For now.
Thank fuck.
The last thing I want is to put a target on Marigold while I’m still sorting out the truth. My gut says she’s clean. It’s never failed me, and I’m not about to doubt it now.
I flick a look at Blitz. Barely a nod, but enough. He catches it, tucks it away—a silent promise we’ll talk later.
First, I need the truth about Goldie and my little shadow before I bring a single word to the table.
“Someone who’s ready to die,obvs,” Pretty Boy offers cheerfully.
“The cameras,” Pope says, turning back to Cypher, something dangerous running under his voice. “How the hell do they go dark without a single notification firing off. You’re the best there is.”
Cypher never glances up, fingers flying over the keys in a frantic rhythm. “Means someone out there’s better than me.” His voice is clinical, a verdict. “We’re exposed. Wide open. Until I know who’s behind this and how deep they’ve crawled into our system, we need to yank everything offline.” He keeps typing. “I’ll throw up backup firewalls, torch the old routes, buy us a little breathing room. But I’ll have to rebuild the whole system from the ground up before I can tell you we’re clean.”
Pope locks eyes with Cypher, then gives a single, sharp nod. “Handle it.” He pivots, voice shifting into command mode. “Tomcat, Pretty Boy, Savior, hit the marina office. Find Luke. That bastard’s the manager. He should’ve seen this coming. If he’s dirty, I want proof. If he’s just useless, make him wish he wasn’t.” His eyes narrow, scanning the horizon like he can see the enemy coming. “Cypher, stay on cyber. I want our shit locked down tight. Basilisk, D-Bag, Bugsy, round up the prospects, get them on scout rotation. Eyes on all our locations. They spot anything, and I meanany fucking thingthat makes their little wenis tingle, they call it in immediately.”
A beat of silence.
“Wenis,” Gavel repeats slowly. “You meanpenis? As in his cock?”
Malice lets out a sharp, bark-like snicker. “Wenis. That little flap of loose skin at your elbow. Kids named it that back in the nineties.”
Vortex is already holding his arm up, pointing at the inside of his elbow with the gravity of a man delivering important news.“And this little situation right here?” He points to the fold. “Also nicknamed the wagina.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Gavel grumbles, his face twisting in genuine intrigue as he stares at his own arm like it’s betrayed him. “Tell me you’re joking. I’ve got a dick and a pussy on my arm now? Mad Dog would be having a goddamn field day with this bullshit.”
We all go quiet after Gavel mentions Mad Dog. His name fills the air, carving out a space of respect. Doesn’t matter what we’re doing, his absence demands silence. In that split second, every scar on this crew feels fresh. We don’t talk about it. No one needs to. Grief sits with us like muscle memory I can’t shake.
Then Pope exhales, the moment passing, and pulls us back into the grit. “Tomcat, you still keeping hard copies of all our shit offline?”
“Of course. I’ve never trusted my life to a circuit board I can’t touch,” I reply.
Digital makes things fast, but it isn’t survival. In my gut, I only trust what I can hold, what can’t vanish with a keystroke. Paper means the edge goes to us, not some ghost in the system.
He nods once, satisfied. “Keep the records room locked. Executive board only. I don’t care what anyone else needs or why they need it. They want something out of there, they put in a request with me directly.” He sweeps a last look across the docks and the wreckage, jaw tight, something hot moving behind his eyes. “Get the clean-up crew out here.” He shakes his head slowly. “This mess pisses me off, and I cannot be pissed off today. Do you understand me? My little girl has her first ballet showcase in a week, and I promised to put on a tutu and practice with her.”
The image slams into my brain of Pope, huge and brutal in a tutu and biker boots, spinning and grinning like a lunatic. It’sso wrong it’s perfect, the surreal kind of thing that makes you realize how close we are to snapping after a bad day.
“Please tell me Birdie is recording that? That’s prime entertainment, brother,” Cyanide chortles.
Pope grins, but it’s all teeth. The kind of look a wolf gives before it bites. “Oh, you think I’m going down alone? Imagine how thrilled Lovelyn was when I told her that her ahhhmazing,” he pitches his voice into a mocking, sugary falsetto, batting his lashes, “uncle graciously volunteered to be tribute as well.”
“You absolutefucker,” Cyanide snarls, though there’s no edge to it.
Pope laughs, full and mean and fucking delighted. Then his eyes slide to Gavel. “Don’t worry. You won’t be alone. Gavel also decided to join.”
“The fuck I did.” Gavel stops, his shoulders dropping by degrees, like air leaving something. “Poppet really wants me to practice with her?”
There he goes.
Poor old man never stood a chance against those kids, and everyone here knows it. I make a mental note to get Birdie to at least grab a photo. Something that deserves permanent wall space at the clubhouse. Hell, knowing these men, they’d probably pose for it themselves without shame.
We break formation, but before I can reach my bike, Blitz’s hand is on my shoulder. “Brother—”
I snatch my hat off, dragging my fingers through my hair until my scalp stings. “I fucking know, okay? I’m not putting her in the crosshairs until I’m sure. We don’t know why she isn’t on those feeds. Could be she’s just good at moving around cameras.” I pause, and then say the thing I haven’t said out loud yet. “Don’t repeat this. But I think she might be my stalker.”
Blitz freezes, staring at me. “The hell?”
