Page 68 of Property of the Hellfire Riders

He’s looked it over no doubt, probably found out the location of their clubhouse and the marijuana fields. Bastard. Still, setting the whole field ablaze doesn’t add up. He’d be too liable for something to go wrong. It’s not a smart move and illegal. Reynolds does everything by the book.

I shove it under my armpit, though I’m sure he’s gotten whatever information worth finding out of it.

A sudden noise outside the office startles me, and I freeze, listening intently.

Footsteps.

I slip into the shadows, pressing myself against the wall, holding my breath. I wait five seconds, and the footsteps move down the hall. Whew.

I need to get the hell out of here.

But I need proof, something concrete to take back to Hawk to help them.

I continue sifting through the papers on his desk, searching for something—anything. But it’s all Puppeteer.

I start opening drawers. Pens, paperclips, mundane office supplies—nothing useful. But then my fingers brush against something hard and metallic. A hidden little lock on the side. I need to get inside.

I unfoldone of the paperclips, and start working on the lock. My hands are steady, but my mind races with urgency. I’ve never been good at locking picking, but I need to at least try. Sweat gathers on my back.

Please!

As if an answer to my desperate prayer, a satisfying click comes from the lock. The hidden drawer slides open, revealing a small stack of photos. I pull them out and flip through them quickly. My blood runs cold.

“Holy shit.”

They’re photos of me. Black and white prints of me at the Hellfire Riders’ compound, taken from a distance. The first one, I’m walking with Tank inside the clubhouse. His massive arm wrapped around my waist, smiling down at me.

They remind me of the kind of photos Laina takes. There I was. Completely oblivious to the fact I was being watched the whole time. Nausea pools into my stomach, rising up my throat.

What the hell is Reynolds getting up to?

A sudden noise from the hallway startles me.

More footsteps.

I gather the photos into the folder and cling to it with dear life. I’ve run out of time. The footsteps grow louder, closer. I peek through the blinds and see Detective Reynolds’s silhouette down the hall. His face is shadowed and unreadable in the dimlight, but there’s no mistaking him. The cleaning woman stops him and they speak to one another.

Panic surges through me. It’s my only shot to get the hell out of here.

I slip out of the office, and dart down the hallway, keeping to the shadows.

I don’t stop, weaving down the hall, ducking behind the desks. I’m near sprinting out of there when I shoulder open the side exit, keeping the files close to my chest.

He's been watching us all along. But why? What does he want from me?

I came here for answers, but now, I only have more and more questions.

The night air is cool and fresh when I finally step outside. I run through the parking lot to reach the bus station, refusing to stop and see if I’m being followed.

“Izzy!” a voice calls out after me.

I yelp, nearly dropping the folder and photos.

“Izzy, wait!”

I glance over my shoulder to see Logan, hurrying toward me. His thinning hair is a mess, and his glasses are perched precariously on his nose. I keep going. Maybe he’ll assume I didn’t hear him.

“Izzy, wait what!”

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