A new access attempt. Right now, happening live while I'm watching.
Someone is in the network, and the tripwire is tracking them in real time.
My pulse spikes. I lean forward, watching the intruder move through the system.
They're in the financial directory again. Pulling files this time, not mapping.Downloading.
The proxy chain starts bouncing. First hop, second hop, the residential IP in Fairmont.
I'm ready for it. The trace program Krypton and I built is running underneath, peeling layers faster than the intruder can add them.
First layer stripped. VPN through Eastern Europe.
Second layer stripped. TOR node in Virginia—closer than the Fairmont bounce. Getting warm.
Third layer.
The residential IP resolves. Not Fairmont. Clarksburg. Twenty minutes south.
I run the IP through the geolocation database. It maps to a physical address. A house on Maple Street.
I cross-reference the address against public records.
The name comes back and my breathing stops.
I stare at the screen. Read it again. Read it a third time because my brain is rejecting what my eyes are telling me.
The address belongs to a woman I've never heard of. But the secondary resident listed on the utility records is a name every brother in this club knows.
I screenshot the results, save them to an encrypted file and close the laptop.
Fuck it.
I open it again and check the data one more time because information like this doesn't get delivered casually. It gets verified, confirmed, and then carried to the president with both fists clenched.
I'm sure.
Behind me, Saylor shifts in the bed. Her breathing catches, holds, then evens out. Dreaming.
I watch her for ten seconds. The line of her jaw. The way her fingers curl against the pillow.
The woman I'm falling for is being hunted by a predator. The club I've given years to is being gutted from the inside by someone who should have been untouchable.
Two threats running on parallel tracks, closing in from opposite directions, and I'm standing in the middle trying to hold both lines.
I close the laptop. Press my palms against the desk until my arms stop shaking.
In five hours, I'm going to walk into the kitchen, pour Ruger his morning cup, and tell him something he isn't going to want to hear.
The kid is about to break the club open.
And it's going to hurt.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Saylor
Something is wrong at the clubhouse.