"Patch it through," I respond, already knowing who it is.
"It's me," Cara's voice says without preamble. "Miranda remembered something else. The ledger system—she says Hargrove keeps a physical backup in his hunting lodge. Some kind of safe in the office."
My pulse quickens at this information. "Location?"
"Study on the first floor, behind a painting of a stag. At least that's where she saw him access it during a private party last year."
"Copy that," I reply, mind already calculating the possibility of retrieving it during our surveillance. "How's she holding up?"
"Nervous, but steady. She wants to testify." There's a pause before Cara continues, her voice softer. "Be careful today. Hargrove doesn't strike me as someone who makes mistakes."
"Neither do I," I assure her, allowing a warmth I'd normally suppress to enter my voice. Since the shelter attack, something has shifted between us—a cautious rebuilding of trust, perhaps. Or simply the recognition of common purpose.
"I'll check in when we're clear," I add before ending the call.
Less than a minute later, Ice Pick's alert comes through: "Two SUVs approaching from the main road. Reapers insignia confirmed on lead vehicle."
I adjust my position slightly for a better view, keeping low in the natural blind we constructed using fallen logs and native vegetation. Through my binoculars, I watch the vehicles pass through the security gate after a brief exchange with the guards.
The SUVs park in the circular driveway, and six men emerge from the vehicles. I recognize Mason Gray, the Reapers' president, from intelligence photos—a bear of a man with a shaved head and full beard. The others are high-ranking officers based on their cuts. All armed, though trying to appear casual about it.
"Getting this?" I murmur into my mic.
"Crystal clear," Ice Pick confirms. "Facial recognition running on all subjects."
Twenty minutes later, as the Reapers are being served coffee on the patio by staff who appeared from within the lodge, a sleek black Mercedes pulls up. Private security exits first—two men in suits with the unmistakable bulge of shoulder holsters. They scan the area with professional thoroughness before opening the rear door.
William Hargrove steps out, looking every bit the successful businessman in a tailored suit despite the early hour. Silver-haired, fit for a man in his sixties, with the confident bearing of someone used to power. Nothing in his appearance suggests the monster beneath the veneer.
My jaw tightens involuntarily. This is the man responsible for Cara's abduction. For countless women bought and sold like property. I force my breathing to remain steady, focusing on the mission rather than the burning desire to put a bullet between his eyes.
"Primary target confirmed," Ghost's voice reports. "Recording all movements."
As Hargrove approaches the patio, Gray stands to greet him with a familiarity that speaks of long association. They shake hands, exchange pleasantries caught perfectly by our directional microphones, then settle into comfortable outdoor furniture arranged for conversation.
"Shall we wait for our other guests?" Hargrove asks, accepting a coffee from an attendant.
"Kane sends his regrets," Gray responds. "Had to handle an issue with the Seattle pipeline personally. Asked me to represent Kings' interests."
The confirmation of Kane's involvement hits like a physical blow. Marcus Kane—former president of the Kings of Purgatory, the man we thought had disappeared five years ago. The same timeframe as Cara's abduction. Another piece of the puzzle locks into place.
"Disappointing," Hargrove sighs. "But understandable given recent events. The shelter situation was unfortunate."
Gray shifts uncomfortably. "We had good intel. The woman recognized you from Seattle. Had to be handled."
"And yet, she remains very much alive," Hargrove observes, his tone mild but carrying an undercurrent of menace. "Along with our other loose end from the container operation."
A chill runs through me at the casual mention of Cara and Miranda. They're discussing assassination with the same tone businessmen might use to discuss an underperforming investment.
"We've identified the security breach," Gray assures him. "Won't happen again. Saints Outlaws caught us by surprise, but we're adapting."
Hargrove sips his coffee thoughtfully. "The Saints Outlaws are becoming more than a nuisance, Mason. First the container, then the ledger, now this. They're connecting dots we can't afford to have connected."
"We're handling it," Gray insists. "Already have someone inside their supply chain. Next shipment of weapons will have a little surprise."
This information sends a spike of alarm through me. A traitor in our supply lines means potential danger to every brother. I make a mental note to shut down all incoming shipments immediately after this operation.
"Let's hope so," Hargrove replies. "Because we're at a critical juncture. The Asian expansion requires absolute discretion. Shipping begins next week, and our buyers in Hong Kong won't tolerate disruptions."