Chapter 23

The meeting room erupted into a cacophony of overlapping voices, each member trying to process the startling revelations about Slate. In the midst of this chaos, Brick's commanding voice once again thundered for silence, cutting through the noise like a knife. The room fell silent, all eyes turning toward him as he leaned forward, his hands firmly planted on the table.

Brick fixed Rex with a steely gaze, his voice carrying an edge of authority that demanded an answer. "Not that I'm not grateful we know this, but why the hell were you tailing Slate?" His tone was sharp.

Rex's cheeks reddened, but he straightened. Everybody's attention narrowed onto him. Clearing his throat, he replied, "I've been following Slate for weeks," he began.

"Why?" demanded Brick.

" I stumbled upon something... something I couldn't ignore." Rex stroked his hand through his short hair. "I noticed Slate texting a few times during meetings, and it wasn't his usual iPhone but some kind of cheap… like, prepaid… thingy."

As murmurs began to rise again, Brick raised his hand, signaling for silence. "Let him continue," he ordered curtly, nodding toward Rex.

Rex took a deep breath. "After seeing Slate with that other phone, I started keeping a closer eye on him," he explained. "It didn't sit right with me, him having a burner phone."

His gaze swept across the room, meeting the eyes of the members. "I hoped I was wrong about him. That's why I kept it to myself at first."

The room's atmosphere thickened with tension as Rex continued, "I began following him discreetly, trying to catch something concrete before I brought it to anyone's attention. I couldn't just accuse a founding member based on a hunch and a burner phone."

Rex clicked the remote, bringing up a series of images on the screen—snapshots of Slate in secretive exchanges, timestamps validating Rex's surveillance over the past few weeks. "Today, I finally got the proof." He finished playing the video again, and his shoulders drooped.

As the footage looped, Rex turned toward Hunter, a puzzled look etched across his face. "Were you following Slate as well?"

"No, I was following you," Hunter replied.

"Me? Why?" Rex's voice cracked as disbelief and dawning understanding colored his tone. His eyes widened as the pieces fell into place. "You thought I was the mole? You suspected me?" The hurt was evident in his voice.

Hunter, feeling the weight of the accusation he had silently leveled at Rex, nodded slowly. "Yeah, I did. You being new and always having cash... it didn't add up," he explained, hoping his honesty would smooth over the raw edges of his suspicion.

The room fell into an uncomfortable silence, the members exchanging glances, each man wrestling with the implications of such mistrust within their ranks. Rex stood in a tense posture and the tightness around his eyes showed his hurt. "Always having cash… really? Why the fuck didn't you ask?" His gaze swept over the group and seemed to notice the down casted gazes and shuffling feet. "You all… Well, fuck. I…"

"Come on, man," Max offered, "You work in a bar. That can't pay enough for your lifestyle."

Rex fell silence for a couple of tense moment before raking his hand through his hair. He opened and closed his mouth a few times. "I work at a strip bar."

For a moment, the room remained silent, processing the unexpected twist. Then, without warning, Hunter burst into laughter. It was loud and hearty, filled with genuine amusement, breaking the tension like a sudden burst of sunshine through clouds.

Rex's initial shock at the laughter gave way to a sheepish grin. As Hunter's laughter echoed around the room, it sparked a chain reaction, with chuckles and smiles breaking out among the brothers.

Brick, unable to keep a straight face any longer, joined in with a deep, rumbling laugh. "Well, that's one way to earn extra cash."

The mood in the room lightened considerably.

Hunter, finally catching his breath, clapped Rex on the shoulder. "Sorry, man," he said, his smile wide and genuine. "Looks like we owe you a big apology—and maybe a night out at your workplace."

The room erupted into laughter once again, the bonds of brotherhood strengthened through the trials of suspicion and the relief of truth revealed. They would have to deal with Slate's betrayal, but in the end their brotherhood would survive this.

With a grim expression, Brick tried Slate's number again, the phone ringing hollowly through the speaker with no answer. His efforts yielding nothing, he finally slammed his phone down and ordered a search party.

Hunter, his mind a storm of emotions, volunteered to check Slate's apartment. Rex joined him. As they stepped outside into the chilly evening, Hunter's thoughts churned. The betrayal felt personal, a deep-cutting treachery that questioned everything he believed about brotherhood.

They drove to one of Seattle's more rundown neighborhoods, Rainier Valley, where Slate's apartment lay hidden among rows of tired buildings, all wearing the weary appearance of neglect. The area was known for its economic struggles.

Rex broke the silence as they parked near the dilapidated apartment complex. "If Slate was mixed up in something as dirty as trafficking for cash, why does he still hole up in this dump?" His question hung in the air, unanswered, as they approached the building.

Hunter felt the weight of betrayal grow heavier with each step toward the crumbling structure. With graffiti-tagged walls and broken windows patched up with cardboard, the building was dilapidated.

As they ascended the broken steps to Slate's apartment on the sixth floor, bypassing the out-of-service elevator, the physical exertion did little to dispel the turmoil inside Hunter. Each floor passed in grim ascent, the air growing more stifling, filled with the smells of old garbage, piss, and lingering smoke.

The grime-coated door of Slate's apartment building seemed to groan under the weight of neglect as Hunter and Rex approached, the hallway echoing their footsteps. The decrepit elevator was out of service—no surprise—forcing them to ascend the narrow, musty stairwell. Six flights up, Hunter's boots thudded against the worn steps, his mind racing with the weight of betrayal.

Reaching the top, they paused, catching their breath and preparing for what might come next.

Hunter and Rex approached the shabby door of Slate's apartment, its surface marred with scratches and faded paint. Rex reached out first, pressing the doorbell. The dull chime echoed faintly inside, its sound muffled by the worn walls, but there was no movement from within.

They exchanged a glance, the tension between them palpable in the heavy silence that followed. Impatient, Hunter balled his fist and knocked forcefully. The impact caused the poorly secured door to tremble, and, to their surprise, it creaked open. Pausing only for a heartbeat, they pushed the door wider, the old hinges groaning in protest.

The apartment was a stark reflection of the building's exterior: rundown, barely lived-in, with peeling wallpaper and a lingering smell of mildew and a faint scent of copper.

As they stepped in, the atmosphere felt oppressively still. No sounds of life, just the distant hum of traffic and the faint drip of a leaky faucet somewhere in the depths of the flat. Rex muttered under his breath, his tone a mix of concern and disbelief, "If he was in this for money, he sure wasn't spending it here."

They cautiously moved through the sparse living room, past a sagging couch strewn with yesterday's clothes and old newspapers. The kitchen was a similar story; dirty dishes piled high, and only the essentials stocked in the cabinets. It painted a grim picture of a man who lived alone and not in wealth.

Hunter's gut clenched as they approached the bathroom door, the silence of the apartment now feeling heavy, charged with foreboding. He reached out, pushing the door open with a resigned push.

Slate lay slumped against the cold tile floor, his wrists slashed, blood mingling with the water pooled around him, a bottle of prescription medication spilled on the tile beside him. Hunter's heart lurched, adrenaline spiking as he shouted for Rex to call 911. He picked up the empty bottle, read the label, and swore. Oxy. He vaguely remembered Slate talking about being in recovery for years. Was this his first trip off the wagon? Ending like this? It didn't make sense.

He grabbed a towel hanging limply from the rack and pressed it firmly against Slate's wrists, trying to stem the flow of blood.

Slate's eyes fluttered open, his voice a ghost of its usual strength, "H-Hunter? I'm. S-sorry... They. G-got. Aubrey." His teeth were shattering.

Rex, now on his knees beside Hunter, applying pressure to the other wrist, looked up sharply. "Who the fuck is Aubrey?"

"His baby sister, maybe sixteen or so." He glanced back at Slate's pale, fading gaze. "Help on its way?"

Rex nodded. "Ambulance will be here in five."

The room fell into a tense, grim silence, broken only by the distant siren that grew louder as help approached. Hunter's mind was a whirl of anger, confusion, and a deep, unsettling fear—not just for Slate, who lay bleeding and broken before him, but for the unknown dangers facing a young girl caught in a web too sinister for her years.