"They won't find us here," I lied. I stood up, pacing the narrow space between the bed and the television. I pulled the items from my pockets. The burner phone. The insurance paper. The brass key.
Safe-T Storage - Unit 42.
I knew where that was. It was a massive, sprawling facility out by the old county line, mostly used for storing boats and RVs. If David had cashed out a quarter of a million dollars in life insurance, it had to be there. And whatever Brick wanted to settle the debt was probably sitting right next to it.
I looked at the digital clock on the bedside table. 2:15 AM.
I couldn't wait until morning. Every second I wasted was a second Brick had to track us down.
"Mia, we have to get back in the car," I said gently.
She didn't argue. She was too exhausted. I carried her out to the Honda, laid her down in the backseat with her blanket, and locked the doors from the inside.
The drive to the storage facility was agonizingly tense. The roads were dead empty. When I pulled up to the Safe-T Storage front gate, I used a code I found saved in David's burner phone under the name "S-T". The iron gate rolled back with a loud, grinding squeal.
I drove down the rows of orange metal doors, counting the numbers illuminated by the sparse security lights. Thirty-eight, forty, forty-two.
I parked the car directly in front of the door, leaving the engine running and the heat on for Mia. I checked the backseat. She was fast asleep. I made sure the doors were locked, took a deep breath, and walked up to the heavy padlock on Unit 42.
The brass key slid in perfectly. The lock clicked open.
I grabbed the metal handle and heaved the rolling door upward. It shrieked in protest, echoing through the empty facility. I reached inside and fumbled along the wall until I found the light switch. A single fluorescent bulb flickered to life.
The unit smelled of dust, old oil, and stagnant air.
In the center of the concrete floor sat a vintage motorcycle covered by a heavy canvas tarp. I walked past it to a metal workbench at the back of the unit. There were tools neatly organized on a pegboard, a stack of old service manuals, and a heavy iron lockbox sitting in the center of the table.
It was unlocked.
I opened the heavy lid. Inside, there was no cash. There was no duffel bag full of insurance money.
There was only a thick, black leather-bound ledger.
I pulled it out and opened it. The pages were filled with David’s meticulous handwriting. Dates, locations, dollar amounts, and names. Brick. Leo. Shipment 4 - Dock 9. Payoff - Sheriff Tolan.
I stared at the numbers, my mind spinning. This wasn't a bank account. It was a record of extortion. It detailed years of illegal drug runs, payoffs to local police, and skimming operations. David hadn't cashed out his life insurance to run away; he had cashed it out to buy his way out of the club, to keep us safe. But the club hadn't let him go. They were bleeding him dry.
And David had been gathering leverage. He was documenting every single crime Brick's chapter committed, preparing to blow the whistle if they ever threatened us.
I flipped to the back of the lockbox. Tucked beneath a false bottom was a clear plastic bag. Inside was the greasy blue shop towel I had found in David’s jeans earlier that day, the one with the license plate TX 4F9-R scrawled on it. Below the towel was a note in David's handwriting: He’s stealing from Brick. If I don't make it, give this to the club. It's the only way out.
Before I could process what that meant, the sound of a roaring engine shattered the silence of the storage facility.
I dropped the ledger and sprinted to the open door.
At the end of the long row of orange doors, a massive black pickup truck slammed on its brakes. But it wasn't the truck that made my blood run cold. Riding directly behind the truck were three heavy motorcycles.
Bear, Jax, and Coil.
They had tracked my license plate.
I didn't think. I lunged forward, grabbed the metal handle of the storage door, and slammed it down with all my strength. I locked the padlock in a blind panic. I grabbed the ledger and the plastic bag, sprinting the five feet to my car.
I practically ripped the driver's side door open, threw myself inside, and slammed it shut, mashing the lock button.
"Hold on, Mia!" I screamed, slamming the car into reverse.
The three motorcycles accelerated down the row, their headlights blinding me in the mirrors. I spun the steering wheel, throwing the Honda into a violent turn, the tires screaming against the concrete. I floored the gas pedal, rocketing toward the exit gate.