Chapter Two
Spade
This room had witnessed decades of club decisions. Oaths made. Enemies marked. Brothers elevated. And now, for the first time in my twenty years, a complete stranger stood inside. A woman. A stranger with dangerous information who might save us or destroy us.
The single overhead bulb cast harsh shadows across the worn wooden table. I remained standing, circling the table like a predator. Let her feel hunted. Let her feel the weight of where she was.
The bruise on her jaw caught the light when she turned her head -- blue-black fading to yellow at the edges, lending credence to her story, but I stayed on my feet. Height advantage. Power position. Old interrogation tactic.
I fired the first question. “How long with the Horsemen?”
“Five years. Started as general bookkeeping, moved to primary accounts after two.”
“Who recruited you?”
“Their Treasurer. Man they call Butcher.”
I knew him. Mean son of a bitch with a scar down his face. Detail checked out. “Access to President’s records?”
“Last eighteen months. When they promoted me to head accountant.”
“Why’d they trust you?”
“They didn’t. Not fully. But I’m good with numbers. Made them money. Streamlined their operation.”
Her answers came quick, no hesitation. Either well-rehearsed lies or simple truth. Hard to tell yet. “Your sister.” I watched her face carefully. “Name?”
For the first time, her composure flickered. “Marie. Marie Caldwell. Married name.”
“When was she killed?”
“February 12th. Stray bullet during that shootout at the Bluebird Motel.”
I remembered. Horsemen had ambushed a couple of our Prospects. We never figured out how they knew about it. Three dead, including a civilian woman in the wrong place at wrong time. I glanced at Lila. “Walk me through what you’ve got. Slowly.”
She moved with the confidence of someone who knew exactly what each number meant. Not a hint of uncertainty in her movements.
“These are the Horsemen’s main accounts.
Coded, obviously, but I know their system.
” She pointed to columns of numbers. “These transfers here -- ten thousand on February 10th. Two days before the Bluebird. Five thousand on March 15th, three days before your gun shipment got intercepted at the state line.”
I leaned closer, scanning the dates. The gun shipment had been discussed only in Church, with patched members present. The route changed at the last minute. Yet somehow, they’d known.
“This could be coincidence,” I said, testing her. “These payments could be for anything.”
“Check the dates listed here against your failed runs.” She slid another paper toward me. “They match.”
She was right. The dates aligned precisely with our operations.
My jaw tightened as I recognized a pattern I couldn’t deny.
April 17th -- the day we lost a shipment of prescription pills worth fifty grand.
May 28th -- when three brothers ended up in the hospital after a meeting turned ambush.
“These numbers.” I pointed to a specific column. “What are they?”
“More routing numbers.” She traced her finger along the row. “This one? It links back to an account registered in Oklahoma City. Same bank your club uses for the legitimate businesses.”
My blood turned cold. That was insider information. Very few people knew which bank handled our clean money.
“This transaction.” She pointed to a fifteen-thousand-dollar transfer. “June 12th. The warehouse raid. Notice anything unusual?”
I studied it closely. The transaction had processed at 2:17 AM. The raid happened at 3:30 AM. Barely an hour later. “Payment for services rendered,” I said, the words tasting like ash.
“Exactly.” She leaned forward, her voice dropping lower. “Whoever your leak is, they’re getting paid, and paid well. That means they’re trusted. Established. Someone the Horsemen believe will follow through.”
The implications hung between us. A trusted member. Someone who sat at this very table during our most sensitive discussions. Someone who’d taken the oath.
“How’d you track these?” I asked, testing her knowledge.
“Bank statements first. Then I backtracked the shell companies.” She pulled out more documentation.
“Here’s where it gets interesting. The receiving account changes every time, but the money always flows back to this holding company.
” She tapped another document. “Sunset Investments LLC. Registered two years ago. Right after your club expanded into the eastern territory.”
Another connection that couldn’t be coincidence. We’d kept that expansion quiet. Strategic. Need-to-know.
“And this final transfer.” She slid forward the last document. “Twenty thousand. Largest yet. Processed four days ago.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know.” Her expression darkened. “But something big is coming. Something they’re willing to pay premium for.”
I picked up the paper, studying it more closely. “That what you meant about asking too many questions?”
She nodded. “Butcher caught me copying files. I managed to convince him I was just double-checking the quarterly reports. He didn’t buy it entirely.”
“Yet you got away with the evidence.”
“I had already secured most of it. Dead drops. Digital backups.” A tight smile. “They underestimated me. Women are invisible in their world. Convenient when you’re gathering intelligence.”
Smart. Prepared. Forward-thinking. Not the actions of someone making this up as she went along. “Why bring this to us?” I asked, watching her carefully. “Your sister’s dead because of what happened between our clubs. Why not just disappear?”
“Because this doesn’t end with my sister.” She gestured toward the documents. “Look at this column. The payments are getting larger.”
I studied the progression she’d laid out. The escalation was clear. “The operations are getting more ambitious.” From small disruptions to deadly ambushes. “Whatever’s coming next will be worse. Each attack’s more damaging than the last.”
“And if you’re lying?” I placed my palms flat on the table, leaning closer. “If this is some elaborate setup?”
“Then I’m the stupidest woman alive, walking into the lion’s den armed with nothing but paper.” Her gaze held mine without flinching. “But I’m not stupid, and I’m not lying. Your club has a traitor, and people are dying because of it. Including my sister.”
The conviction in her voice carried weight. No hesitation. No uncertainty. Either she was the best liar I’d ever met, or she believed every word she was saying.
I gathered the papers into a neat stack, mind racing. If she was right -- if one of our brothers was feeding information to the Horsemen -- we had a cancer in our midst. The kind that needed cutting out quickly -- and permanently. “Wait here,” I said, moving toward the door.
“Where are you going?” For the first time, alarm flashed across her face.
“To verify some things.” I stepped out, locking the door behind me. She’d just given me the means to discredit her entirely. Either incredibly naive or supremely confident in her position.
* * *
I returned to the room with the papers still in hand.
She hadn’t moved -- still sitting straight-backed in the chair like she belonged there.
This time, I didn’t circle the table. I moved directly to her side, close enough that my cut brushed against her shoulder when I leaned down to spread the documents again.
Intimidation through proximity. Another old tactic.
“These numbers don’t match,” I said, deliberately pointing to the wrong column. “Your story’s already falling apart.”
She didn’t flinch, didn’t hesitate. “You’re looking at the operational expenses, not the transfer log. The data is here.” Her finger moved confidently to another section. “Five thousand deposit on March 15th. Your gun shipment intercepted on the 18th.”
Sharp. She knew her data cold.
I tried another angle. “This account here. Registered to Johnson Holdings.” I made it up on the spot. “Pretty standard business. Nothing connecting it to the Horsemen.”
“There is no Johnson Holdings in these documents.” She tilted her head slightly, studying me. “You’re testing me.”
I didn’t confirm or deny, just moved to another document. “And I suppose you have proof these transfers went to someone in our club?”
“Not directly.” She flipped through her papers, pulling out a bank statement. “The money goes through three shell companies before landing here. Sunset Investments. What’s interesting isn’t where the money goes -- it’s when. I just haven’t figured out any discernable pattern.”
I could. These dates were Church meetings. It looked like every damn transfer was within twelve hours of a club meeting. But until I knew for sure… “Could be coincidence.”
Her gaze met mine. “At least eight failed runs in as many months?”
“Let’s say I believe some of this.” I kept my voice low. “Your theory still has holes. How would the Horsemen even know who to approach in our club? We’ve been enemies for decades.”
“People talk. Especially at neutral ground.” She pulled out another paper -- receipts from a strip club in neutral territory. “The Dollhouse. Three months before the first payment. Your Sergeant-at-Arms met with their Road Captain.”
I stared at the receipts. I knew about that meeting. Nothing unusual about enemies meeting on neutral ground to discuss boundaries. But the timing… “That doesn’t prove anything.”
“By itself, no.” She conceded the point, then continued. “But two weeks later, this account was established.” She tapped her papers, pointing to the Sunset Investments account.
I deliberately misinterpreted another data point. “This shows money going out, not coming in. Contradicts your whole theory.”
“That’s their operating expense account. You’re looking at the wrong column again.” She wasn’t irritated by my challenges -- just methodically corrective. “The incoming transfers are documented here.”