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Coal leaned against the desk. “It is a motorcycle race.”

“That’s what I told her,” the prospect said. “She said it wouldn’t be an accident.”

The uneasiness beneath Grimm’s skin sharpened. “What does she look like?” he asked.

“Red dress, black hair, and she’s wearing some kind of mask,” the prospect said.

“That describes half the women outside,” Coal said.

“She’s not here for the party. She’s scared,” the prospect said. People were always scared around the Rage Runners. Usually, they had a reason to be.

“Bring her to my office,” Grimm ordered. “Search her first.” The prospect nodded and hurried away.

Coal picked up his bottle again, remembered it was empty, and set it back down. “Think she’s connected to the safe?”

“I think we’re about to find out,” Grimm said. Bones entered the office carrying a toolbox. Grimm left him with Slash and headed for the room where the club handled its private business.

Church sat at the center of the clubhouse, protected by reinforced walls and a locked door. A long wooden table filled most of the room. The Rage Runners emblem had been carved into its surface—a winged skull gripping a set of handlebars, flames trailing behind it.

Grimm took his place at the head of the table. Coal sat on his right. They didn’t wait long. The door opened, and the prospect stepped inside with a woman behind him. Grimm’s first thought was that she didn’t belong there. His second was that he wanted to know exactly where she did belong.

She wore a red dress with thin straps and a skirt that ended several inches above her knees. The material was torn at one hip, exposing a strip of smooth skin. One heel was missing, forcing her to stand unevenly. Damp black hair clung to her face and shoulders, and a glittering mask covered the area around her eyes. Blood stained the front of her dress. It wasn’t the bright red liquid people were throwing around outside, but real blood that had dried dark. Grimm knew the difference.

Her gaze found him immediately. She looked over the president’s patch on his chest before lifting her eyes to his face. Something moved through him—not recognition. He had never seen her before. He would have remembered the sharp line of her cheekbones, the fullness of her mouth, and those dark eyes that held his despite the fear he saw inside them. The woman was beautiful, but she was also trouble. Grimm had learned long ago that those two things often arrived together.

“Did you search her?” he asked.

The prospect nodded. “No weapons, and no phone. She had this.” He placed a black flash drive on the table, and the woman lunged for it. Coal stood, but Grimm was faster. He closed his hand around the drive before she could reach it.

“Give that back,” she demanded. Her voice trembled, but she didn’t retreat.

Grimm studied her. “You came to my clubhouse carrying it.”

“I came here because I need help,” she spat.

“That was your first mistake,” Grimm said.

“No.” Her eyes flicked toward the locked door. “My first mistake was going to that party. My second was looking behind a door that should’ve stayed closed. Coming here might be the only smart thing I’ve done tonight.”

“What party?” Grimm asked.

“The masquerade at Blackwood Manor,” she said. Coal glanced at Grimm. Everyone in the area knew the Blackwood place. The estate sat twelve miles outside town behind iron gates and enough private security to protect a small country. The men who owned it hosted parties for politicians, businessmen, and criminals wealthy enough to pretend they weren’t criminals.

Grimm had been invited once. He had declined by sending the invitation back with a bullet through it.

“Whose blood is that?” he asked.

The woman looked down at her dress as though she had forgotten it was there. “I don’t know his name.”

“You expect me to believe you’re covered in a stranger’s blood?” Grimm asked.

“He died in front of me,” she said.

“How did he die?” Grimm asked.

“Someone cut his throat,” she said. The answer came too quickly to be invented.

Grimm rolled the flash drive between his fingers. “And this?”