Page 145 of Mason

Lucky nods once, his expression grim as he pushes past me.

“We need to talk.”

Clay heads straight for the table like he’s on autopilot. His hands shake when he pulls out the chair.

I sit across from him, my arms folded, my stare sharp enough to draw blood.

“Well?” I ask.

No matter his intentions, he can’t undo what’s come to pass. And I can’t keep holding him accountable. But I can sure as hell still be angry.

Clay doesn’t waste time.

“It’s about the hard drive.”

My jaw tightens.

He swallows hard.

“I’ve been compiling evidence on David Eddy for over a year. Trying to find leverage. Something that would make him back the hell off and away from Shelby. Anything that would give my sister her life back.”

I don’t let the fury show on my face, but it’s crawling up my spine, threatening to rip out of me in a scream. I glance at Lucky, who nods, confirming everything.

My fingers tap once against the table.

“And what did you find?”

Clay goes on, his voice low, heavy.

“At first, I just wanted dirt on David. But the deeper I went, the more I found. It wasn’t just about him anymore. He’s tied to something huge.”

He pulls out a flash drive from his hoodie pocket and sets it on the table like it’s poison.

“There’s a whole fucking network,” he continues. “Not just Eddy. Politicians. Judges. CEOs. Defense contractors. Old-money families with connections to private military firms and shell corporations I couldn’t even trace at first. They call itThe Orchard.”

“The Orchard?”

“It’s what they named the project,” Clay says, his fingers twitching. “On the surface, it looks like a string of offshore accounts and encrypted communications—but the files I cracked? They point to organized trafficking rings. Underground auctions. Women. Children. Entire lives bought and sold like commodities.”

My stomach turns, cold and hard.

Clay swallows.

“Eddy wasn’t just part of it—he helpedrunone of the smaller circuits in the city. That’s how he kept leverage over people. Lawyers, cops, even federal agents. He supplied them with what they wanted… and kept receipts in case they ever turned on him.”

“Insurance,” Lucky mutters, jaw clenched.

Clay nods.

“Every transaction. Every conversation. Hidden in encrypted folders with boring names—tax returns, shipping manifests. But it’s all there. Coded, sure. But I decoded enough. I have the names of at least a dozen people who should be rotting in a cell.”

I stare at the flash drive.

Twelve names.

And that’s justwhat he cracked.

Clay’s voice drops to a whisper.

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