Chapter 3
Nash
The war room smells of coffee and old leather.
Malachi sits at the head of the scarred oak table with his hands folded, Knox to his left, laptop open.
I take the chair to his right. East drops into the seat beside Knox, his knee bouncing under the table.
James occupies the far end, a mug of coffee steaming between his palms. Kyle stands by the door, arms folded, back straight. Rider beside him.
"Shut it," Malachi says.
Kyle closes the door behind him.
Malachi opens a folder and slides photographs across the table, fanning them out in a row. Four of them.
Ruby. All of them. Long-lens. Ruby leaving Amaranth, her bag over one shoulder, the neon sign glowing behind her.
At her car in the shop's back lot, door half-open.
Ruby crossing the clubhouse yard during a gathering, head tipped back mid-laugh.
On the front steps of her apartment building, phone in hand.
"Two days ago," Malachi says. "Intercepted from an encrypted relay Knox has been monitoring. Someone's been running surveillance on Ruby. The work is professional and the timeline's deliberate."
Knox taps the shot at her car. "Digital prints, cheap paper, but the composition tells me whoever's behind the lens knows camera placement, knows how to avoid reflective surfaces and streetlight glare. Timestamps span about two weeks."
Two weeks. Two fucking weeks.
Malachi's eyes haven't moved off my face. "You have something to add."
I pull the photo from my cut. Place it face up at the end of the row. Ruby at Amaranth's back door.
"My bike. This morning. Tucked between the grip and the brake lever."
Malachi picks it up. Turns it over.
SHE'S NEXT.
He slides it to Knox. Knox studies it and hands it down. East takes it, reads the back, and his jaw sets. James receives it last and holds it a long time before setting it on the table.
"Your apartment," Malachi says. "Not the clubhouse."
"My apartment."
"They know where you live." He folds his hands again. "Knox. The relay."
"Encrypted. Routed through three proxies.
I'm still peeling layers." Knox turns his laptop to face the table.
Lines of traffic data scroll on the screen.
"Comms reference a package and a timeline.
No names. But the photo timestamps sync with Ruby's movements.
Same windows, same locations, same routes. They've got her whole pattern."
"Who came before her?" Knox asks.
Malachi's eyes are still on me.
"I don't know. The message was on my bike. My personal vehicle at my apartment. They're connecting her to me."
"Why you?" Malachi asks.
East shifts forward. "Ruby and Nash ran point together on Blackwell. The whole operation. If someone from that world is looking for leverage, she's the face they'd connect to his."
Knox nods. "Anyone with access to Blackwell's network would know they worked together. That's public-facing enough to track."
Malachi lets the information settle. His eyes stay on me. The silence is asking a different question than Knox's.
"Detail," Malachi says. "Nash, you're on Ruby. Effective now."
I press my thumb into the headband.
"Copy."
"Knox, keep running the relay. I want source identification by the end of the week." Malachi gathers the photos into the folder. "James, coordinate with Arden on perimeter. If they've been inside once, they'll try again."
Knox closes his laptop and heads for the door. Kyle opens it. East follows, clapping Kyle on the shoulder as he passes. James rises and takes his mug. He pauses at my shoulder. His hand lands. Squeezes once.
"Careful, son." Low enough that the words stay between us. "You've got a lot on your plate." He lifts his hand and walks out.
Malachi leans against the table edge. The folder of photos sits between his hands.
"You weren't there for the fight," he says. "You were there for her."
The fight circuits. He clocked my attendance months ago and waited.
"Detail starts now. You report everything."
I nod. Pick up the photo and slide it into my cut. Malachi heads for the bar. I head for the lot.
Amaranth is three blocks from the clubhouse. I could walk it. I take the Harley because the ride gives me sixty seconds before I'm standing in front of her.
The shop is open. Through the front window, Ruby is bent over the counter, working on a flash sheet.
Copper hair twisted up. Red lips. A cropped tank that stops two inches above her waistband, a strip of skin showing between the hem and her low-rise jeans.
She pushes a strand of hair behind her ear, and the movement lifts her arm enough to widen that strip of bare skin between her tank and her waistband.
My grip tightens on the handlebar before I kill the engine.
I push the door open. The bell jingles.
Ruby looks up. The grin arrives in full force.
"Well, well. Look who actually came back.
" She tilts her head. "I stayed, by the way.
Right here. Didn't go to the bakery, didn't go to the grocery.
" She ticks them off on her fingers. "Followed every one of your very specific instructions.
You going to give me a gold star, or..."
"We need to talk."
"Oh, he's serious." She sets the pencil down and props her chin on her hand. "Okay. I'm all ears. But I want it on record that I was very well-behaved, and if there's a punishment for good behavior, I'd like to discuss my options."
My jaw clenches. Heat climbs the back of my neck.
"Ruby."
"Fine, fine." She holds up both hands, grinning. "Talk."
I close the distance between us until the counter is the only thing separating me from vanilla, coconut, and warm skin.
I pull the photo from my cut and place it on the counter between us.
Ruby looks down. The grin drops clean off her face. She picks the photo up, studies it, and turns it over. Her knuckles whiten around the edges.
"When was this taken?" Her voice is quieter.
"Within the last few days."
"And you found it where?"
"On my bike. This morning."
She sets the photo down. Her hands flatten on the counter. Graphite smudges on her index and middle fingers, tendons visible along the backs of her hands. Her breathing is even. Too even.
"So someone's watching me. And they're telling you they're watching me."
"Yes."
She nods once. Her jaw works. Her chin lifts, and a grin comes back. Smaller. Sharper.
"Oh good. My own personal shadow. Does he come with a smile, or is the brooding included at no extra charge?"
"Ruby."
"No, I'm serious. This is a great fucking development. Really top-shelf threatening. Do you think they'll send more photos? Maybe one of me getting coffee. I look incredible in morning light. They should know that."
I move around the counter into her space. She's on her stool, which puts her face level with my chest. Her chin tips up. Her grin flickers, but she holds her ground.
She smells the way she always does, close enough now that it fills my lungs. Her red lips are parted. The pulse at the base of her throat beating fast enough that I track each one.
"Stop," I say, low enough that the word is just for her. "Look at me."
Her mouth opens. Closes. The jokes die on her tongue. She swallows once, eyes lifting to mine, fingers curling against the countertop.
"I know what you do," I say. "You make it a joke. You make everything a joke. And I let you. But right now I need you to hear me."
The grin falls away. The movement falls away. What's left are the freckles across her nose, soft mouth, and wide eyes locked on mine. My hand twitches at my side. Every muscle in my arm is pulling toward her jaw, her hair, the side of her neck. I keep my hand where it is.
"I hear you," she says. Quiet. Her eyes drop to my mouth for half a second before they come back up.
My ribs pull tight. The warmth of her reaches me through the foot of air between us. My pulse hammers in my throat.
I step back.
"Malachi's orders. I'm on you. Your apartment, your shop, your routes. Everywhere you go. Starting now."
"Starting now," she repeats. She looks at me. "So when I'm working." Ruby gestures at the shop. "You'll be here. Standing. Watching."
"I'll be where I need to be."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the answer you're getting."
Her chin lifts. "Fine. But if you're going to be in my space all day, you should know my noon appointment is a full back piece that'll take all afternoon, my three o'clock cries every time, and Frankie plays the same damn Etta James album on repeat until someone physically stops her.
" She picks up her pencil. Pauses. "You don't have to stand by the door, you know. There's a chair."
"I know."
"But you're going to stand by the door."
"I'm going to stand where I can see every entrance, every window, and you."
The word hangs. Her pencil pauses mid-stroke. Her eyes lift to mine for half a second. My jaw flexes. She drops her gaze back to the flash sheet.
"Well. Welcome to Amaranth, Sergeant-at-Arms. Hope you brought a book."
"I brought a gun."
"Of course you did." A laugh. Brief. Then quieter. "Nash."
"Yeah."
"Whoever took that photo was standing across the street from Frankie's shop." Her voice is steady. Her hands are still on the counter, and they're shaking. Barely. Just enough. "That means they were watching me work. Through the window. And I didn't know."
I hold her eyes. The space between us is asking me to close it again.
"You'll know now."
She holds my gaze. Then she picks up her pencil and turns back to the flash sheet.
I take the wall by the door. Left to right. Front window. Street. Parked cars. Tree line across the road. Back to the interior. The record player spins. The sage is in its dish.
Frankie is at her station, coffee beside her machine, working on a sketch. She clocked me when I walked in. She hasn't said a word.
Ruby is bent over the counter. Her shoulders drop by degrees as the pencil moves.
Front window. Street. Tree line.
Her.
Window. Street.
Her.
The record changes. Etta James, low and slow. Ruby sets down the pencil and stretches. Arms above her head. Spine curving. The hem of her tank rides up an inch over her ribs. She rolls her neck to the side, and the line of her throat opens. Her eyes close.
My palm flattens against the wall behind me. She holds the stretch, unaware, and the strip of bare skin above her jeans is all I can see. My body is already moving. One step. Two. The counter is ten feet from me, and I've cleared four before my brain catches my feet and locks them down.
Ruby opens her eyes, picks up the pencil, and keeps working. She never saw me move. I force myself back to the wall. A dull ache builds along my jaw. My hand hasn't uncurled.
I'm going to lose this detail.