everything.
But watching her through that window, watching her work with the same intensity she brought to everything else, Float couldn't shake the feeling that complicated was exactly where this was headed.
He walked back inside.
Delaney looked up from the laptop. "Everything okay?"
"Compound's informed. Proof will trace the plate tomorrow." Float closed the door behind him. "You should get some sleep. Tomorrow's going to be a long day."
"What about you?"
"I'll take the couch. Keep watch."
Something flickered in her expression—gratitude, maybe, or something warmer. "You don't have to—"
"Yeah." Float's voice came out rougher than he meant. "I do."
She held his gaze for a moment, then nodded and turned back to her photos.
Float settled onto the couch with a clear view of the door and the window, and tried not to think about the woman twenty feet away cataloging evidence in the dark.
Complicated.
He was already in too deep to care.