Prospects don't sit in Church. We stand in the hallway and wait for instructions.
Shots is leaning against the wall across from me, rolling a cigarette between his fingers. Beats is on his phone.
The chapel door opens after forty minutes. Brothers file out, faces unreadable. Ruger last, jaw tight.
He sees me and stops. "Prospect. Anything unusual on the network this week?"
The question catches me off guard. Nobody asks me about the network. Nobody cares about the network.
I set up the encrypted communications system eight months ago when Ruger finally listened to me about the club's digital footprint, and since then, it's been background noise. Something I just handle.
"Not that I've flagged." I straighten. "Why?"
He holds my eyes for a second. "Keep an eye on it."
He walks away.
The rest of the afternoon is club business. Prospect errands.
A run to the auto parts store for Bloodhound. Cleaning the garage with Shots. Hauling trash.
Physical labor I've learned to appreciate because it's uncomplicated in a way most of my life isn't.
By ten at night, the compound is winding down.
Maddox is watching a movie in the common room. Daemon is in the garage.
Coin left hours ago to pick up the girls and hasn't come back, which means he's home on Hickory Hollow Road with Leah and the kids, living the life he earned.
I sit in my room. Small. Bed, desk, lamp, laptop.
A prospect's room is whatever the club gives you, and what the club gave me is four walls and a door that locks. It's enough for me, so I don’t complain.
Hell, if I did complain, Vulture would bust my ass anyway.
Vulture, the Prez of the Chicago charter, who also happens to be my older cousin.
The laptop opens. I log into the club's network dashboard, the one I built and maintain because nobody else knows how and nobody else wants to learn.
Ruger's question is still rattling around my head. Is anything unusual?
The access logs load. Lines of data, timestamps, IP addresses, login locations.
I scroll through the last seven days, looking at the normal traffic.
Ruger's login from the chapel. Coin's login from his phone. Porter's login from the bar. Bloodhound's login from the garage.
Nothing unusual.
Five days back. Seven days back. The entries are routine, predictable, the digital footprint of the brothers and what we’d normally look up.
Hell, I even found some freaky hucow shit Daemon looks up on Pornhub. Weird motherfucker.
Then I see it.
Eight days ago, around three in the morning.
A login from an IP address I don't recognize. Duration: four minutes, eleven seconds.