If Victor’s organization had been watching him for twenty-two years…
Why had they never killed him?
Why had they allowed Rebecca’s former boyfriend to build a motorcycle club, cross state lines, operate businesses and remain alive?
Stone whispered, “What did I do?”
Rebecca shook her head.
“Nothing.”
“Then what am I?”
She looked at him.
And said the words that changed everything.
“You’re the reason the ledger exists.”
Twenty-four years earlier, before Derek Mercer became Stone, before the Iron Vale Riders existed, he had worked six months as a courier.
He remembered it vaguely.
Cash work.
No questions.
Packages between Las Vegas and Salt Lake City.
He had been twenty-four and stupid.
Rebecca had hated it.
He quit when she begged him.
What Stone never knew was who owned the courier company.
Rebecca’s father.
“You carried packages,” Rebecca said.
Stone sat motionless.
“Documents. IDs. Records.”
“I never opened them.”
“I know.”
“Then what?”
“One night you came to my apartment furious.”
Stone frowned.
“I don’t remember.”
“You said a package had torn open during a storm.”
Something flickered.
A box.
Wet pavement.
Documents scattered across a gas station parking lot.
“Yes.”
“You saw photographs of children.”
Stone closed his eyes.
Memory rushed back.
Faces.
Numbers.
Names.
“You told me.”
Rebecca nodded.
“That’s what made me investigate my father.”
Stone stared at her.
“The ledger?”
“I started creating it from information you accidentally exposed.”
Agent Morales leaned forward.
Rebecca continued.
“My father discovered someone had opened that package. He never knew whether it was you or me. I told him it was me.”
Stone stared.
“You protected me.”
“For twenty-four years.”
“But Victor knew.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t he kill me?”
Rebecca looked down.
“Because my father ordered him not to.”
Stone’s jaw tightened.
“Why?”
Rebecca did not answer.
Stone already knew it was going to be bad.
“What aren’t you telling me?”
She whispered, “Your father wasn’t killed in a motorcycle accident.”
Stone stood.
The room became silent.
Rebecca looked at him.
“Your father worked with mine.”
Stone’s expression went blank.
“No.”
“He found out what the network was doing.”
“No.”
“He tried to leave.”
Stone shook his head.
“My dad was a mechanic.”
“He was.”
“Stop.”
“He also transported money.”
“Stop.”
“And when he threatened to expose them—”
“I said stop.”
Rebecca’s voice broke.
“Victor killed him.”
Stone did not move.
For thirty seconds, nobody spoke.
Then Stone turned toward the windows.
Boone stood outside.
Rafe beside him.
His club.
His brothers.
His life.
Built after his father died.
Built from grief Stone had never properly understood.
Morales spoke carefully.
“Derek.”
He turned.
“There’s more.”
Of course there was.
There was always more.
Morales held the photograph.
“‘Asset’ does not mean informant.”
Stone frowned.
“We checked an old federal database.”
Rebecca closed her eyes.
Morales continued.
“Your father contacted federal authorities before his death.”
Stone’s face changed.
“He agreed to cooperate.”
Stone stared.
“And?”
“They assigned him a handler.”
Rebecca whispered, “My mother.”
Stone turned.
“What?”
Rebecca nodded.
“My mother was FBI.”
The room seemed suddenly too small.
