Page 79 of Lock

Rowan.

Reapers.

Saint.

The fucking bite mark on Kellan’s neck that I’d seen in my head every time I closed my eyes.

And the bike earlier, hanging around long enough for my guys to notice, then disappearing right when they went to check.

It was a message.

I opened the drawer and pulled out the burner phone. I’d had Slate set it up months ago as a backup line, one nobody had, one that never pinged anything tied to us.

I dialed Slate.

He picked up on the first ring. “Prez.”

“Update,” I said.

Slate didn’t waste time. “Bike earlier was a scout. Didn’t come in. Just slow-rolled the perimeter, checked our gates,checked our sight lines. Plate was covered. Helmet was tinted. He left when Fuse moved to follow.”

“Any cameras catch him?”

“Got a partial, but nothing clean. He knew where our blind spots were.”

That made my jaw tighten.

“Means he’s been here,” I said.

“Or he’s got eyes,” Slate replied. “Either way, not random.”

“Any movement at Blackthorn?”

Slate paused. “Nothing direct. But we got chatter. One of our guys has a cousin with a cousin type shit, you know the deal. Rowan’s pissed.”

I leaned back in the chair, staring at the wall like it could tell me what move to make.

“Pissed enough to come?” I asked.

“Pissed enough to talk,” Slate said carefully. “Not sure about action yet.”

Rowan was a talker.

But he was also the kind of man who’d burn the world down and call it justice.

I rubbed my thumb over my lower lip, thinking.

“Keep eyes on the perimeter,” I said. “I want shifts doubled. Quiet rotations. I don’t want people getting spooked.”

“Already started,” Slate said.

“Good. And Slate…”

“Yeah?”

“If Kellan asks you anything, anything at all, you don’t answer.”

Slate didn’t laugh. Didn’t joke.