We kill the engines.
Silence extends. The kind of silence that means someone's about to bleed.
"Report," Capone says. No preamble. No greeting. Just command, flat and final.
Trigger steps forward first, always the professional. "Warehouse near 214 South. Abandoned structure, signs of recent activity. Fresh tire tracks of heavy vehicles, probably a truck or van. Oil stains. Disturbed dust patterns indicating movement within the last six hours."
"Who?"
"Unknown," I say before Trigger can elaborate. The word comes out too fast, too sharp. I force myself to slow down, sound casual. "Could be Lattimer's crew using it as a waystation. Could be runners from one of the smaller independents. The place was clean."
Capone's eyes slide to me. The weight of that gaze is physical. I can feel it pressing against my chest, my throat, searching for the lie I'm hiding.
"Clean," he repeats. Not a question. A test.
"Empty," I correct, adjusting my story in real-time. "No product. No personnel. Just tracks and evidence of recent occupation."
"What about markings?" Blayze asks, stepping down from the porch. His voice is casual, but his eyes are sharp. "Territory tags? Any indicators of which crew was using it?"
My throat tightens. Dagger shifts his weight beside me—barely noticeable, a half-inch movement, but I feel it like an earthquake. He knows. He fuckingknowsI'm about to lie.
"Generic," I answer. "Spray paint. Gang tags. Nothing identifiable to a specific crew. Could be anyone marking new territory." The lie hangs between us. Visible. Wrong.
Capone takes a long drag, smoke curling through his exhale. His gaze doesn't leave mine. Doesn't even blink.
"Generic," he echoes, voice flat as a blade.
"Yeah."
I force myself not to look away. Not to flex my right hand, even though the scar is screaming. Not to do anything that screamsliarin neon letters across my forehead.
The silence stretches. Every second feels like an hour. Somewhere behind me, a bike engine ticks as it cools. Peanut meows from the porch. A crow caws in the distance.
Normal sounds. Normal world. But nothing feels normal.
Finally, Capone’s head nods once, slow and deliberate. "Red," he says, still watching me, "run imaging on the area. I want satellite sweeps from the last seventy-two hours. Cross-reference with known movements from Lattimer's crew and any independents operating south of the city."
"Copy," Red murmurs, already typing.
"Trigger, log the coordinates. Add it to the patrol rotation. I want eyes on that location every forty-eight hours."
"Yes, Prez."
"Blayze, reach out to our contacts south, Iron Disciples, Los Demons, anyone who might have heard chatter about a new crew moving through that territory."
"On it," Blayze says.
Torch mutters, “Guess we’re not getting our beach day after all.”
Capone smirks faintly. “Welcome to paradise.”
The tension eases for half a second. A low laugh fills the air, the scrape of boots on gravel. The small things that keep you from falling apart.
Capone flicks his cigarette into the dirt and grinds it under his boot. The ember dies in a small puff of ash. "Tiny. Garage. Now."
Fuck.
The other brothers disperse. Trigger to his office, Red to the tech room, Blayze to his phone. They move with the practiced efficiency of men who've done this dance a hundred times. OnlyDagger hesitates. He catches my eye for half a second, long enough to communicate everything he's not saying out loud.I know you're lying. I don't know why. But when this blows up, don't say I didn't see it coming.