Page 70 of Jasper
“Someone placed this very recently or they’ve been maintaining it,” I say, crouching beside him. “This isn’t a drop-and-forget setup.”
“Which means they’re coming onto our property regularly,” Slate adds. That’s very risky because there is only one road in and out, which is within view of our main gate.
We keep going. The third site puts a bitter taste in my mouth. It’s positioned beneath a rural county maintenance sign. From the front, it looks like any other road marker. But the back’sbeen gutted and rebuilt with a launch tube and a thin solar panel. There’s even a heat sink rigged to the metal to keep the electronics from frying.
“Hyenas are gettin’ bolder and smarter,” I say quietly, tracing the welds with one gloved hand.
Slate frowns. “You think they’re breaching our security and coming onto our property?”
“I think they’ve got someone on the inside, someone they’re paying who’s already got access and could come and go unnoticed.”
Before we can pull the rig for evidence, a soft, high-pitched whine cuts through the trees. We all freeze, our heads snapping towards the sound. Just beyond the ridge, drifting between the trunks, is a drone. This one’s not docked. It’s live, airborne, and scanning the area.
It’s smaller than the one I downed before. No larger than a football, sleek with an angular chassis and whirring rotors that whisper instead of buzz. It dips low, then climbs, tilting erratically like it’s struggling against the wind.
I step forward, unslinging the shotgun from my back. I track its movement, waiting for the brief moment it pauses to reorient. When it does, I fire.
The blast is a single shot that echoes through the valley. The drone explodes midair, plastic and metal fragments tumbling to the dirt off to our left.
Onyx lets out a low whistle, impressed. “That was one hell of a shot.”
I move towards the wreckage, the smell of gunpowder still clinging to the air. “They’re not just watching anymore. They’re studying us, looking for weaknesses, testing chinks in our armor.”
I squat down and pick through the shattered casing, thinking I blew up my one opportunity to get to the SIM card. One piece is still blinking. I see a small red light and realize there might yet be a chance of salvaging information from this heap of scrap.
“We need to call out every brother,” I say, straightening. “Before they get here.” I get on the phone and have a short conversation with our old man, explaining our situation.
Onyx and Slate help gather the biggest pieces while I call Striker. He shows up twenty minutes later in a battered work van with Mitch in tow. I approach to greet them, Mitch goes straight for the blinking unit, pulling on gloves, he hooks up a cable to his tablet.
“It has a hidden data cache,” he mutters, tapping away. “Separate from the main flight software. Smart little bastards learned from the last one we cracked.”
Striker leans over his shoulder. “That’s not just flight logs. Look at this. They’ve got thermal imaging and it’s picking up heat signatures from inside the compound. The Hyenas have professional grade equipment—that’s not the sort of rig you’d get off the rack. It’s a custom build.”
I move to stand behind them. The images are clear. Too clear. One shows someone pacing in our meeting room. I can tell by the way he walks that it’s my old man. Another shows someone in the kitchen. They’ve been watching the interior, tracking movement, learning our routines.
“Somebody’s sharing intel with them,” Striker says, his voice hard. “No drone can get that detail through these walls unless they know where to aim.”
Mitch flips through the logs, eyebrows pulling together. “There’s metadata—indicating internal markers. This one’s got upload points from inside the clubhouse.”
“Which means whoever is betraying us is someone with access,” I say. “Not just hangin’ around outside like a delivery person or an invited guest that sticks with whatever brother’s hosting them. They’re someone with enough freedom to roam around and to tag the rooms.”
Striker looks up. “Could be a patched-in brother, a prospect, one of the club girls, or someone hiding.”
My mind starts thinking of who it could be. I don’t think we have delivery people that linger. We do all of our own cleaning, food prep, and yard work specifically because we don’t want strangers in the clubhouse. All the brothers and prospects are thoroughly vetted before being allowed to join. The club girls are always a little unpredictable. In terms of new recruits, there is one prospect that only started last month. He’s still getting acclimated, barely talks, and shows up early, but always offers to help. I keep thinking as we ride back to the clubhouse. One name floats to the top, Silver.
When we gather for church, our focus shifts to defensive strategy. Slate stands by the whiteboard, already scribbling ideas while Onyx slams a map of the property down on the table. I look it over, measuring angles in my head, trying to figure out if they set them up in order to triangulate targets for snipers. I shake my head, thinking that’s a batshit crazy thought.
“In terms of defensive strategy, we need to figure out a way to keep these drones out of our airspace.”
Striker nods. “We can mask the signal using the wiring already in place. We need to install it at a higher elevation. Once it’s in place, nobody’ll suspect a thing.”
“Start with the lights,” I say. “We’ve already got tall poles installed at every corner. Most of ‘em are solar. We hide signal jammers in the fixtures—make it look like a maintenance job.”
“That should work,” he replies.
“Good,” I say. “And what about if the drones slip through somehow? If they get close to the clubhouse, they’ll be able to pick up every person in the clubhouse on their thermal scanners.”
“We can use thermal curtain shielding,” he explains, pulling out a sketch. “It blocks infrared signatures from being picked up. You might remember the military uses it in desert bunkers.”
