CLAIRE POV:
The following afternoon, Skylar's battered Ford pickup rumbled along the washboard dirt road, kicking up a thick plume of pine-scented dust.
I killed the engine deep within a grove of towering ponderosas three hundred yards out, letting the sudden silence of the backcountry swallow the vehicle whole.
From the passenger seat, I slung the black canvas pack over my shoulder. Inside were the pinhole lenses modified by Steve, a tension wrench, and a pair of slim steel picks.
Before stepping out, I glanced at the club-tracker feed glowing on my screen. The Vipers MC was convening their afternoon session across the county line, giving me a two-hour window at most, provided Leo didn't cut out early to indulge his vices.
I moved through the undergrowth with practiced, soundless precision, branches brushing against my dark jacket as the Tucker cabin materialized through the timber. It looked like a serene mountain retreat, but behind those cedar logs lay every filthy secret Leo had kept from me.
Circling toward the blind spot at the rear, I bypassed the keypad on the front porch and knelt beneath the unmonitored back casement.
Sliding a thin strip of tempered steel along the frame, my fingers worked with steady muscle memory until the internal latch gave way with a muted pop.
I hoisted myself over the sill and landed soundlessly on the hardwood within.
The stale air hit my lungs instantly—a suffocating blend of expensive bourbon, sour sweat, and the cloying vanilla musk Jenna wore like a weapon.
Near the stone hearth, a disheveled bearskin rug remained crumpled on the floor beside two half-empty crystal tumblers, one rim smeared with frosted coral lipstick.
My eyes drifted upward to the centerpiece above the mantle: a massive ten-point buck, mounted years ago as a symbol of Tucker hunting prowess.
I stepped onto the hearthstone, reaching up to the beast’s right eye. With deft fingers, I embedded Steve’s pinhole lens deep into the shadow behind the glass orb, angling the micro-aperture until the bed, the rug, and the doorway were captured in crisp, unyielding high definition.
The taxidermy trophy that once watched their illicit games was now the silent witness to their execution.
Stepping down, I didn't rely on luck to find Leo's collateral; I knew his paranoid habits better than anyone alive. As boys, he hid his stolen cash beneath floor joints, and as a prospect, he kept his leverage within arm’s reach of where he slept.
I dropped to one knee beside the heavy oak bed frame and slid my fingers along the back crossbeam until they struck cold iron: a fireproof lockbox bolted beneath the slats.
Inserting the tension tool, I applied light counter-pressure while raking the pins until the cylinder gave a crisp, mechanical click.
Lifting the lid, the contents were laid bare.
Resting beneath a black USB drive was the original deed and mortgage agreement for Nightingale Ranch, complete with my father's trembling signature stamped beside the crude serpent insignia of the Vipers MC.
The terms were stark and ruthless: my mother’s ancestral land was pledged directly to the club to fund Leo's territorial expansion, and upon closing the deal, the entire property would transfer into Leo's sole name, rendering me completely dispossessed and tied to his mercy.
A cold fury settled into my marrow, sharpening my senses rather than clouding them.
I slipped the black USB drive into my pocket, pushed the contracts back into alignment, and snapped the box shut.
Just as the lock clicked, my phone buzzed against my hip: a proximity ping from Steve's monitoring feed showing two Harley exhausts firing up outside the Vipers clubhouse forty minutes ahead of schedule.
Without wasting a breath, I swept the room for any displaced dust, slid back through the casement window, and reset the latch securely from the exterior.
By the time the distant growl of heavy motorcycle engines began echoing through the mountain pass, Skylar’s truck was already coasting down the tree line, leaving nothing behind but the unseen eye waiting for its prey.
