Page 70 of Wraith

“Because I know where bodies are buried.” The words come out quiet. Dangerous. “I know about the Hernandez deal. About the suppliers in Spokane. About Deputy Marshal Collins and how much he’s getting paid to look the other way. I know about the garage in Tacoma where you store the guns before they get distributed. I know about…”

“I get it.” Moose’s voice has gone hard. “You’re threatening to rat.”

“I’m offering not to rat. There’s a difference. You kill us, and all that information gets released. Insurance policy. But if we walk away clean, if you call off the bounty and let us disappear, then that information stays buried forever. I don’t talk, and she doesn’t talk. You get to keep operating without the heat that would come from witness testimony or a leak to the feds.”

Another silence. Longer this time. I can almost hear him thinking, weighing the angles, calculating risk versus reward.

“And what’s stopping you from talking later? From deciding you need leverage again in a year or five years?”

“Because all I want is a life. A quiet life. With her. That’s it. I don’t want back in. I don’t want power or territory or any of the shit that comes with the club. I just want out. And this is the cleanest way for both of us to get what we need.”

The motel room door opens behind me.

I turn.

June stands in the doorway, wearing a t-shirt and nothing else, her hair a mess from sleep, her eyes sharp and focused despite just waking up.

Shit.

“I’ll call you back,” I say into the phone.

“Wraith, we’re not done…”

I end the call. Slip the phone into my pocket. Try to look casual, as if I was just out here getting some air, like there’s nothing to worry about.

June looks at me. Her expression is unreadable. Then her eyes drop to the phone in my pocket and back up to my face, and I can see the suspicion forming.

“Who was that?”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

June

“Who was that?”

A pause. A quick, slippery pause.

My stomach drops the moment I see his face. He’s too calm. Too smooth. His hand slips the phone into his pocket with practiced ease, and his expression shifts into something that’s supposed to be reassuring but makes every nerve in my body go on high alert.

“Who was that?” I ask again because he hasn’t answered yet, and the silence is stretching too long.

“Cinder,” he says, and his voice is steady. Easy. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “One of my guys from the Sons. Someone I still trust.”

I remember Cinder. Not fondly, but I remember him. And the name makes sense.

Still, the words land wrong. Too rehearsed. Too easy.

“You were calling him for information?”

“Yeah.” He leans against the doorframe, casual, like we’re discussing what to have for dinner instead of our survival. “I wanted to find out what the Sons are planning. Whether Midnight’s mobilizing everyone or if it’s just a few guys hunting us. Whether they’re watching the Devils’ territory. That kind of thing.”

It makes sense. It’s logical and exactly the strategic thinking that Wraith does best.

It’s also complete bullshit.

I don’t know how I know, I just do.

Old June would have demanded to see his phone. Would have called him out right there, would have started a fight, would have pushed and pushed until he either admitted the truth or got angry enough that the truth didn’t matter anymore because the fight was the point.