Chapter Four
Spade
I rubbed my eyes, feeling the grit of exhaustion.
The kitchen table had become a war room -- ledgers stacked in precise columns, printouts arranged by date, my laptop displaying spreadsheets that blurred after too many hours of focus.
Three empty mugs formed a semicircle around my workspace.
Methodical. Ordered. Just like everything else in my life.
Until now.
The club’s official books lay open to April. Next to them, our shadow ledger -- the one only Atilla and I had access to. The third stack contained Lila’s evidence from the Horsemen’s accounts. Three separate stories that should align perfectly. But something was still missing.
I straightened a pile of receipts that had shifted, aligning the edges with military precision. My mind worked better when everything was in its place. Control the environment, control the outcome. Twenty years as VP had taught me that much.
The blue highlighter in my hand marked another suspicious transaction -- twenty-five thousand withdrawn the day before our gun shipment got hit.
Not enough to raise alarms on its own, but part of a pattern I couldn’t quite grasp yet.
I circled the date, drew a line connecting it to three other similar withdrawals.
Almost there. The answer hovered just beyond reach.
My phone vibrated.
Atilla: Any progress?
Me: Working on it. Will have answers soon.
The truth was messier. Hours of analysis had yielded suspicions but no smoking gun.
No name I could take to the President and say with certainty: “This is our Judas.” And I wouldn’t move without certainty.
Not when accusing a brother meant a death sentence.
The stakes were too high for guesswork. The club.
My family for twenty years. The only stability I’d known since leaving the service.
Now compromised from within. The betrayal burned worse than any physical wound I’d suffered.
I cross-referenced another transaction, checking it against three separate sources.
My system was thorough -- red for suspicious withdrawals, blue for timing inconsistencies, green for direct correlations with Horsemen payments.
The papers resembled a roadmap of treachery, each mark bringing me closer to a name.
Halfway through marking a May transaction, my pen froze mid-stroke.
Something about the account number looked familiar.
I flipped back through the shadow ledger, scanning previous entries.
There it was again -- same routing number, different transaction.
I’d almost missed it. The transfers were small enough to fly under radar. Smart. Patient. Calculated.
Just like our traitor.
A soft movement at the door pulled my attention up.
Lila stood in the hallway, watching me, hair pulled back in a practical ponytail, glasses perched on her nose, wearing my oversized clothes that somehow looked right on her frame.
Her gaze moved from my face to the organized chaos spread across the table, assessing. Always assessing.
I didn’t acknowledge her. Didn’t invite her in. Just returned to my work, highlighter moving across another suspicious entry.
She entered anyway.
Her bare feet made no sound on the tile floor as she approached the table. No hesitation now, not like earlier in the hallway. She moved with quiet confidence, as if she belonged in my kitchen at 5:30 in the morning.
“You’re still at it,” she said. Not a question.
“So are you.” I didn’t look up.
She slid into the chair across from me without asking permission. Another boundary crossed. I’d let her into my compound, my house, given her clothes and shelter. Now she was claiming space at my table. My territory.
“Find anything else?” she asked, setting her folder down with careful precision.
“Maybe.” I didn’t elaborate.
She tilted her head slightly, studying my organized piles. Her eyes narrowed behind her glasses, focused and sharp despite the early hour. Professional eyes. Hunter’s eyes.
“Your system is color-coded.” She nodded toward my highlighters. “Mind if I look?”
Before I could answer, she’d already pulled the nearest ledger toward her. Her fingers moved over the pages with practiced efficiency, tracing columns of numbers like a pianist reading sheet music. Natural. Fluid. I watched her work, curious despite myself.
Her brow furrowed as she studied a highlighted section. “You’ve marked these account transfers, but you’ve missed the connection to these withdrawals.” She flipped back several pages, pointing to entries I’d overlooked. “See this?”
I didn’t respond. I hadn’t caught that -- the numbers didn’t match exactly -- but I was seeing it now. The withdrawals always came in specific amounts. Never round numbers that would trigger attention. Always through different accounts that ultimately linked back to the same source.
Without asking permission, she pulled my laptop closer, scanning the spreadsheet I’d been building. “This helps, but you’re missing key data points.” She opened her folder, extracting several printouts. “Cross-reference with these. They’ll fill in the gaps.”
She spread her documents alongside mine, creating a more complete picture. Our hands almost touched as we both reached for the same paper. Neither of us pulled back. The moment stretched between us -- two hunters working the same trail, reluctant allies in the same pursuit.
Her glasses slipped slightly as she leaned forward, and she pushed them back with an unconscious gesture. For a brief moment, without the barrier of lenses between us, her gaze met mine directly. Brown with flecks of amber. Alert. Intelligent. Determined.
Then the glasses were back in place, and she was all business again, already immersed in the numbers that might lead us to a traitor.
* * *
She worked with a focus that reminded me of myself -- methodical, precise, leaving nothing to chance.
Her fingers moved across the pages with practiced confidence, dots I’d stared at for hours without seeing all the connections.
I found myself watching her hands instead of the numbers.
Small hands with short, practical nails.
No polish. No jewelry. Nothing that would get in the way of her work.
Functional. Like everything else about her.
“These aren’t random,” she said suddenly, pulling several printouts closer. Her voice cut through my thoughts. “Look at the shell accounts -- they’re funneling through a shell corp named Aurora Medical Supply and three additional fronts.”
I leaned forward, studying where she pointed. The name wasn’t familiar. “Aurora Medical Supply?”
“It’s a legitimate business -- on paper.
” She flipped through her folder, extracting a corporate registration document.
“Medical supply distributor, registered in Oklahoma City three years ago. Perfect front -- high-volume transactions, regular cash flow, lots of small payments that don’t raise flags. ”
She spread papers across the table without hesitation, creating a visual map of money movement.
Account numbers. Dates. Transaction amounts.
“Each withdrawal gets routed through a different shell,” she continued, “but they all connect back to Aurora eventually. See here…” She traced a line of transfers.
“Five thousand and change moves from your club account to this supplier payment. Three thousand even actually reaches the supplier. The rest disappears through this chain.”
Her efficiency was impressive. Irritating, but impressive. I’d spent all night looking for emotional motivations -- grudges, vendettas, ideological betrayals. She’d walked in and immediately followed the money.
“Look at this column.” She arranged another set of documents in a neat row. “Different amounts, different dates, but identical structure. Whoever set this up knows financial forensics. They’re using textbook money laundering techniques.”
I pulled the papers closer, verifying her analysis. She was right. The pattern was subtle but unmistakable once you knew what to look for. Every compromised operation had a corresponding financial trail that led back to Aurora Medical Supply.
“How did you spot this so quickly?” I asked, the question slipping out before I could stop it.
Her eyes met mine briefly over the rim of her glasses.
“Believe me, it wasn’t quick. I’ve been working on this since my sister was killed.
These transactions are set up similarly to how the Horsemen launder their protection money.
Same structure, different companies.” She returned to the documents.
“Whoever your leak is, they learned from professionals.”
We both reached for the same bank statement, our hands colliding over the paper. Her fingers were warm against mine, the contact sending an unexpected current up my arm. A heartbeat passed. Two. Then she slid the document toward me, her face revealing nothing.
“This account here.” She tapped another paper, professional mask firmly back in place. “Name’s probably fake, but the address links to a property owned by a holding company called Meridian Investments.”
“Which connects to Aurora,” I finished.
“Exactly.” The corner of her mouth quirked up -- not quite a smile, but close. “Your traitor is building layers. Making it nearly impossible to trace the money back to them.”
Nearly impossible wasn’t the same as impossible.
Not for someone who knew what to look for.
And Lila Mercer clearly did. I found myself reassessing her with each passing minute.
The woman who’d walked into our clubhouse wasn’t just some accountant who’d stumbled onto conspiracy.
She was a financial investigator who’d deliberately followed the money trail, putting herself in harm’s way to chase down answers.
“Pull up the April transaction report,” she instructed.