Of course, this meant, unless the dude could dematerialize and rematerialize in her apartment without getting anywhere near the outside of it, she was safe there. They’d know the instant someone tried to break in and they’d be able to roll out, not to mention call the cops.

But Axl preferred the added precautions his place could offer.

And walking in to see her in his kitchen.

“Anything new on Hattie’s sitch?” Mag asked before Axl sat down.

“Nothing,” Axl answered while he folded into one of the rolling chairs.

Mag gave him a Sorry, dude look.

Axl turned his attention to Hawk. “Thanks for the camera loan.”

Hawk just nodded.

Then he said, “I know we all wanna get home, so let’s get this out of the way. And as usual, there isn’t much. Lynn and Heidi aren’t budging. I talked with Mamá. She thinks they need time.”

Hawk saying they weren’t budging had to do with the fact that their first meeting with the two wives of the two men that were on two very different sides of this dirty cop situation had been postponed.

Though that wasn’t accurate considering the meeting was never rescheduled and they weren’t jumping on rescheduling.

So essentially, it had been canceled.

“Someone has gotten to them,” Axl suggested.

“We can’t know,” Hawk replied.

And they couldn’t. It easily could be cold feet that came with the desire to remain breathing and keep their children in that same state.

But it could be one of these fucks got to them, reminding them how they could be certain to keep breathing and keep their kids safe.

And even if their investigation was a joint effort with Cisco, Nightingale’s crew, and Hawk’s team, with Chaos Motorcycle Club offering support, they all had jobs, lives, other clients and couldn’t have someone on the women 24/7.

They had bugs on both.

But that wasn’t giving them anything, and whoever was leaning on them knew what they were doing.

The proof of that was that the best investigative team in Denver: Nightingale Investigations, the best scrapper crew: Chaos Motorcycle Club, and the best tactical team: Hawk and his men, not to mention five seriously invested cops, did not have dick.

The three men they had were dead.

Dead men couldn’t talk.

But their wives could.

They just weren’t.

Goddammit.

“So we’re in a holding pattern,” Boone stated impatiently. “But we suspect that whatever these assholes are up to, it isn’t long term. It’s a limited project. And they’re close to sealing the deal. So the longer we wait, the longer they’ve got to do that.”

None of the men said anything because there was no point in confirming what they all suspected.