Page 13 of Queen of Rebels (Shifters of Sherwood #3)

"I still can't believe," Will says, swirling his paper cup of wine, "that our resident computer nerd managed to take down two deputies. As a wolf ."

Tuck ducks his head, but I catch the pleased flush creeping up his neck. He's been quietly glowing since we got back, like someone turned up his internal dimmer switch.

“Three,” I correct, reaching for the bottle—one of a few Will apparently "liberated” the Fox Hunt Club after the guests had left and no one was looking. "And you forgot the part where he used Guy's own security system against them."

“Two and a half," Tuck mumbles into his glass. "That last one mostly just tripped over his own feet."

"Still counts." Rob's sprawled in the hideout's one reasonably sturdy chair, feet propped on a crate. His eyes catch mine across the room, and there's something knowing in his smile that makes my cheeks heat. "Though I notice you're leaving out certain... other details from your little adventure."

LJ snorts from his spot by the window. "Like why their quick in and out wasn’t quite so quick?” He casts a glance at us. “You take the long way home, or something?”

"Traffic," Tuck and I say in perfect unison, which only makes everyone laugh harder.

"Right." Will's voice drips aristocratic skepticism. "I'm sure it was bumper-to-bumper on the forest road. At midnight. ”

I throw a crumpled-up food wrapper at his head, which he dodges—maddeningly. "You try driving stick after stealing a whole freaking library. My nerves were shot.”

"Speaking of which..." Rob leans forward, suddenly serious. "What exactly do we have our hands on, here? Besides Maren’s pride and joy.”

“I swear, that car is like the cat that came back,” Will says. “Just when we thought it was out, she drags it back in.”

Rob, though, and LJ, are drawing closer to the stack of... everything we brought with us.

Tuck clears his throat, that familiar focused look settling onto his face, the puckered V of determination between his eyebrows. “It’s not really in a particular order. I printed it out all kind of...at random. Grabbed whatever I could.”

Still, he organizes the papers into neat stacks, because of course he does. Rob stays in his chair but leans forward, elbows on knees, while LJ prowls behind us.

“Where do we start?” he asks.

“I mean, follow the money, am I right?” Rob says, nudging Tuck.

Tuck lifts a sheet, then another. “Way ahead of you.” He passes the sheet to me to examine.

"What?" I lean closer, his familiar smell mingling with the rich scent of the wine.

"Look at these transfers." He points to a series of transactions I can barely make out in the orange-gold of the firelight. "See how they're all running through the same business bank account at SNB? For a business called—”

“Sherwood Holdings LLC,” I read aloud. “What does that even mean? It sounds fake.”

“It is fake,” Tuck says. “More or less. It's what we call a shell corporation."

“Like the gas company?” Rob asks. Tuck gives him a shove.

“Don’t be cute. You know exactly how these work.” Turning to me, Tuck softens. “A shell corporation is like...”

“Like a front?” I suggest.

“Sort of. I was going to say like those street games with the cups and the ball." Tuck tips his head. "You know the ones where they move the cups around really fast and you have to guess where the ball is?" He mimes swiveling cups around.

“Aren’t those totally rigged, though?” I say, then pause as understanding hits. "Oh."

“Yeah. Exactly." He spreads out more papers, laying them out one by one. "A shell corporation is basically what it sounds like: empty. So no employees, no real business, just a name and some paperwork filed in Delaware—good corporate protections,” he adds, at my confusion. “Its only purpose is to move money around, make it harder to track. The more layers you add, the more work to find where it went.”

“Like the cup guys moving faster and faster,” I say.

"Right." His fingers trace the pages he’s lined up. "So money goes into Sherwood Holdings – that's our first cup. Then it immediately gets sent to this offshore account in the Caymans – that's the second cup. We can tell because the amounts more or less match up. From there it bounces through..." He counts quickly. "Six more shell companies before it lands.”

“Six?” I mutter, but glancing down, I see he’s right. Lionheart Capital Group. Sovereign Municipal Management. Heritage Consulting of Virginia... I don’t need to see more. Each one sounds faker than the last.

“Sounds like a pain in the ass,” I say.

At that, Tuck glances at Rob, who smirks.

“What?” I say, not following the joke.

“Oh, it is,” Tuck says heavily. “The most painful of pains.”

“Quit whining,” Rob says, smirk broadening. “You love that forensic accounting shit. And besides, it’s a necessary evil, at least in our line of work.”

I catch on, and look back at Tuck. “So this is kind of a...takes one to know one thing, huh?”

“I like to think the ends justify the means,” Tuck says. “All that money we funnel eventually ends up in the right hands.”

A cold prickle creeps up the back of my neck, fire notwithstanding. “So whose hands does this money end up in?”

Tuck leans back a little. “See for yourself.”

I run my fingers back across the various ledgers until I reach the final document. JLL Enterprises Limited.

A name I haven’t seen in a long time. The one that used to be on my paystubs from the garage—for whatever measly pay I got. The one that I saw on letters addressed to the house I spent most of my young adulthood.

“John's company,” I say.

I feel sick.

"Got it in one,” Tuck says, but he doesn’t sound amused. "But that's not the worst part.” He pulls another set of documents forward. "Look at where the money originated."

I squint at the account numbers, trying to make sense of the tiny print in the firelight and wondering what I’m supposed to be seeing.

Tuck taps a few lines down. “Recognize these?”

I look. Withdrawals from various ATMs, ones in and around Nottingham. Dated a few weeks ago. Back when we were still...

“This is my account,” I say, seizing the paper from the floor. “The one my dad left me. The one I just got back.”

“The one Guy accused you of using to finance crimes,” Will says, picking at his nails. “Bastard.”

The pieces click together with nauseating clarity. “So what, he seizes it as evidence and treats it like his personal piggy bank?”

Tuck winces. “Basically.” He spreads out more papers like the world’s worst tarot reading. “It’s pretty black and white. Like...an elaborate pipeline to funnel your inheritance right back to your uncle. The small discrepencies between each transfer are Guy’s take, presumably.”

Rob's voice cuts in from behind us, making me jump. "How much total?"

“As of these records?” Tuck shuffles through his notes. “I’d say maybe eighty percent of Maren's money.”

"Bastard's efficient, I'll give him that," Will drawls, but I catch the dragon-gold flaring in his eyes.

LJ just growls, low and dangerous.

The wine turns sour in my stomach. "The whole time Guy was promising to protect me from John, he was actually..."

"Working with him." Tuck's voice carries quiet fury. "They planned it together. Guy gets his percentage for making it happen, John gets the bulk of your inheritance, and you..." He trails off.

"I get to play the perfect political wife," I finish bitterly. “Or whatever fucked-up fantasy he had about me.”

The fire crackles in the silence that follows, casting strange shadows across the evidence.

“With all due respect to Maren,” Will says delicately, “and I know this is absolutely beyond reprehensible, but...it’s not exactly grand-scale corruption. Not that affects the public, anyway.”

“Oh, no,” Tuck says, “but there’s plenty of that.”

Rob's hand finds my shoulder, warm and steady. "What else?"

Tuck sighs. “Basically? Our ambitious DA candidate has plans for Sherwood's less affluent neighborhoods." He coughs. “And by 'plans' I mean systematic displacement of current residents to make way for luxury developments."

"The eviction notices," I breathe. "All those families facing foreclosure..."

"Not foreclosure," Tuck corrects grimly. "Eminent domain. Guy's been working with Sheriff Wheatley to declare entire blocks 'blighted' so they can seize the properties for 'redevelopment.'" His fingers make air quotes around the bureaucratic doublespeak.

"And let me guess," Rob's voice is dangerously soft. “The county buys up the land, and they’re paying pennies on the dollar for something that'll be worth millions once they're done."

"With kickbacks all around.” Will’s grabbed another sheaf of pages and is shuffling through it like a casino dealer, eyes darting.. "Construction contracts, property management, security services – oh, and this is rich. They're calling it the 'Sherwood Restoration Project.’ With JLL Enterprises Ltd. as a major funding partner.”

“So we can conclusively say that Gisbourne’s corrupt,” Rob says, “is what I’m hearing.”

Will throws him a look over the papers. “Do bears shit in the woods?”

“Hey,” LJ growls.

“In LJ’s defense, we all do, for the moment,” Tuck says. “Ready for the kicker?”

He holds up a spreadsheet.

I squint. Rob leans closer, as does Will. LJ just folds his arms.

“Can’t fucking read that, pup.”

“Oh. Right.” Tuck straightens his glasses. “It’s a guest list. Looks like Guy's hosting a private dinner next week. A 'victory celebration' for his closest supporters at his estate."

"Before he's even won the election?" LJ says.

Will shrugs a shoulder. “When you've already bought the votes, why wait?"

But Rob's gone very still, that predatory focus sharpening his features. "Who's on the guest list?"

Tuck scans the document. “Oh, the people you’d expect. Every major player in their scheme. Construction companies, bank executives, city officials..."

"And John?" I ask, though I already know the answer.

"Guest of honor." Tuck grimaces. “VIP table.”