Chapter Three #2
“What about camera blind spots?” she asked, setting her folder on the nightstand with careful precision.
“There aren’t any.”
Her lips curved slightly. Not quite a smile. “There always are. Even in the best systems.”
I leaned against the doorframe, watching her methodically survey the room. “Sounds like you’ve had practice finding them.”
“Five years with the Horsemen teaches you to look for weaknesses.” She ran her hand along the windowsill, checking for dust. Finding none. “Your house is very… ordered.”
“I like things in their place.”
“I noticed.” She moved to the dresser, opening each drawer. Empty. Ready for use. “You check your locks twice. Did you know that?”
I didn’t respond. She’d caught a habit I wasn’t aware I’d displayed.
She continued her inspection, moving with deliberate efficiency. Testing the bed’s firmness. Checking the lamp’s stability. Examining the ceiling corners for cameras.
“The surveillance isn’t in the bedrooms,” I said. “Just common areas.”
“Smart. Makes your prisoners feel more comfortable.” She set the towel down, perfectly aligned with the edge of the dresser. “Mind if I shower?”
“Go ahead.”
She slipped past me in the doorway, her shoulder nearly touching mine in the narrow space. Neither of us gave ground. The brief proximity highlighted our height difference -- she barely reached my shoulder -- but there was nothing small about her presence.
I followed her to the bathroom, showing her where things were. “More towels here. Soap there. Water gets hot fast, so be careful.”
She nodded, taking in the same precise organization that characterized the rest of the house. Everything in labeled containers. Everything in its designated spot.
“Do you have something I could sleep in?” she asked.
I hadn’t thought of that. Far as I knew she’d arrived with nothing but that folder and the clothes on her back.
“Hold on.” I went to my bedroom, returning with a black T-shirt and sweatpants. “These will be big, but they’re clean.”
She took them, her fingertips grazing mine again. This time, we both pretended not to notice.
“The security panel by the front door,” she said, clutching the clothes. “Seven-digit code with a secondary four-digit emergency override. That’s not standard.”
I stiffened. She’d clocked my custom security setup within minutes of walking in. “Most people don’t notice that.”
“Most people aren’t looking.” She held my gaze. “The panel has wear patterns on the 3, 5, and 8 keys. Frequently used.”
Observant. Dangerous level of observant. “You always analyze security systems when you’re a guest?” I kept my voice neutral.
“Always. Same as you always check where someone’s hands are when they enter a room.”
We studied each other in the hallway, mutual recognition passing between us. Two professionals. Different fields, same instincts. “I’ll be in the living room,” I said finally. “Door stays unlocked while you shower.”
“Don’t trust me alone with a lock between us?”
“I don’t trust anyone.” The admission came automatically. Truth for truth.
She nodded, accepting this. “Smart policy.”
I turned to leave.
“You’ve thought of everything,” she said, gesturing to the security measures surrounding us.
I looked back, meeting her gaze directly. “That’s my job.”
“Mine too.” She stepped into the bathroom. “That’s why I’m still alive.”
The door closed softly between us. I heard the shower start moments later. Standing in my hallway, I realized something unsettling -- for the first time in years, I wasn’t the only predator under my roof.
I moved to the living room, checking the locks on the front door. Twice. Just like she’d noticed.
* * *
The clock on the wall read 2:17 a.m., the numbers glowing green in the darkness.
The dim fluorescent fixture cast just enough light to see the columns of figures spread before me.
Sleep wasn’t coming tonight. Not with a potential traitor among my brothers and a woman with dangerous information in my shower.
The official club ledgers sat open, three months’ worth of transactions telling a story, if you knew how to read it.
And I did. Twenty years as VP had taught me to see patterns where others saw only chaos.
I rubbed my eyes, focusing on the April transactions. Something was off. I’d known that for months. The numbers danced before me, revealing and concealing secrets with each column.
Soft footsteps in the hallway caught my attention. Not trying to hide her approach. Smart. Surprising a man like me in the dark was a quick way to end up bleeding.
Lila appeared in the doorway, hair damp from her shower, wearing my black T-shirt, which hung to her thighs.
She’d rolled the sweatpants at the waist and ankles, still swimming in them.
She didn’t ask permission to enter. Didn’t speak at all.
Just moved to the stove where a kettle sat, filled it with water, and set it to heat.
Her movements were precise, economical. No wasted energy.
I returned to the ledgers, letting her believe I wasn’t tracking her every move. She opened three cabinets before finding the mugs. Checked the fridge, located the milk. Found the tea bags in a canister by the stove. Learning my space. Mapping it.
The kettle began to whistle, a high-pitched sound that sliced through the night’s silence.
She removed it quickly, pouring water into two mugs.
She set one beside me without comment, then took the seat across the table.
Steam rose between us, carrying the scent of chamomile. Exactly what I needed at that hour.
“Thanks,” I said, not looking up from the ledgers.
“You’ve been staring at the same page for twenty minutes.” Her voice was quiet but clear in the stillness. “Found something?”
I raised my eyes slowly. She was watching me with that same analytical gaze I’d seen earlier -- the one that missed nothing. “Maybe.” I turned the page toward her. “April supply run. Routine pickup, but something went sideways.”
She studied the figures, head tilted slightly. Her finger traced the column of expenses, pausing at specific entries. “Your supply runs follow patterns. Predictable.”
My jaw tightened. “Explain.”
“Same day of each month. Same route, based on these fuel charges.” She pointed to a sequence of gas receipts.
“You vary your suppliers, but not your timing or approach.” She was right.
We’d been overconfident. Established routines over the years, fallen into comfortable patterns.
Dangerous patterns, apparently. “And here.” She flipped to March.
“Bank deposits always within forty-eight hours of a run. Anyone tracking your finances would see the cycle.”
I took a sip of the tea, buying time to process. It was perfectly steeped. “You learned all this in one look at our books?”
“It’s what I do.” No pride in her voice. Just fact. “Your security has other weaknesses too.”
“Such as?” The challenge came automatically.
She met it head-on. “Camera on your west fence has a three-second delay when it pans. Motion sensors by the garage entrance are set too high -- someone crawling stays under the detection zone. Night guard at the north gate checks his phone every fifteen minutes like clockwork. Creates a predictable window.”
I stared at her. She’d been on the compound less than twenty-four hours and had already mapped our vulnerabilities better than brothers who’d lived here for years.
“You noticed all that during one motorcycle ride?”
“I notice everything.” She took a sip of tea. “It’s kept me alive this long.”
Our gazes locked across the table. Mutual recognition passed between us -- the awareness of matching intellects. Different backgrounds, different loyalties, but the same fundamental wiring. We were both hunters. Both survivors.
“The Horsemen underestimated you,” I said.
“Most people do.” She nodded toward the ledger. “Just like your traitor is underestimating you.”
I considered her for a long moment, then made a decision. Reaching under the table, I released a hidden catch, removing a second ledger concealed there. The club’s shadow books. Only Atilla and I had access to these.
“If someone’s feeding information,” I said, placing it between us, “it would show here.”
Her eyes widened slightly -- the only indication of surprise. “Black books. Smart.”
“Necessary.” I opened to the first page. “These track everything that doesn’t appear in official records. The real money. The real operations.”
I was violating club protocol showing her this. If any brother walked in now, I’d have serious explaining to do. But my gut said this was the right play.
She pulled her chair around to my side of the table, moving closer, shoulder nearly touching mine as we leaned over the numbers together.
The scent of my soap on her skin created an unexpected distraction.
I focused harder on the ledger. “We need to cross-reference these with your evidence,” I said, reaching for her folder that sat at the edge of the table.
Our hands moved simultaneously, fingers brushing as we both grabbed for it. The contact lingered a half-second longer than necessary before she slid the folder toward me.
“Start with February,” she suggested.
We spread both sets of documents side by side. Her Horsemen transaction records next to our shadow books. Dates. Times. Amounts. Locations. All laid bare under the kitchen’s dim light.
“There.” Her finger landed on a February entry in our books. “Supply run to Oklahoma City. Ambushed at the state line.”
I found the corresponding entry in her documents. “Payment of eight thousand dollars. Three days before.”
“And here.” She flipped forward. “March 15th. Payment of five thousand.”
I checked our books. “March 18th. Gun shipment intercepted.”
The pattern was well hidden, but unmistakable once you saw it. Payments from the Horsemen almost always within a few days of our failures.
“This transaction.” I pointed to April 17th. “Ten thousand. One of the larger payouts. Second time we’ve seen this amount.”
She nodded, finding the match in our books. “April 20th. The meeting with your Colombian connection. Three brothers hospitalized.”
I traced my finger down the column, landing on a suspicious entry from last week. “This doesn’t match any official operation.”
Her eyes narrowed with recognition. “That’s the same day as their twenty-thousand-dollar outgoing payment. The one I was investigating when Butcher caught me.”
We both stared at the date. Something big was coming. Something worth twenty thousand in advance.
“Whatever they’re planning,” she said quietly, “it happens this Thursday.”
“Thursday. We have a ride -- high dollar parts run to Tulsa.” Our shoulders were touching now, heads bent close over the damning evidence.
The kitchen felt smaller suddenly, more intimate.
Two people connected by numbers, patterns, and the hunt for betrayal.
“We need to identify who had access to every operation that was compromised.”
She was already ahead of me, pulling out a notepad from her folder. “I started a list. Every failed run, every ambush, every security breach. We cross-reference who knew about each one.”
“The overlap will be our traitor.”
“Exactly.”
The kitchen light caught the amber flecks in her brown irises.
I saw my own intensity reflected back at me.
The same focus. The same determination. For the first time since she’d walked into our clubhouse with her dangerous information, I felt something shift between us.
Not trust -- not yet. But recognition. Respect.
My finger remained on the suspicious transaction while her gaze stayed locked on mine, both of us silently acknowledging what we’d discovered. We had three days to catch a traitor before something catastrophic happened. Three days to figure out which brother had betrayed his oath.
And only the woman the club least trusted could help me do it.