Page 8 of Nash
I pull the photo from my cut. Place it face up at the end of the row. Ruby at Amaranth's back door.
"My bike. This morning. Tucked between the grip and the brake lever."
Malachi picks it up. Turns it over.
SHE'S NEXT.
He slides it to Knox. Knox studies it and hands it down. East takes it, reads the back, and his jaw sets. James receives it last and holds it a long time before setting it on the table.
"Your apartment," Malachi says. "Not the clubhouse."
"My apartment."
"They know where you live." He folds his hands again. "Knox. The relay."
"Encrypted. Routed through three proxies. I'm still peeling layers." Knox turns his laptop to face the table. Lines of traffic data scroll on the screen. "Comms reference a package and a timeline. No names. But the photo timestamps sync with Ruby'smovements. Same windows, same locations, same routes. They've got her whole pattern."
"Who came before her?" Knox asks.
Malachi's eyes are still on me.
"I don't know. The message was on my bike. My personal vehicle at my apartment. They're connecting her to me."
"Why you?" Malachi asks.
East shifts forward. "Ruby and Nash ran point together on Blackwell. The whole operation. If someone from that world is looking for leverage, she's the face they'd connect to his."
Knox nods. "Anyone with access to Blackwell's network would know they worked together. That's public-facing enough to track."
Malachi lets the information settle. His eyes stay on me. The silence is asking a different question than Knox's.
"Detail," Malachi says. "Nash, you're on Ruby. Effective now."
I press my thumb into the headband.
"Copy."
"Knox, keep running the relay. I want source identification by the end of the week." Malachi gathers the photos into the folder. "James, coordinate with Arden on perimeter. If they've been inside once, they'll try again."
Knox closes his laptop and heads for the door. Kyle opens it. East follows, clapping Kyle on the shoulder as he passes. James rises and takes his mug. He pauses at my shoulder. His hand lands. Squeezes once.
"Careful, son." Low enough that the words stay between us. "You've got a lot on your plate." He lifts his hand and walks out.
Malachi leans against the table edge. The folder of photos sits between his hands.
"You weren't there for the fight," he says. "You were there for her."
The fight circuits. He clocked my attendance months ago and waited.
"Detail starts now. You report everything."
I nod. Pick up the photo and slide it into my cut. Malachi heads for the bar. I head for the lot.
Amaranth is three blocks from the clubhouse. I could walk it. I take the Harley because the ride gives me sixty seconds before I'm standing in front of her.
The shop is open. Through the front window, Ruby is bent over the counter, working on a flash sheet. Copper hair twisted up. Red lips. A cropped tank that stops two inches above her waistband, a strip of skin showing between the hem and her low-rise jeans. She pushes a strand of hair behind her ear, and the movement lifts her arm enough to widen that strip of bare skin between her tank and her waistband.
My grip tightens on the handlebar before I kill the engine.
