Page 43 of Ginger

Miami leaned forward. "For how long?"

"Until I say otherwise." I pulled a folded map from my inside pocket, spreading it across the table. "He lives here." I tapped a location with my index finger. "Works here." Another tap. "And spends most evenings here." A third tap on what we all knew was a rundown strip club on the edge of our territory. “But I don’t know where else he goes, what his schedule is like, or if he even has one.”

Diego’s eyes narrowed. "This about those goones of his coming for Ginger?"

I met his gaze steadily. "To put it plainly, yeah. She’s mine and Reno’s, which means she’s part of this club. I’m not going to just sit back while these fuckers try to take her."

Rayburn had crossed a line, and now he needed to learn his place. "I want schedules, patterns. I want to know when he takes a piss. I want to know who he talks to, what he drives, if he carries. I want to know if he's alone or if he's got muscle twenty-four-seven. Photograph and document everything."

Memphis crossed his arms over his chest. "You expecting trouble?"

"I'm preventing it," I replied. "Rayburn's connected. How connected, I'm not sure yet. That's part of what you're going to find out. If I have to put this fucker down, I need to know it won’t come back to bite the club in the ass."

"I’m in. Consider it done." Diego gave me a nod. "When do we start?"

“I’m in too,” Baltimore said.

"It starts now." I stood, my chair scraping back. "Follow him from a distance. Don't engage. Just observe."

They finished their beers, set the bottles down with identical thuds, and rose to their feet. Diego gave me a final nod before they slipped out, the door closing behind them with a metallic click that echoed in the small space.

“Before you make a move, you bring everything to the table,” Vegas said. “I have no problem with you protecting your woman, but I need to make sure everyone here stays safe.”

I nodded. “Got it, Pres.”

Three hours later, the first photos came through on my phone. Rayburn outside a café, cigarette dangling from his lips, checking his watch. Another showed him entering a gas station, the timestamps indicating he spent precisely seven minutes inside.

I kept an eye on my messages as they tailed him throughout the day. The café at 10 AM, where he met with a man in a tailored suit. The gas station at noon, where he picked up cigarettes and made a call from the payphone outside—who the hell still used payphones? The strip club at 2 PM, hours before it opened to customers.

For the next four days, I kept an eye on things. The images told a story: Rayburn was a creature of habit. He wore expensive clothes that stood out in our part of town—tailored jackets that probably cost more than most of the bikes in our garage. He smoked incessantly, trailing a cloud behind him that marked his path like breadcrumbs. And he walked with a slight limp, favoring his right leg. A weakness, possibly. Something to remember.

More importantly, he was consistent. The same route, the same stops, the same schedule day after day. His predictability would be his downfall.

Baltimore sent a message:Fourth day. Same routine. No variation.

I texted back:Keep watching.

By the fifth day, I had compiled enough data to fill a small notebook. I sat at a table in the corner of the clubhouse, away from the main action, surrounded by maps, notes, and printed photographs. I traced my finger along the route Rayburn took each day, mentally calculating distances and timing.

The picture had become clear. Rayburn was a man who thrived on routine and predictability. He visited the same places at the same times each day. He spoke to the same people. He even parked in the same spots. His patterns were so consistent that I could predict with near-certainty where he would be at any given time.

I also knew that he carried—a small pistol tucked into an ankle holster, visible only when he sat and his pant leg rode up. The brothers had captured a clear image on day three. He traveled alone for the most part, but there were two bodyguards who kept a distance of at least ten yards at all times. He met with various associates throughout the day, some had bodyguards that stuck to their sides.

Most importantly, I had identified the perfect spot for an interception. The alley behind the strip club. Isolated, poorly lit, with no security cameras. Rayburn always parked his car there, a sleek black machine that seemed at odds with his polished appearance.

I circled the location on the map, then checked my watch. It was time to bring the brothers back in.

Within twenty minutes, they were all present, sliding into seats at the table in our back room.

"He's predictable," Diego said, cutting straight to the point.

I nodded. "Too predictable. Makes our job easier."

I laid out what I had learned, pointing to specific locations on the map, showing them the timeline I had constructed. They listened intently, occasionally adding details they had observed that hadn't made it into their reports.

"So what's the play?" Baltimore asked when I finished.

I tapped the circled location on the map. "I'm going to have a conversation with Mr. Rayburn. Tomorrow night, behind the strip club. Assuming Vegas is cool with it."

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