Page 7 of Joker

My attention snaps back to him.

His gaze pins mine, steady and serious in a way that wipes the last of the sarcasm out of the room. “Whatever they hand over, you don’t ask questions till you’re back here.”

I go still.

That right there tells me this is bigger than moving money or ferrying guns. Nobody gives a warning like that over a crate or an envelope. Not unless what I’m picking up breathes, bleeds, or talks back.

Interesting.

I let that thought settle without showing much on my face. “That usually means I’m not picking up a thing.”

Logan says nothing. Which is answer enough.

I look from him to Shadow, then to Blaze, but none of them fill in the blanks. Shadow’s expression is neutral, which for him means he knows at least part of what’s going on and enjoys the fact that I don’t. Blaze looks curious, but not informed. Logan, as always, gives nothing he doesn’t intend.

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter.

“You’ll figure it out when you get there,” Logan says.

“That is not reassuring.”

“It doesn’t need to be.”

I push to my feet, mug in hand, irritation curling warm and familiar in my gut. “You know, most people would start with details and work their way up to threats.”

Logan stands too. “If you had details, you’d waste time thinking about them. I need you moving.”

“I can think and drive.”

“I’m not convinced.”

That almost gets a laugh out of me. Almost.

I hook two fingers under the file and tuck it beneath my arm. “If I get shot over this, I’m haunting you.”

Logan’s mouth twitches. “You’d be insufferable dead.”

“I’m insufferable alive. You’d miss me.”

Shadow rises from his chair. “We definitely wouldn’t.”

I glance at him. “You’ve got a weird way of showing affection.”

“Don’t mistake restraint for affection.”

“That one almost hurt my feelings.”

Blaze pushes off the wall and heads for the door ahead of me. “You want me to help you load up?”

“I’m not bringing half the garage to Louisiana, so no.”

He grins over his shoulder. “Didn’t mean supplies. Meant snacks.”

That does get a short laugh out of Shadow, and I shake my head as we step out into the hall.

The clubhouse is more alive now, the low hum of morning building by the minute. A couple prospects move through the common room carrying boxes. Somebody in the kitchen is arguing about bacon. One of the old ladies is laughing at something near the front windows, her voice bright enough to cut through the deeper rumble of the men around her. It’s the usual kind of noise, familiar enough that I barely register most of it, but as I head for my room I can already feel the edges of the ride settling into place in my head.

Truck keys. Route. Address. Call at state line. No extra bodies. No questions.