Page 124 of Jagger's Remorse
"What makes you say that?" Squirrel asks.
She spreads out several surveillance photos, pointing to specific details. "Look at these angles. This one's taken from inside the compound, near the kitchen. This one's from the supply room. And this..." She taps a photo of me and her. "This was taken from inside the women's bathroom window. See the reflection in the mirror?"
"Fuck," I breathe. "No prospect has access to the women's bathroom."
"Exactly. And look at the timestamps." She arranges them chronologically. "These were taken during church. When all the prospects would have been on gate duty or running errands. Someone else took these."
"An old lady?" Hammer sounds incredulous. "No way."
Scarlett's jaw tightens. "Look at this one closer." She holds up a photo of the garage. "See the edge of the frame? That's nail polish. Metallic blue."
I think about who wears that color. My stomach drops. "Tina."
"She's been asking a lot of questions lately," Raven says slowly, like she doesn't want to believe it. "About routes, schedules. Said she was trying to be more involved."
"And she was the one who pushed hardest for those three prospects to patch in," Poncho adds. "Said they came highly recommended from Denver."
"Where her sister lives," Scarlett finishes. "Where she visits every few months. Perfect cover for meeting handlers."
"This is bullshit," Digger snarls. "Tina's been around for years. She's solid."
"She's also been struggling since her old man died last year," Squirrel says quietly. "Lost his life insurance when the company found out he died on a run. She's been working two jobs just to keep her place."
"Perfect target for recruitment," I mutter. "Desperate, access to intel, already vetted by the club."
Scarlett nods. "Rocket and Quill couldn't have disabled our security alone. They needed someone who knew the codes, the blind spots. Someone who could move freely without suspicion."
"An old lady," Raven says, voice flat. "One of mine."
"Find her," Squirrel orders. "Quietly. If she runs?—"
"She won't run," Scarlett interrupts. "She'll act normal, keep feeding information. She doesn't know we know."
"Then we use that," I decide. "Feed her false intel, see where it goes."
"Find them," Squirrel orders. "I want answers."
"Then we use that," I decide. "Feed her false intel, see where it goes."
"Raven, can you handle this?" Squirrel asks. "She's one of yours."
Raven's face is stone. "I'll deal with it. Quietly. She won't suspect anything."
"Good. And we need to find Rocket and Quill," Squirrel adds. "I want answers from them too."
Church ends and the rest of the night passes by in a blur.
Before I know it, dawn is breaking, gray and miserable, matching my mood after a sleepless night poring over intel.
I'm on my third cup of coffee when Poncho bursts in. "VP, we got a delivery."
The bodies are dumped at our gates like trash.
Rocket and Quill, tortured beyond recognition.
Tongues cut out. Fingers missing.
A message carved into Rocket's chest: Snitches get stitches.
