26. Gabriel
I’ve been parked across the street for a couple of hours waiting for Lars to leave the building.
From where I’m parked, I can see into the garage. As he walks to his car, his shoulders square, telling me he’s already in work mode. Jacket on, phone in hand, and attention outward. Whatever version of him exists behind closed doors doesn’t come with him past the threshold.
His car emerges from the parking garage exit, and I let him pull away before I merge into traffic.
His route takes us east, away from downtown, toward the industrial edges of Austin, where the city thins out and people mind their own business.
He checks his mirrors at some intersections.
He doesn’t notice me, though. I’m three cars back, staggered, rotating lanes when it makes sense.
This isn’t my first time following him, so I’ve developed a method.
The Saints compound sits where the city gives way to old warehouses and repurposed steel buildings.
Chain-link fencing reinforced with privacy slats.
High cameras, angled for coverage, monitor the perimeter.
The main building sits at the front of the property, with a row of simple houses behind it.
It’s designed to be overlooked unless you know exactly what you’re looking at.
Lars pulls in, and I park a half block down and watch through the windshield.
Through the open gates, I see that Cash Calder is already outside when Lars steps out of his car. His broad stance portrays his position as club president. They greet each other with the familiarity of men who respect each other.
Cash nods once. Lars returns it. They speak briefly, and I don’t need to hear their words to understand the exchange. Lars does most of the listening. Cash gestures once toward the building. Hale approaches a few minutes later and crosses his arms, feet planted wide.
I watch Lars as he listens, cataloging the way he holds himself when he’s being given information rather than giving orders. There’s a discipline to him that goes beyond training. He absorbs details with no reaction. When he speaks, Cash’s mouth curves into something that might be approval.
Lars doesn’t dominate the space, but he commands respect. He’s taller than most of the men on the lot, built solid, shoulders filling out the jacket. The painted nails flash briefly when he gestures, dark against his skin, an unexpected contrast that doesn’t soften him at all.
If anything, it sharpens his edge.
I’ve worked around powerful men my entire adult life. Most of them are predictable once you strip away the mythology. Lars is the kind of man built to hold things together under pressure, and that competence does something inconvenient to my focus.
He turns slightly, giving Cash a half-profile, and the sun catches the line of his throat. I catch myself watching his mouth as he speaks, and I need to redirect my thoughts.
The meeting wraps quickly. Cash claps a hand on Lars’s shoulder once before heading back inside. Lars lingers a moment longer with Hale. The two are more relaxed as they speak.
Following him back to his building would be unnecessary. I already have what I came for today.
As Lars pulls out of the lot, I commit the image to memory. The way he settles behind the wheel. The slight flex of his hand as it grips the steering wheel. His steely composure and quiet authority.
I sit there for another minute after the compound quiets, then reach for my phone. I open up the text thread.
Me: Saints meeting confirmed.
The reply comes back almost immediately.
Continue observation. Your call on when to engage.
I place the phone in the passenger seat and start the car.