Rhett looked at the puddle, then at Cal. The enforcer's perpetual irritation vanished, replaced instantly by a cold, calculating fury. He slowly swung his leg back off the bike and stood up.
"Who?" Rhett asked.
"I don't know," Cal said. He looked back toward the clubhouse door. "But they’re still inside."
Cal gripped Jace’s shoulder. "Go to the truck. Lock the doors. Do not open them for anyone but me. Understand?"
Jace nodded mutely. He bolted for the rusted pickup, scrambling inside and hitting the heavy manual locks.
Cal and Rhett walked back into the clubhouse side by side.
Wade, Boone, and Elias were still at the long wooden table. Boone was adjusting his reading glasses, holding a ledger. Elias was staring into his cold coffee cup.
Wade looked up, reading the violence radiating off his enforcer and his mechanic. "What happened?"
"Lock the doors, Wade," Cal said softly.
Wade didn't ask questions. He gave a sharp nod. Boone stood up and slid the heavy iron deadbolt home on the front door.
"Somebody took a blade to my front brake line," Rhett said, his voice echoing in the cavernous warehouse. He stepped slowly into the center of the room. "Tapped the DOT 4 right onto the gravel. Figured I'd hit that first bend on County Road 9 and wrap myself around a pine tree."
A heavy, suffocating silence fell over the room.
The Iron Veil was small. They were tight. They fought, they bled, but they did not sabotage each other.
"Nobody’s been in that lot for three hours except us," Wade said, standing up. The old soldier’s eyes swept the room. "And I’ve been sitting right here."
"I was doing the books," Boone said defensively, holding his hands up. "I haven't stepped outside since noon."
All eyes slowly turned to Elias.
Elias Kane. The man who had been sinking into himself for six months. The man who was thinner, quieter, and strung tight as piano wire.
Elias didn't look up. His hands were gripping the edges of the table so hard his knuckles were bone-white.