I keep thinking about dad. About how he built that club from nothing. And I just I pissed it all away. Carl lit a cigarette despite the oxygen tank beside him. Because dying men stopped caring about consequences.
Vincent Hughes is behind your eviction. Gordon looked up sharply. How do you know that name? Because Vincent's been sniffing around properties in that area for 6 months. He works for developers.
Finds legal ways to clear land fast. Carl inhaled slowly. There's a development deal coming. Big money. That whole block by the railroad is getting torn down for condos or office space or whatever rich people need now.
Vincent gets a cut for every property he clears ahead of schedule. So my gambling just made it easier. Your gambling gave him the excuse he needed. Carl's eyes stayed clear. But Gordon, listen to me.
The debt is real, but it's not the whole story. Somebody inside your club has been feeding Vincent information. How else would he know exactly to strike? Gordon felt gut punched. That's impossible.
These guys are my brothers. Or maybe one of them saw an opportunity. You've got less than 24 hours. Stop feeling sorry for yourself and start asking who benefits if the club falls apart. Back at the clubhouse, the division deepened.
Cage and three younger members wanted to barricade the doors, force the city to drag them out physically. Julian and the older veterans argued for legal options, lawyers, buying time. Clay Switchblade Peters sat quietly at the bar, nursing a beer and watching everyone argue. He was 52, had been with Iron Meridian since the beginning, and his opinion carried weight. When he finally spoke, the room quieted.
"We're broke. Gordon admits it. The notice is legal. Fighting this physically just gets you as arrested. " Clay's voice was measured, reasonable. "Maybe it's time to accept that this chapter is over.
We can rebuild somewhere else. " "Rebuild? " Corman slammed his palm on the bar. "Clay, we've been here 15 years. This place is our home. " "Home is the people, not the building. " Clay held his gaze. "I'm just saying we should be realistic. " Grace entered during the exchange, Norman trailing behind her. She'd been making calls, and her expression was grim.
"I talked to a real estate attorney. Clay's right about one thing, the eviction notice is technically legal, but the timeline is suspicious. I also made some calls about Vincent Hughes. " The room turned toward her. "Vincent has a reputation. Properties he targets tend to get cleared fast and sold to development companies within weeks.
He's been investigated twice, but never charged. " Grace looked around the room. "This isn't about $18,000 in back rent. This is about land acquisition. Someone wants this property and Vincent is the hammer they're using to get it. Cage frowned.
So, what do we do? We find proof, Grace said. Vincent keeps records of his deals. If we can prove this eviction is part of a corrupt land grab, we can stop it. Everyone stared at Norman.
He swallowed hard. The kid across the street, Corman said slowly. Vincent Hughes. That's your uncle, isn't it? Norman nodded unable to speak.
And you know where he keeps his records. Another nod. Grace stepped between them. He's 13 years old. We're not asking him to I'll do it, Norman said, surprising himself with how steady he sounded.
I'll get the files. The plan was straightforward. Norman felt sick anyway. Vincent kept office hours until 6:00 then headed to McCready's bar for exactly 2 hours before going home. That window was their only chance.
Grace drove Norman to the municipal building parking two blocks away. You don't have to do this. We can find another way. Norman's hands shook. He opened the door.
There is no other way. You said it yourself. You've got maybe 12 hours left. The building's night janitor was Olivia Rios and Norman knew her because she cleaned his school. Grace had called in a favor and Olivia left the side entrance propped open with a doorstop pretending not to notice when two figures slipped inside.
Vincent's office was on the third floor. A cramped space smelling of burnt coffee and stale cigarettes. Norman's hands fumbled with the picks. Grace hadn't explained where she got them. The drawer lock was old.
It gave way faster than Norman expected. Inside, the ledger was exactly where Vincent always kept it. A thick black binder, pages crammed with addresses and payment notes. Norman's fingers trembled as he pulled it out, flipping through pages of Vincent's cramped handwriting. The Iron Meridian's address appeared halfway through, but the notes made Norman's gut clench.
Accelerated timeline approved. Development partner confirmed. GP cooperation secured. Final clearing set for Wednesday. GP cooperation.
Norman whispered, "What does that mean? " Grace leaned over his shoulder, photographing pages with her phone. "I don't know, but we need everything. Keep looking. " Norman turned more pages, finding other addresses, other properties Vincent had cleared. The pattern was obvious, low-income areas, struggling businesses, all quickly evicted and sold within weeks. But one entry stopped him cold.
It was dated 3 months ago. A payment record for $5,000, marked simply, "Switchblade advance installment. " "Grace. " Norman barely got the words out. "Look at this. " Grace went white. She knew exactly who Switchblade was. Before either could speak, footsteps echoed in the hallway.
Not the janitor's soft shuffle. The office door swung open. Clay Peters stood in the doorway, and his expression wasn't surprised, just tired, like he'd known this was coming. "You shouldn't have come here, Grace. " Norman couldn't process it. Clay wasn't supposed to know about this, to be here.
Grace positioned herself between Clay and Norman. "How long have you been working with Vincent? " Clay closed the door behind him, leaning against it and studied them both. This woman he'd known since she was 10 years old, and the kid who'd always watched the club with such obvious longing. "6 months, since I found out the development deal. Clay sounded worn down.
Vincent approached me, said the club was going down anyway, that Gordon's gambling would sink us eventually. He offered me a way out with money in my pocket instead of empty hands. So you sabotaged us. Grace's voice shook. You made everything worse.
Gordon did that himself. I just helped things along. The accounting books, the missed payments, making sure Vincent knew exactly when to strike. Clay rubbed his eyes. You think I'm proud of this?
I've been riding with these men for 20 years. But the writing's been on the wall since Gordon started betting away our future. Norman found his voice. The note said GP cooperation. That's Gordon, isn't it?
You made him think things were worse than they were. Smart kid. Clay smiled without humor. Gordon lost money, yeah. Maybe 8, 9,000 over 6 months.
But I adjusted the books, created fake vendor invoices, made him believe he'd buried us under 18,000 in debt. Desperate men don't ask questions. They just spiral. Grace's hands balled up. And when the club falls apart, you disappear with Vincent's payout.
How much is he paying you to betray your brothers? 50,000 when the deal closes. Enough to start over somewhere nobody knows my name. Clay pushed off the door. Now give me the ledger.
I can't let you walk out of here with it. Why not just take it? Grace challenged. You've got 60 lb on me and the kid's 13. Because I'm not that far gone.
Clay's voice wavered. I sold out the club, but I won't put my hands on you. Just give me the binder and walk away. Tell Gordon you tried. He'll drink himself unconscious and forget about it by morning anyway.