Page 3 of Kane

“I’m serious. Stay away from Crossbend. Stay away from Beckett. I’ll contact you when it’s safe.”

The line went dead, and I stared at my phone in stunned silence.

There was no mistaking it after that call—my brother was in trouble. And with the IA investigation, there probably wasn't a lot he could do to get himself out of this mess without risking more questions. But nobody was watching my every step.

Crossbend was only a few towns over.

If Devon wouldn’t tell me the truth, I’d find it myself.

And if Kane Beckett was the key to clearing my brother’s name, then I’d just have to find him too.

2

KANE

The bastard we were hunting had vanished.

It was silent in my office, except for the low hum of the vents blowing in cold air. I stared out the window on my left and watched the Florida heat ripple across the sunbaked asphalt.

When I leaned back in my chair, it groaned beneath me, the leather worn smooth from years of decisions that built empires and buried enemies. My boots were planted wide on the floor, and my hands were fisted on top of my custom, hand-carved, solid walnut desk. The piece suited me, expensive but understated and strong. Heavy enough that you could slam a man’s face into the surface and it wouldn’t so much as leave a splinter. Something I knew from experience.

As the president of the Redline Kings Motorcycle Club, I was the face of the brotherhood. The image that told people not to fuck with us unless they had a damn death wish.

Edge sat across from me, one boot kicked up on the edge of my desk like he owned the place. He didn’t, but he was the only bastard I let act like he did. My younger brother by eighteen months, vice president of the club, and the only man on this planet who could read me without needing words.

He was sprawled in his chair with one hand lazily turning a switchblade between his fingers like a drummer twirling a stick. To most, he looked like he didn’t give a damn. He did, of course—more than most—but he hid it better. That laid-back grin of his always threw people off. They didn’t see the blade underneath until they were already bleeding. His road name fit. Edge had always been just this side of unhinged, walking that fine fucking line between charming and psychotic.

Nitro, our sergeant at arms, stood with his arms crossed near the door. He didn’t like sitting. Said it made him feel caged. His frame blocked most of the entrance, like a wall of ink and muscle daring anyone dumb enough to interrupt. The man looked carved from stone, athletic, but built to fight and made to endure. He had a temper that made people rethink breathing wrong around him, but it took a lot to light his fuse.

Jax perched on the leather arm of the couch across the room, tapping in a steady rhythm on the keyboard of his laptop. His blond hair was shoved under a backward ball cap, and his black-rimmed glasses somehow made him look more dangerous, not less. That was Jax for you—genius brain, twitchy fingers, always ten steps ahead of the digital world and three steps ahead of ours.

People underestimated Jax because he was younger. Quieter. Smarter. The man could hack into a Pentagon satellite before you blinked and still have time to reroute your bank account and reprogram your car stereo to play Taylor Swift on loop. He’d done it once, just to prove a point.

“Tell me,” I said, voice low and dark. “How the hell does a nobody traffic cop outsmart all of us?”

Edge chuckled. “You’re not pissed he slipped through. You’re pissed you didn’t see it sooner.”

Fair enough, I thought, tilting my head.

“Who is this guy?” Nitro asked. He’d been out on a run for a couple of months and wasn’t caught up on the shit going down.

“Devon Quincy,” Jax muttered, dragging the name like it left a bitter taste. “Thirty-two. Works traffic in Wedgewood. Lived in the same rented house for six years. Used to be clean—boring as shit. Past several months, the pattern started to change. The asshole decided to get his hands dirty and has the balls to try and go up against us.”

“Maybe he got a sugar mama,” Nitro grunted, scratching at the edge of his chin. “Those small-town women get real generous when a man fills out the uniform.”

“He didn’t get paid in blow jobs and casseroles,” I said flatly.

Edge grinned. “Shame. That’d be easier to trace.”

I didn’t smile. Not because it wasn’t funny, but because this wasn’t just another dirty cop with a padded wallet. Someone out there was trying to buy their way into my world. My tracks. My races. My territory.

And they were using a fucking traffic cop to do it. He might be low on the totem pole, but he had access.

Jax’s fingers flew across his tablet. “We set traps across every payment channel. Dummy shell accounts, fake vendor contracts. Every time we get close, the money evaporates. Every account Devon touched scrubbed. No IPs. No traceable vendors. All offshore. Shells inside shells. And the trail’s cold again.”

I exhaled through my nose. “You said the same thing last week.”

Jax’s mouth twitched. “Yeah, well. The bastard’s consistent. He’s smart. Or scared. Probably both.”