Chapter 1 — Diesel #2
"You're exactly the right person." Clint's voice shifts into the tone that means the discussion is over, the decision is made.
"You take her to The Anchor tonight. Be seen together.
Let word spread fast. Watch how she reacts and watch what Crane does when he hears about it.
You don't trust her, so you'll catch it when she slips. That's what I need."
I want to argue, want to say this is strategically unsound, that getting close to her even as performance is a complication we don't need, that there are ten other brothers in this room who could handle this without the weight of actually believing she's the enemy.
But Clint's right about one thing. I don't trust her, won't trust her, and that makes me the logical choice even if it's a shit choice.
"Fine," I say.
We go back inside and she's standing near the table where we left her, hands still at her sides, fingers still pressed too tight.
When we enter, her eyes go to Clint first, then to me, then back to Clint.
She's assessing, trying to read what just happened in that yard, what decision was made that's going to affect her.
Smart.
Clint lays it out in the same even tone he uses for club business.
"We'll provide protection and resources.
You provide intel, full access to your documentation, and you answer every question we ask without hesitation.
In addition, you'll be publicly visible with Diesel here, appearing as his woman.
Serves dual purpose of provoking your father and integrating you into our orbit where we can monitor you. "
Her eyes shift to me and she really looks at me for the first time, dark eyes intelligent and wary and calculating just like I am.
She's figuring out if this is a trap for her, if Vigil can be trusted, if the man she's being assigned to is going to hurt her or use her or both.
The look lasts three seconds, maybe four, and I hold her gaze without giving her anything.
Then she turns back to Clint.
"I agree," she says.
I keep my eyes on her when she looks at me again. "First appearance is tonight. The Anchor, eight o'clock. Wear something that looks like you want to be there."
Her jaw tightens slightly, barely visible but I catch it. First crack in her composure. She doesn't like being told what to wear, doesn't like the implicit command in how I said it.
Good. I don't like being assigned to babysit Victor Crane's daughter while pretending she's something she's not.
"Fine," she says, and her voice is cooler now, the first hint of real emotion breaking through the control.
Clint nods to the prospects. "Take her upstairs. Second room on the left. Someone on the door at all times."
They move to escort her out and she walks between them without looking back, without hesitation, spine straight like she's walking into a business meeting instead of what might be a very comfortable prison.
The door closes behind her and I'm left standing in the common room with my brothers and the taste of something wrong in the back of my throat.
Cain's already back on his laptop, eyes scanning whatever he's pulled up. "I'll start verification. Cross-reference what she said with what we know about Marrow's operations, see if the details match up."
"Do it fast," Clint says. "We need to know what we're dealing with before tonight."
Tate looks at me, and I can see the question in his face before he asks it. "You really think she's lying?"
I head for the door because I need air that doesn't smell like motor oil and suspicion and the faint trace of whatever she was wearing that I noticed when she walked past me. "I think she's Victor Crane's daughter. Until I know otherwise, that makes her the enemy."
Outside, the heat hits like a wall, August sun baking everything white and still.
The cicadas are screaming in the trees past the fence line, that constant summer sound that gets inside your head if you let it.
Dust rises where a brother's pulling his bike out, heading for a run or town or anywhere that's not here dealing with this.
I light a cigarette and lean against the building, letting the sun press into my shoulders through the cut, feeling the leather heat up until it's almost uncomfortable.
Victor Crane's daughter. Two years of documentation on her father's operation. Perfect timing. Perfect information.
And a body I noticed despite every intention not to, which means if this is a play, if she's here to manipulate us, she's starting with an advantage I didn't want to give her.
I take a drag and exhale smoke into air that's too thick to carry it away, watching it hang and dissipate slowly.
Eight o'clock. The Anchor. Make it visible, make it real enough that word gets back to Crane fast.
I'll play the role Clint assigned me. I'll take her out, touch her like she's mine, make it look real to anyone watching.
And while I'm doing it, I'll watch her for the slip, for the moment her mask cracks and shows me what she really is.
I'll find the proof that this is exactly what I think it is, what it has to be.
A trap.
And when I do, when I catch her in whatever lie she's selling, I'll make sure Clint knows before anyone else gets hurt.
The door opens behind me and Holt steps out, pulls his own cigarette from the pack in his pocket and lights it with the easy motion of someone who's done it ten thousand times.
"You good?" he asks.
"No."
He nods like that's the answer he expected, like he would've been more worried if I'd said yes. "For what it's worth, I don't think Clint would put you on this if he thought you'd actually get compromised."
"I won't."
"I know." He takes a drag, exhales slowly. "But it's still a shit assignment."
"Yeah."
He heads for his bike without saying anything else because there's nothing else to say, and I'm alone again with the heat and the cicadas and the image I can't get out of my head.
Her standing in that room, fingers pressed together too tight, saying her father's name like it didn't scare her even though it had to.
Either she's the bravest person I've ever met or the best liar, and I'm going to find out which.
And if it's the second, if this is Victor Crane's play and she's here to get inside our operation and feed information back to Marrow, if she's using that body and that fear and that controlled composure to manipulate us into trusting her?
Then she picked the wrong brother to get assigned to.
I crush the cigarette under my boot and head back inside to get ready for tonight, for the performance that starts in six hours, for the game that's already begun whether I wanted to play it or not.
Eight o'clock. The Anchor. Let her show me what she really is.
I'll be watching.