As if on cue, the door swings open, and there they are, Highway and Winchester, deep in conversation as they stride toward their bikes. My heart sinks a bit. It’s clear Highway prefers to keep me out of the club’s inner workings. Yet, nobody ever said I couldn’t keep a watchful eye from afar. With a smirk, I fire up the engine and pull out, trailing them at a safe distance.
The neon lights of a strip club soon come into view. I’m sure they would cast a lurid red shadow across the pavement at night, but they look tacky in the harsh light of the day. The sign, a seductive outline of a woman, flickers intermittently. I park up the street close enough to keep them in sight. The bouncer greets them with hearty laughter, a camaraderie I can almost feel from my vantage point. My camera lens catches the moment, snap after snap—the casual exchange, the unguarded smiles.
A few more patrons slip inside, nondescript and hardly worth a second glance. But then, three suited men arrive, their demeanor setting off silent alarms in my mind. There’s a confidence in their stride, a rehearsed casualness. They parade in front of the bouncer, jackets open, a slow pirouette to show they’re unarmed. Unimpressed, the bouncer blocks their path with a raised hand and murmurs into his walkie-talkie. Denied entry initially, they linger until a woman, all charm and smiles, appears and ushers them inside with a practiced grace.
As the day drags on, I keep my lens busy, capturing the comings, goings, and fleeting exchanges. Hours later, Winchester, Highway, and the suited trio emerge. Their laughter spills into the air, easy and genuine. They shake hands and point at some shared joke, their camaraderie thick. Then, as quickly as they had arrived, Highway and Winchester roar off on their bikes, leaving with a final wave to them.
The three men linger until the bikes are mere echoes in the distance. Then, with a signal, a sleek black Escalade glides to the curb. They slip inside with a final scan of the quiet street, and I start the truck and follow them.
They weave in and out of the traffic, and I try to keep my distance. Eventually, they turn into a driveway bordered by imposing six-foot fences—a fortress of solitude deep in the countryside. As I drive past, one of the men steps out of the Escalade, his hand covertly slipping under his jacket.
Shit.
I’ve been made.
My foot slams down on the accelerator, the engine roaring in protest as I speed away. I glance anxiously in the rearview mirror. Thankfully, no one appears to be in pursuit. Once I’m sure I’ve lost them, I ease off the gas. Jacksonville’s back roads are a maze to my unfamiliar eyes. I pull over to the side of the road, the gravel crunching under the tires, and grab my cell phone to pull up Google Maps, squinting at the screen as I try to orient myself and plan my next move.
A knock sounds on my window, and I jump, dropping my cell phone on the truck’s floor.
“Hey, darlin’,” a man in a black suit drawls from the other side of the closed window. “Playing with the big boys now?”
“I’m lost,” I reply, trying to keep my voice steady.
“Listen, sweetheart,” he grunts as he taps the window. “The boss would like to talk to you.”
“I’m good,” I retort, my chin held high.
His lips twitch in a smirk that doesn’t reach his cold eyes. He shakes his head and chuckles, dark and menacing. “Doesn’t work that way.” A car pulls up in front of the old truck. “You can either follow us, or we can help you into the car. Your choice.”
“I’ll follow.”
He chuckles once more, nods, then strolls back to the car parked behind me. I lean over, my fingers brushing against the cold, familiar plastic of my cell phone as I pluck it from the floor. Hastily, I dial my sister while shifting the truck into drive, turning around to tail them back toward the estate.
“Hey, Gwen, what’s up?” Lucy mumbles, her voice heavy with sleep.
“Sorry, Sis, but is Reaper there?” I ask, ignoring her grogginess.
“Are you okay?” she responds, her voice sharpening with concern.
“Yes,” I answer, but my pitch is a tad too high, the waver in my tone betraying my nervousness.
There’s a moment of muffled talking on the other end.
“Gwen?” It’s a deeper voice this time—Reaper’s.
“Reaper, I may have fucked up,” I confess, gripping the steering wheel tighter.
“Where are you?” His voice is calm but edged with urgency.
“I have no idea, but I’m being escorted to an estate on the outskirts of Jacksonville. It has large fences, and the number on the gate is 1515.”
“Who is doing the escorting?”
I hesitate, my stomach twisting. “Don’t be mad. But I followed Highway and Winchester to a strip club where they met these guys, and now…” My voice trails off, leaving the gravity of the situation to hang in the air.
“Fucking hell.” He exhales sharply, the line crackling with hisfrustration.
As the gates to the estate swing open, I follow the car until it stops in front of an imposing mansion. Armed men patrol the grounds with an unsettling ease, their eyes scanning the area, yet none spare me even a fleeting glance. The same man who approached me on the roadside taps on my window, motioning for me to get out.
