Page 100 of Peak’s Code

Then she opened his office door. Victor's study was always locked, but he'd forgotten to secure it one night after too much whiskey. She'd gone looking for a bottle of aspirin and instead found a laptop sitting open on his desk. She should've walked away; instead, she'd looked at it. The spreadsheets hadn't made sense at first, but then she recognized the names. They were politicians, judges, business owners, and even a sheriff. And next to their names were listed payments with dates. She was sure that they were records of bribes. She just never imagined that her husband was involved in moving drug shipments hidden inside legitimate cargo through the Chesapeake Bay. Her blood had run cold. The man she'd married wasn't just a wealthy businessman; he was the head of an organization that reached farther than she'd ever imagined. She'd copied everything she could onto a flash drive before quietly slipping out of the office. Victor found out the next morning, and the beating that followed had nearly killed her.

A branch caught her shoulder, jerking her back to the present. She stumbled down a muddy embankment, sliding the last several feet before crashing into the shallow edge of a creek. The icy water stole her breath. For a second she lay there, staring up at the rain pounding through the canopy of trees. Then survival kicked in. Her father had taught her one useful thing before cancer stole him away.

"If someone's tracking you with dogs, use water whenever you can."

She crawled deeper into the creek until the water reached her waist. The current tugged at her torn dress as she forced herself downstream, ignoring the stabbing pain in her side. Every step felt like someone driving a knife between her ribs all over again. The barking grew fainter as she followed the creek for nearly half a mile before climbing onto the opposite bank.

Her legs trembled violently, and she couldn't tell if it was from blood loss or exhaustion—probably both. The woods thinned, giving way to an old county road. A faded sign welcomed travelers into Maryland, and relief washed over her. She'd made it across the state line. Now she just had to find the Grave Prowler’s territory.

Headlights appeared in the distance, and Jezebel ducked behind a cluster of bushes, every muscle in her body tensing as the pickup slowed. Her heart hammered in her chest as she silently begged them not to stop. The truck rolled past without so much as tapping the brakes, and she let out a shaky breath. Trusting strangers had nearly gotten her killed once already. She wasn't about to make that mistake again.

The rain had soaked her to the bone by the time she spotted the glow of a neon sign a mile farther down the road. It was a roadside diner. She didn't care about food, but she needed information.

The bell above the door jingled as she stepped inside, and conversations stopped instantly. Every eye in the place landed on her, and she knew what they saw—a barefoot woman with her dress torn, hair plastered to her face, and blood staining one side of her clothes.

The elderly waitress hurried over. "Honey, are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Jezebel lied.

The woman looked unconvinced. "You don't look fine."

"I just—” Her voice cracked. "I need directions."

The waitress glanced toward the blood on her side before lowering her voice. "Directions to where?" Jezebel hesitated. If Victor's reach was as far as she feared, saying the wrong name in the wrong place could get her killed. Then again, she'd already come too far to turn back.

She swallowed hard. "I'm looking for the Grave Prowlers." The diner's silence deepened. A man in a trucker's cap slowly lowered his coffee cup. Two mechanics exchanged knowing looks. The waitress studied Jezebel for several long seconds before nodding toward the back booth. An older man sat alone, drinking coffee. His gray beard reached halfway down his chest, and a faded leather vest hung over the back of his chair.

"Go ask Earl," the waitress whispered. "If anyone knows where to find them, it's him." Jezebel's pulse quickened. She crossed the room carefully, trying not to show how badly she was hurting.

The old man looked up before she reached the table. His blue eyes were surprisingly sharp. "You look like death warmed over," he said matter-of-factly.

"I've had better nights,” she breathed, clutching her side.

"I reckon." He gestured toward the empty seat.

She sat with a wince. "You know where I can find the Grave Prowlers? I need their help."

Earl took a slow sip of coffee. "I do." Hope flared inside her. "But before I tell you—” He leaned forward, studying her face with unsettling intensity. "You'd better tell me why the President of the Grave Prowlers would risk his club for a woman he's never met."

Jezebel looked down at her trembling hands. When she answered, her voice was barely above a whisper. "Because if he doesn't—” She reached into the hidden pocket of her jacket and laid the tiny flash drive on the table. "The men hunting me won't stop with me. They'll come for him next."

He looked the flash drive over, and she quickly slipped it back into her pocket. “I can’t take you to their clubhouse,” he said. “Captain will have my ass if I drop you off there. But I can take you to a warehouse that they use. It’s in their territory.”

“Do you think this Captain will help me?” she asked.

The older man shrugged. “Not sure,” he admitted. “I’m not a patched member of the Grave Prowlers, but I know the guy, and if you’re on his property, he’ll notice.” That was all she could ask for right now. First, she had to get into the Grave Prowlers; then, she could convince this Captain to help her. She had no other choice—her and her unborn baby’s lives depended on it.

Universal Link-> https://books2read.com/u/4725BE

What’s coming next from K.L.? You won’t want to miss Blood Vows (Crimson Empire Mafia Book 2) coming this September!

Dante

Blood never washed off. Dante Vitale knew that the moment he stepped into the abandoned warehouse on the south docks. The air still carried the copper bite of it, sharp and unforgiving, clinging to the back of his throat like a memory that refused to fade. Three bodies lay cooling on the concrete, with one message carved deep into the bodies⁠—

CAMORRA

Dante crouched beside the nearest corpse, fingers brushing the edge of the wound with practiced precision. He noticed that the cuts were clean, almost surgical-looking. These murders weren’t done in a sloppy rage. There were calculated executions. Someone wanted this scene to be found, and they wanted it traced back to Luca Camorra—of that, he was sure. And that meant one thing—it wasn’t their work.