Page 59 of Sexting the Bikers
He looks skeptical, but I go on. “When I walked into that house, I surveyed the whole place. You see wallpaper, I see a mapped security system. I counted the cameras. I memorized the way the staff moved, when the guards rotated. I figured out the house’s weaknesses before I even got locked in that room.”
They go quiet. Reaper’s lips twitch, almost approving, but he says nothing. Dog’s watching me, curiosity flickering across his face. I let the silence speak for me for a moment before I finish, “How do you think I got out the other night? Luck?”
None of them answer. For the first time since I walked into this room, I feel all their eyes on me—not as a pawn, or a liability, but as someone they might actually need.
I yank a notepad from the edge of the table and find a pencil, not waiting for permission. With brisk, sure strokes, I start to sketch a rough map of Novikov’s estate—big ugly house front and center, side driveway snaking in, outbuildings for cars and staff, trees that block all view from the road. My memory is good. Years of survival do that.
“Guards at all four corners,” I say, tapping out dots as I speak. “They rotate every two hours. Overlapping patrols along the north and east walls. At least, that’s the part I could see from my window. I’m sure they follow the same pattern on the other side because I didn’t encounter anyone when I came down.”
I flip to a new page and draw a heavy box in the middle of the main floor. “The library,” I say, circling it twice. “That’s where Novikov keeps his cash. That’s why he was so nervous when you guys came in unannounced—he thought you’d sniff it out.” I glance at Reaper, remembering the way Novikov barely looked at me, all his attention locked on the three bikers. “He was practically sweating when you walked in the first time.”
Bishop’s gaze flickers up to mine thoughtfully. “That makes sense. He was jumpier than usual.”
“He’s got a safe in there—big, reinforced, anchored deep into the wall.”
“You guessed all of that just by one look?” Dog asks incredulously.
I shrug. “It’s a safe bet. But it doesn’t matter what I think. What matters is how we’re going to get to it.”
“And how exactly?” Reaper says. “Like you said yourself, going in guns blazing is going to get us killed.”
“We’re going to figure that out,” I say.
“But what are we going to do about the safe?” Bishop asks. “No point going in if we can’t put a dent on that.”
“You’ll have to blow it open,” I say calmly.
They look at me in awe. “No way.”
“Way,” I say.
Reaper’s eyes narrow at me, skeptical, wary. “Blow it? With what exactly?”
I smirk, tilting my chin toward his ink-covered forearms, the dark military tattoos visible beneath his sleeves. “You know,” I say evenly. “I’ve seen those marks, soldier. Explosives, breaching—this isn’t your first rodeo. You know exactly what’s needed.”
Reaper holds my stare, his expression tightening, sizing me up again—this time as an equal. His jaw flexes slightly, then relaxes. “All right,” he says finally. “If we’re going through with this insanity.”
“Actually,” Dog says, “I don’t think it’s insane at all. She’s right about one thing. This is the best way to get back at Novikov and dent his ego, maybe even his reputation.”
“We don’t have enough manpower to completely subdue him,” Bishop says, dragging his finger along the edge of the map I just sketched, tapping at the corners. “But this might be something.”
I stay quiet, letting them work it out. For once, they’re listening.
They begin discussing roles—who draws fire, who breaches, who grabs the money and gets out. I step in before things get too heated.
“We don’t kill if we can help it,” I say firmly. “The Bratva doesn’t tolerate outsiders attacking a family. But a robbery? That makes Novikov look weak. Vulnerable. Embarrassed. And in his world, shame is worse than death.”
Reaper’s eyes flick toward mine with something like understanding. Bishop, though, mutters under his breath and rubs at his jaw like he’s chewing on something that won’t go down.
“Another problem,” he says, voice low. He glances over at me. “Who’s above Novikov?”
He knows.
Of course he does.
He’s too smart, too observant. He’s seen the kind of money Novikov moves, the kind of protection he has, the silence that follows every one of his messes. Novikov doesn’t operate alone—he never has. And Reaper, despite all his rage and ego, sees right through it.
I exhale and meet Reaper’s eyes. “Zaika,” I say quietly. “That’s who he answers to.”
