Page 106 of Tyson
Her handwriting stared up at me from her pillow.
Gone to the shop. Need to process through painting.
The paper crumpled in my fist before I realized I'd grabbed it. She wasn’t meant to be alone, and she knew that. Something felt off—badly off.
"Fuck." I was already moving, yanking on jeans and boots with muscle memory while my brain caught up.
The first call went straight to voicemail. So did the second. By the third, my hands were steady but my chest felt like someone had reached in and squeezed. This wasn't her avoiding a difficult conversation. All my instincts said it was more than that.
Tracker app. Thank Christ for paranoia and technology. The compass rose icon blinked on my screen, showing her moving through the city. But not toward downtown where her shop waited. She was heading northwest, into the industrial district. Into areas where civilians had no good reason to be at eight in the morning.
"Baby, what did you do?"
The words came out as prayer and accusation both. My phone exploded with notifications before I could process what I was seeing. Tank's name flashed first: "Fire at Eddie's place. Whole building's going up."
Then Duke: "Get here NOW."
More texts flooded in—brothers reporting, questioning, mobilizing. But my eyes stayed locked on that little compass rose, watching it move deeper into territory that made my military brain scream warnings.
The ride to the clubhouse took six minutes. Felt like six hours. The tracker showed Lena moving steadily, purposefully. Not the erratic pattern of someone taken against their will. The deliberate path of someone going somewhere specific.
The clubhouse was controlled chaos. Brothers everywhere, some still pulling on cuts, others huddled around the TV where news footage played on loop. A massive warehouse fire, flames reaching three stories high, black smoke visible across half the city.
"Eddie's inside," Switchblade reported, not looking away from the screen. "Neighbors saw him go in around seven-thirty. Haven't seen him come out."
"Jesus." Tank's voice cracked slightly. "First Rico and Johnnie, now Eddie . . ."
But I wasn't listening to their grief. Couldn't afford to. My phone screen showed that compass rose moving through streets I recognized, heading toward an intersection that made bile rise in my throat. The border between our territory and theirs. The line Eddie would know we rarely crossed without serious backup.
"She went to him." The realization hit like a physical blow. "Eddie. She went to fucking Eddie."
Every head turned. Duke materialized at my shoulder, reading my face with those eyes that missed nothing.
"What?"
"Yesterday." The words tumbled out while I watched her tracker creep deeper into enemy territory. "Found them talking in the chapel. By the memorial. She said he was telling her about Johnnie, but . . ." My fist slammed the table. "He was working her. Playing on her guilt."
"Eddie's burning in a warehouse," someone protested. "He can't—"
"Body?" I cut them off, voice gone to command mode. "Anyone actually see a body? Confirmed remains? Or is it all just hearsay?"
Silence spread like infection. On screen, reporters discussed the intensity of the blaze, how identification would take time, how the building's age made it a tinderbox. Perfect for destroying evidence. Perfect for covering tracks.
Duke's face underwent a transformation I'd seen before—the moment understanding crystallized into action. "Fire's one hell of a distraction. Keeps cops busy, makes us think he's dead . . ."
"While he delivers Lena to Cruz." The tracker icon flickered on my screen, signal weakening as she moved deeper into areas with poor coverage. "She's in Serpent territory. Signal's dying."
"Could be coincidence," Tank argued, but his voice lacked conviction. Twenty years of brotherhood warred with tactical assessment on his scarred face. "Maybe she really did go somewhere to process. Maybe—"
The tracker went dark.
"Signal's gone." My phone creaked in my grip. "FUCK!"
"Mount up." Duke's command voice filled the space, cutting through shock and confusion. "Full force. Every brother who can ride. If Eddie's alive and did this—"
"He's dead either way." I was already moving, checking weapons with hands that wanted to shake but wouldn't. "But first, we get her back."
The prospect nearest the door scrambled to spread the word. Engines roared to life outside, the sound of retribution warming up. But all I could see was that dead tracker, that last position before everything went dark. She'd trusted someone she shouldn't have. Walked into a trap wrapped in sympathy and shared grief.
