Page 19 of My Enemy Biker

My failure. My responsibility.

I pull Clint aside, show him the data. He reviews it, face unreadable.

"You're sure?"

"Ninety-five percent. The access pattern matches perfectly. He's the leak."

"Can we confirm?"

"Set a trap. Feed him false information through the system, see if Marrow moves on it. If they do, we know for certain."

Clint considers. "Do it. But carefully. If he knows we're onto him he'll run."

"I'll be careful."

I start building the false schedule, something plausible enough that Marrow would act on it if they have the information. A supply run to a location we don't actually use, narrow time window, perfect ambush opportunity if they take it.

I upload it to the system with access restricted to specific users, including Marsh. Now we wait to see if he accesses it outside his authorized window.

By midnight the trap is set. I'm running on adrenaline and no sleep from last night. Should go home, rest, be ready for tomorrow.

Instead I'm thinking about Anna.

She called me this morning. Chose me over official channels when Marrow threatened her. Let me promise to protect her even though she doesn't fully trust that promise yet.

She's alone on that property. She knows Marrow knows who she is now, probably hasn't slept, probably researching everything she can find because that's what she does when things get complicated.

I should text her. Let her know Walt's safe, situation's handled.

I get on my bike instead.

Chapter 6 — Anna

The knock comes at 2:13am.

I've been at my laptop for six hours straight, running searches on Victor Crane's known associates, tracking Marrow property holdings through public records, cross-referencing business registrations with addresses. Building a map of their operation the way I'd build a case file.

Information gives me control when everything else is chaos.

The knock is soft but I hear it over the hum of my laptop fan. My stomach drops before I even stand up.

I know it's him.

The smart thing would be checking the window first. Confirming it's safe. I walk straight to the door and pull it open instead.

Cain's on my porch with blood on his hands.

Not his blood. I can tell immediately from how he's standing, weight distributed evenly, no favoring anywhere. Someone else's, still wet enough to gleam dark on his knuckles under the porch light, smeared across his right forearm in a pattern that looks like fingers dragging, spattered across his collar in tiny drops.

He looks exhausted. Eyes shadowed, jaw tight, something hollow in his expression I haven't seen before.

"Can I come in?"

The question comes out rough. Like his throat hurts.

I step back without answering.

He walks past me and I catch the smell, copper under leather and smoke and sweat. The door closes. I turn the deadbolt.