Snake wanted to sit outside Harmon headquarters.
Diesel wanted to inspect every recent property purchase.
Flash wanted to dig into corporate networks in ways Marcus explicitly forbade.
"No hacking."
"I didn't say hacking."
"You were thinking it."
"You don't know what I'm thinking."
"You smiled."
Flash stopped smiling.
Marcus assigned rules.
Anything publicly available was fair.
Anything provided voluntarily was fair.
Interviews with willing witnesses were fair.
Trespassing was not.
Threats were not.
Hacking was not.
Breaking into offices was not.
Touching Anthony Breslin was absolutely not.
The club grumbled.
Marcus did not care.
"We're not giving them a story where they become victims."
That ended the argument.
They began with Third Street.
People talked.
Especially when someone finally seemed willing to listen.
The owner of the bakery said Harmon had sent inspectors to her business four times in six weeks after she refused an early buyout.
A mechanic said his insurance carrier unexpectedly canceled coverage after an anonymous code complaint.
A sixty-eight-year-old tenant named Margaret Ellis said a stranger had offered her five thousand dollars cash to vacate an apartment she had lived in for twenty-three years.
When she refused, her car windows were smashed.
She had reported it.
Nothing happened.
A laundromat owner produced letters threatening eminent-domain action that city officials later claimed they had never authorized.
Flash built a timeline.
Harmon made offers.
Owners refused.
Inspections appeared.
Violations appeared.
Insurance problems appeared.
Threats followed.
Then properties changed hands.
None of that proved murder.
But it proved a pattern of pressure.
On the third evening, Elena arrived at the clubhouse with Sophie.
She had resisted the idea at first.
Then someone followed her car for six miles.
The vehicle disappeared when she pulled into a police substation.
That changed the conversation.
The clubhouse had two guest rooms used by traveling members and their families.
Marcus gave Elena and Sophie the larger one.
"Temporary," Elena said.
"Absolutely."
"Two nights."
"Sure."
"Maybe three."
"Whatever helps you sleep."
Sophie loved the place immediately.
Not because of the motorcycles.
Because there was an old pool table.
A jukebox.
A dartboard mounted far above her reach.
A refrigerator full of soda.
And twenty intimidating men who became absurdly nervous whenever she asked them questions.
On her first afternoon, she sat at the long wooden bar doing math homework.
Snake occupied the stool beside her.
"What's seven times eight?" she asked.
"Fifty-six."
"How do you know so fast?"
"I'm old."
"That's not how math works."
Snake looked offended.
Diesel called from across the room.
"She's got you there."
Sophie finished another problem.
Then she looked toward Marcus's office.
"Does he smile?"
Snake followed her gaze.
"Sometimes."
"I haven't seen it."
"Give it time."
"Was he born grumpy?"
"Probably."
Marcus's voice came from behind them.
"I can hear both of you."
Sophie grinned.
That was the first time Marcus smiled at her.
She pointed.
"There."
"What?"
"You did it."
"Did what?"
"Smiled."
Marcus immediately stopped.
Sophie laughed.
The clubhouse changed while she was there.
Men lowered their voices.
Ashtrays disappeared from the back patio.
Someone bought fruit.
Nobody admitted who.
A box of colored pencils appeared beside Sophie's homework.
She drew motorcycles.
At first, rough shapes.
Then detailed ones.
She drew Marcus's Harley with the damaged brake line represented by a bright red mark.
She drew Diesel holding a wrench.