Page 57 of Crusher's Illusion

The thing is that the winged skull isn’t the Saints. It belongs to the Iron Cross, a rival MC that’s been circling like vultures. And the location? A bar the Saints have used as an off-the-books meet spot for months. I close my laptop, my pulse picking up. That wasn’t random. The Iron Cross had to know about that meeting place recently.

The next day, I find Honor and City in the corner of the clubhouse, heads bent over a half-folded map and a list of addresses. I slide in without waiting for an invite.

“I think the Iron Cross have someone feeding them intel,” I say, laying the folded crime blotter clipping on the table. “They hit a spot only you guys should’ve known about. And they didn’t just hit it, they made sure the damage was visible enough for the news to catch.”

Honor’s eyes narrow as he scans the scrap of paper, his jaw tightening. City’s smirk fades into something sharper.

“You sure this wasn’t a coincidence?” City asks.

“Coincidences don’t wear another club’s colors,” I answer.

Honor leans back in his chair, gaze tracking slowly across the room. His posture shifts, more squared, less relaxed. The kind of stance a man takes when he’s cataloging exits and threats.

“If you’re right,” he says finally, “that means someone here is talking. And if they’re talking, they’re either stupid… or bought.”

City’s gaze follows Honor’s, drifting toward the far side of the room where the prospects are gathered around a dartboard. Their laughter sounds a little too loud now, too careless.

A couple of full members glance over mid-conversation, eyes flicking in that direction before returning to their drinks. Without a word, one brother taps the neck of his beer bottle twice against the bar, a signal I’ve learned meanseyes up. Another sends a prospect toward the garage for “supplies,” a chore that’s really about getting him on camera.

“Stupid can get people killed,” City mutters, drumming his fingers on the table.

I glance at the prospects. Niko’s leaning against the wall near the jukebox, talking with Rampage. He’s laughing, but there’s a stiffness in his shoulders that doesn’t match his grin. Caine and his twin brother Nova are at the dartboard, but their eyes keep flicking toward the garage door.

“Who’s been closest to that location?” I ask.

Honor and City share a look. It’s quick, but it’s loaded.

“There are a few options,” Honor says finally, his voice low enough that I have to lean in to hear. “But the one I don’t like is real close to your man.”

The words land heavily. The bass from the jukebox thumps in time with my pulse, each beat a little too hard. Heat prickles under my collar, and the whiskey in my glass tastes flat, like my mouth’s gone dry. I keep my face still, but my body’s already telling on me. “You’re saying someone near Crusher?”

“I’m saying,” Honor cuts in, “that if this is true, we have to be careful. We don’t spook ’em. We watch. We wait. And when theyslip up…” He lets the sentence trail off, but the promise in his eyes is clear.

City leans back, eyes narrowing. “Patterns don’t lie, sweetheart. We’ve seen this before, and it’s never the guy youwantit to be.”

The air in the room shifts. Conversations don’t stop, but they dip. A few of the brothers lean closer to each other, voices lowering, while others subtly reposition, backs to walls, eyes scanning. No one says anything out loud, but the easy sprawl of the room is gone, replaced with a tighter, more contained energy.

One of the Honeys notices the change and drifts toward the bar, dragging two prospects with her like a lure on a line. Their laughs are too loud, the way people get when they’re covering nerves.

Crusher laughs at something Steel says, head tipping back, a sound rich enough to cut through the tension for a second. He doesn’t see the shift happening around him.

City leans back, a grin creeping in, but his eyes stay cold. “Looks like the break’s over, darlin’. Back to the fun part.”

Across the room, Caine catches Honor watching and quickly looks away, his shoulders tensing for half a second before he forces himself back into the game. The reaction’s small. But Honor clocks it. So does City.

“Could be him,” City murmurs.

Honor’s gaze cuts across the room again, slow and deliberate, and this time his eyes land not just on the prospects but on Niko.

The kid’s leaning against the wall near the jukebox, talking with Rampage. He’s laughing, but there’s a stiffness in his shoulders that doesn’t match his grin. Like he knows eyes are on him and he’s pretending not to feel it.

“Could be Niko,” Honor replies, eyes never leaving the jukebox.

City notices too. “Huh.” It’s not much, but the sound is loaded. “He was running errands for Crusher last week, right?”

My stomach knots. “Niko? No. He,” I stop myself. I don’tknowwhat he was doing those days. I only know he’s one of the few people Crusher actually talks to outside the core officers.

Honor doesn’t look at me. “We’re not saying anything yet. Just watching.”