"How bad has it gotten?" Seeley asked, voice tense.
"Bad enough. Though they're guilty of putting a hole in you, so they weren't getting out of this anyway. Why does Arty think she was being stalked?"
"He went up to the room, saw her set up, and you know him with computers. So he asked if he could nose around. I didn't see why not. I mean, we were trying to find her. And I couldn't get in touch with you."
"It's fine, Seeley. You can apologize to Harmon when we find her. What did he find?"
"She has a virus."
"Okay..."
I knew the basic shit about computers, but when it got too complicated, I couldn't keep up. Sometimes when Arty got going, I zoned out.
"One that gave them control over the camera. Yeah, they, ah, you guys gave them an eye-full."
"I better not have given you an eye-full," I snapped. Not so much for me, but for Harmon, for the privacy that was taken from her.
"Arty turned it right off when he saw it was recorded there. But, yeah, whoever it is has been watching for a while."
"Well, who is it?" I demanded. "You had to have caught them on our video."
"Somewhat, yeah. It's... grainy. And whoever it is was wearing baggy clothes and a hat. They kept their heads down. Arty thinks he can narrow it down, track them down."
"How long?"
"I tried to ask that, and he started making a humming noise, "Seeley said, sounding a bit freaked, having the least experience with Arty compared to the rest of us. If you weren't prepared for Arty, he could freak you the hell out.
"Alright. Do you think hours or days?" I asked, feeling sick at the idea of her being in the hands of some lunatic for that long.
"I don't know. I don't think days."
"Okay," I said, looking around, seeing McCoy moving into the room, brows furrowed. "I'm heading back. See if I can motivate him."
"Okay," Seeley said, sounding relieved to have some help with the eccentric techie.
"What's going on?" McCoy asked.
"Two different issues," I told him. "Our drive-by assholes. And Harmon's stalker. Or so Arty says."
"Alright. So what's the plan?"
"I need you to stay here, make sure shit gets taken care of correctly. Make sure this shit doesn't link back to us in any way that can be proved."
"Got it," he agreed.
"Once you are satisfied, meet me back at the clubhouse. Hopefully by then, Arty will have another direction to send us in."
"Got it," he agreed, nodding. "McCoy," I called, making him turn back, brow raised.
"I appreciate you being on your game even when I'm off mine."
"That's what I'm here for," he said, shrugging, moving to head downstairs to help Remy end the rest of the guys we had rounded up.
With that, trusting my crew, I made my way out front, got on my bike, and headed back toward the clubhouse.
I made a stop along the way, loading up on a bag full of energy drinks, avoiding the side-eye from the cashier when I handed over cash with my makeshift bandaged hand.
"You need to clean that," Seeley demanded after I got back, handing Arty his drinks, watching over his shoulders, he switched through screens so fast that I felt nauseated.
"Yeah, I agreed, moving into the bathroom, pulling off the bandage, seeing a glint of glass that was still lodged in the fleshy bit between my thumb and pointer finger. "Burn this," I demanded, tossing the rag at Seeley.
By the time I cleaned up and got some butterfly bandages on my cuts, Seeley was back in the master bedroom, tossing the flashlight thing around in his hands.
"What are you thinking?"
"Just trying to remember something, anything about the attack at her house. All I have are holes."
"You have a fucking concussion, kid. No one expects you to remember what happened."
"I could have prevented all of this."
"You took a bullet and then a whack to the head over all this shit. No one is asking you for more than that. You've more than earned your badge through all this shit. We will get on that when things settle back down."
"Yeah?" he asked, brightening slightly. "It hasn't been the full two years you told me."
"Fuck formalities. Who is going to give a shit if you get in early? You can be in charge of all the whip-cracking when we get some new prospects someday."
"I don't know what-"
"Got you," Arty's voice interrupted, making my pulse jump.
"You got him?" I asked.
"Almost. I just need to trace this IP address," Arty said.
"Will that give you an address?"
"It will give me a close geolocation. Then we can narrow it down."
"How?"
"Against her closest fans," Arty said. "I have a list."
"She complained about some asshole named Patrick," I said. "Why no?" I asked when he started shaking his head.
"Patrick's real name is Jeff and he's a sixty-year-old retired librarian in Montana with a bad knee."