Chapter 6
Chapter Six
FALCON
The clubhouse materializes through the fog like a mirage, neon signs buzzing in the twilight. I grip the handlebars tighter, ignoring the white-hot pain radiating from my left shoulder. The bullet only grazed me, but it left a furrow deep enough to need stitches. Nothing compared to what Condor and Ice Pick are dealing with.
Behind me, the rumble of engines announces the rest of our crew limping home from what should have been a simple recon mission in Burns Harbor. Instead, we walked straight into an ambush. Someone knew we were coming. Someone talked.
I guide my bike into the compound, noting Vulture's grim expression as he helps Condor off the back of his Harley. Blood has soaked through the makeshift bandage on Condor's thigh, and his face is gray with shock. Ice Pick doesn't look much better, clutching his ribs where a Reaper's steel-toed boot connected with enough force to crack bone.
"Get them inside," I bark to the prospects rushing out to meet us. "Doc's waiting."
The clubhouse door bangs open as brothers pour out to help the wounded. The mission was a disaster from the moment we crossed into Burns Harbor territory—Reapers waiting at every turn, as if they'd been given our exact route and timeline. Three of our guys in the lead truck took shotgun blasts through the windows. We're lucky to have gotten out with no fatalities.
I dismount slowly, each movement sending fresh fire through my shoulder. Adrenaline is fading, leaving nothing but pain and questions in its wake. Most pressing: who sold us out?
"You need medical," Vulture says, appearing at my side. Our president looks like hell—split lip, bruised eye, but no major injuries. "Don't give me that look. You're bleeding through your cut."
"Others first," I reply, following him inside. "We need to talk about what happened."
"Later," he says firmly. "Get patched up, then we'll figure out who's got a death wish."
The medical room is chaos—Doc moving between three tables where the worst injured lie. Hustler is assisting with supplies, face pale but hands steady. And then I see her—Cara, sleeves pushed up, applying pressure to Condor's leg wound while Doc works on removing shotgun pellets from Hawk's back.
"Pressure here," Doc instructs her without looking up. "Don't let go, no matter how much he cusses at you."
She nods, focus absolute. Her hands are smaller than I remember, but they move with confidence. This isn't the traumatized victim I carried from that container. This is someone else—someone I don't know how to categorize.
"Falcon," Doc calls, still working on Hawk. "You're third in line unless you're bleeding out."
"I can wait," I say, leaning against the wall. The room spins slightly, but I grip a shelf to steady myself. Blood loss is making me lightheaded, but I'll be damned if I show weakness now.
Cara glances up, catching my eye for the first time. Something flickers across her face—concern, maybe. Or just recognition of another task.
"I can help him," she says to Doc. "The bullet just grazed him. Clean and stitch."
Doc assesses me with a quick look. "Any other injuries I can't see?"
"Just the shoulder."
"Fine," he agrees, turning back to Hawk. "Cara, suture kit's in the cabinet. Local anesthetic. Don't let him talk you out of using it."
She washes her hands quickly once Hustler takes over with Condor, then gathers supplies with an efficiency that raises questions about what exactly she learned during five years of captivity. I follow her to a smaller exam table in the corner of the room, shrugging out of my cut with a wince.
"Shirt off," she says, voice clinical.
I grit my teeth and pull my t-shirt over my head, torn fabric sticking to the wound. The motion sends fresh blood trickling down my chest.
Cara doesn't flinch at the sight, just soaks gauze in antiseptic. "This will hurt," she warns, then begins cleaning the wound without waiting for a response.
The sting makes me hiss through clenched teeth. Her touch is firm but careful, methodical as she removes dirt and fabric from the torn flesh.
"Not deep enough for muscle damage," she assesses. "But you need stitches. Hold still."
I watch her prepare the syringe of local anesthetic, her movements practiced. "Where'd you learn this?"
Her hands pause for a fraction of a second. "There wasn't always access to medical care where I was. We took care of each other."
The implication hangs heavy between us. Women patching each other up after whatever horrors they endured. I look away as she injects the anesthetic around the wound, the needle's sting nothing compared to the guilt that lances through me.
We're silent as she works, the only sounds her quiet instructions and the background noise of Doc treating the others. The anesthetic numbs the physical pain, but does nothing for the questions pounding against my skull.
"What happened?" she asks quietly, threading the suture needle.
"Ambush," I reply, keeping my voice low. "They knew we were coming. Exact time, exact route."
Her hands remain steady as she places the first stitch. "You think someone told them."
Not a question. An understanding.
"Had to," I confirm. "Too perfect to be coincidence."
"But you don't know who."
I meet her eyes then. "No. Not yet."
Something passes between us—a moment of clarity amidst confusion. She returns to her work, closing the wound with neat, even stitches. Her face is composed, but I catch the slight tremble in her fingers as she ties off the final suture.
"Thank you," I say as she applies a bandage.
She nods once, gathering the bloody gauze. "You need antibiotics. And rest."
"I need answers more," I reply, already reaching for my shirt.
Her expression hardens. "You won't find them if you collapse from infection."
Before I can respond, Vulture appears beside us. "Chapel, ten minutes," he says, his tone making clear it's not a request. "Bring the antibiotics with you."
* * *
The chapel feels smaller with tension filling the air. Only the highest-ranking members are present—Vulture at the head of the table, me to his right despite Doc's objections about me needing rest. Ice Pick is propped up in his chair, face gray with pain but eyes sharp. Osprey and Zip complete our war council.
"Burns Harbor was a setup," Vulture begins without preamble. "Someone knew exactly when and where we'd be."
"Reapers have a rat in our ranks," Zip suggests, voicing what we're all thinking.
"Or they got to someone close to us," Osprey counters. "Someone who overheard our plans."
Ice Pick shifts painfully. "Information was tight. Only people who knew details were in this room, plus Hawk and Condor."
"And the women we rescued," I add quietly.
The implication lands heavy. No one wants to say it out loud, but suspicion is a poison that spreads fast.
"You think one of them is feeding information to the Reapers?" Vulture asks, eyes narrowing.
"I think we can't rule anything out," I respond carefully. "These women were under their control for years. Stockholm syndrome is real. Threats against family members are effective."
"Cara's been helping you with intel," Osprey points out, watching me closely. "She know about Burns Harbor?"
My jaw tightens. "She knew we were watching the route. Not specifics of today's operation."
"Still—" Zip begins.
"I'll talk to her," I cut him off, tone making clear it's not up for debate. "I know how to read her."
Vulture studies me for a long moment before nodding. "Do it. Tonight. We need to know if she's holding anything back."
The meeting continues, focusing on increased security measures and plans to retaliate against the Reapers. But my mind circles back to Cara. The woman who stitched my wound with steady hands. The woman who once promised to love me forever. The woman who still hasn't told me everything about what happened to her.
By the time we adjourn, it's past midnight. Rain pounds against the clubhouse roof, matching the throbbing in my shoulder. The antibiotics Doc forced on me are making me nauseous, or maybe that's the thought of what I have to do next.
I find myself outside Cara's door before I've fully committed to the conversation. My knuckles rap against the wood before I can reconsider.
Seconds stretch to eternity before the door cracks open. Cara peers out, hair damp from a shower, wearing sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt. Her eyes widen slightly at the sight of me.
"You should be resting," she says immediately.
"We need to talk." My voice comes out harsher than intended. "May I come in?"
She hesitates only briefly before stepping back. The room is sparse but neat—bed made with military precision, a few books stacked on the nightstand. A notebook sits open on the desk, pages filled with handwriting I don't recognize as hers.
"How's the shoulder?" she asks, keeping her distance.
"Fine." I remain standing, unwilling to make this comfortable. "I need to ask you some questions about the trafficking operation. Official club business."
Something shutters in her expression. "Of course. What do you want to know?"
"The Burns Harbor route. What exactly did you hear about it during your captivity?"
She sits on the edge of the bed, hands folded in her lap. "Just fragments. That it was a newer route they were developing after losing access to Chicago. That it involved Reapers territory and protection."
"Names? Specific locations?"
"No names. They were careful about that." She frowns slightly. "Locations were coded. Green Point meant something to them, but I don't know what."
I pace the small room, frustration mounting. "How did they communicate? Phone calls? In person?"
"Both. There was a man who visited monthly—well-dressed, expensive watch. They treated him differently. With respect, maybe even fear."
"Did you ever hear anything about informants? Someone inside the Saints?"
Her head snaps up, eyes narrowing. "You think I'm feeding information to the Reapers."
It's not a question, but I answer anyway. "I think someone is. And I need to rule out every possibility."
"Including that I'm working for the people who held me captive for five years?" Her voice is deadly quiet. "The people who raped and tortured me? Who broke my bones when I tried to escape?"
I stop pacing, forced to face the hurt and anger radiating from her. "Cara?—"
"No." She stands abruptly. "I've been trying to help you. I've told you everything I know. And you still don't trust me."
"It's not about trust," I argue. "It's about being thorough. Men nearly died today because someone leaked our plans."
"And I'm the convenient suspect?" She laughs bitterly. "Why would I help the Saints rescue other women if I was working for the traffickers?"
"Stockholm syndrome. Threats against people you care about. There are a lot of reasons victims sometimes protect their abusers."
The word "victims" lands like a slap. Her eyes flash dangerously.
"Is that what I am to you now? Just another victim? Another rescued woman who needs the big strong bikers to protect her?" She steps closer, fury giving her a strength I haven't seen since before. "I survived five years of hell while you were riding around playing the hero. Don't you dare reduce me to just another victim."
Something inside me snaps. All the confusion, guilt, and unresolved anger of the past two weeks converging into a single, jagged point.
"Then tell me the truth," I demand, closing the distance between us. "All of it. What really happened the night you disappeared? Who took you and why? Because none of this makes sense, Cara. Trafficking victims are usually runaways, vulnerable women without connections. You were a law student with a future. With me." My voice cracks on the last word. "Why you?"
She stares at me, chest rising and falling rapidly. For a moment, I think she'll throw me out. Then something shifts in her expression—resignation, maybe, or simply exhaustion.
"You want the truth?" she says quietly. "Fine. Sit down. You should be sitting for this."
I take the desk chair reluctantly, pain throbbing in time with my pulse. Cara remains standing, arms wrapped around herself like armor.
"I was coming home from work," she begins, eyes fixed on some middle distance. "Later than usual because I'd stopped to pick up champagne. I'd gotten my law school acceptance letter that day. Was going to surprise you with the news."
The revelation hits like a physical blow. Law school. A future I never knew she'd secured.
"The parking garage was almost empty," she continues. "I heard footsteps behind me, but before I could turn around, someone grabbed me. Two men. They knew my name. Knew about you."
"Me?" I repeat, ice forming in my veins.
She nods, jaw tight. "They said you owed a debt. That I was the payment."
"What debt? I didn't owe anyone?—"
"I know that now," she cuts me off. "But then? All I knew was that they had photos of you. Knew where you worked, your schedule. Said if I didn't cooperate, they'd kill you."
My mind races, flashing back through old club business, trying to identify enemies who would go this far. "What did they make you do?"
"Write the note." Her voice drops to nearly a whisper. "They dictated it. 'I'm sorry.' That's all they would let me write. Then they took my engagement ring, my phone, everything that connected me to my life."
I remember finding that note. Two words on a piece of paper that shattered my world. The empty closet where she'd cleared out some clothes to make it look like she'd left voluntarily.
"They transferred me between locations for the first few months," she continues mechanically, as if reciting a story that happened to someone else. "Used my credit card in different cities to create a false trail. Had some woman who looked vaguely like me on security cameras. They were thorough."
"And then?"
"And then I was sold." Her eyes meet mine, hollow with remembered horror. "The debt was paid, they said. But I was valuable merchandise now. Young, educated, attractive. Premium product."
Bile rises in my throat at her use of their terminology. The clinical distance she's created to tell this story is somehow worse than tears would be.
"I tried to escape three times that first year," she says. "The first time, they broke three fingers on my right hand. The second time, my collarbone." She touches the scar I noticed when she was stitching me up. "The third time was the worst. They showed me recent photos of you, promised they'd make you suffer if I tried again. So I stopped trying to escape. Started focusing on just surviving instead."
Rain drums against the window, filling the silence that follows her words. I struggle to process the horror of what she's describing—that while I was drowning my sorrows, convincing myself she'd chosen to leave, she was enduring unimaginable suffering because of some connection to me.
"Who?" I finally manage to ask, voice thick with rage. "Who claimed I owed them a debt?"
"They never used names around us," she says. "But the man in charge wore expensive suits. Had a tattoo on his wrist—small, like a chess piece. A knight, I think."
The description doesn't match anyone I know, but I file it away. "And the connection to the Reapers?"
"Came later. About two years in, the operation expanded. Reapers provided security, new routes. The arrangement seemed new, but profitable."
I stand abruptly, unable to contain the energy coursing through me. My fist connects with the wall before I can stop myself, pain shooting up my arm from the impact.
"Falcon," Cara says, voice steady despite my outburst. "It wasn't your fault."
"The hell it wasn't," I growl, cradling my hand. "They took you because of me. Used my name to control you. And I believed their setup. Stopped looking after three months because some fucking security footage convinced me you'd left willingly."
She crosses the room, stopping just short of touching me. "You couldn't have known."
"I should have," I insist, self-loathing thick in my throat. "I knew you. Should have known you wouldn't just leave like that. Should have kept looking."
"And then what?" she challenges softly. "They would have killed you if you'd gotten close. That's not guilt talking—that's fact. They were professionals, Falcon. Everything they did was calculated."
I stare at her, this woman who endured five years of hell yet stands here trying to absolve me of guilt. The weight of it is crushing.
"I'm sorry," I whisper, the words pathetically inadequate. "God, Cara. I'm so fucking sorry."
Something in her expression cracks, the clinical distance giving way to raw emotion. "I used to imagine this conversation," she admits, voice barely audible. "In the worst moments, I'd picture you finding me, saying those exact words. It kept me alive some days."
The confession shatters what remains of my composure. I reach for her without thinking, then freeze, hand suspended between us. "Can I?—"
She nods once, and I pull her carefully into my arms, mindful of injuries both visible and hidden. She's stiff at first, then gradually relaxes, head resting against my uninjured shoulder. We stand like that, two broken people holding each other up, as rain continues to drum against the window.
"I did look for you," I say eventually, needing her to know. "Those first months, I tore this town apart. Called in every favor. But they led me away with that credit card trail, the footage. Made it look like you'd chosen to start over somewhere else."
She pulls back enough to look at me, eyes wet with unshed tears. "I know. I figured out what they'd done after the fact. It was a good plan—making you believe I'd left by choice. Easier for everyone if you hated me instead of looking for me."
"I never hated you," I confess. "I wanted to. Would have been easier. But even believing you'd left, I couldn't hate you. Just myself, for not being enough to make you stay."
A tear escapes, tracking down her cheek. "I never wanted to leave. Never stopped trying to get back to you. Even when I forgot what your face looked like, I remembered how you made me feel. Safe. Loved."
The words cut deeper than any knife. Five years of believing a lie, while she fought to survive horrors I can barely comprehend. And now we stand in the aftermath, broken in different ways, connected by a past that seems like another lifetime.
"Whoever took you," I say, resolve hardening my voice, "whoever used my name to control you, they're going to pay. I swear to you, Cara. I'm going to find them, and they're going to suffer for every moment they made you suffer."
"It won't change what happened," she points out softly.
"No," I agree. "But it might keep it from happening to someone else." I step back, needing to regain some control. "This wasn't random. They targeted you specifically because of me. Which means it was personal."
"Or business," she suggests. "Not everything is a vendetta, Falcon. Sometimes it's just business."
The observation is troublingly insightful. "Either way, I need to understand why. And how it connects to what's happening now. The ambush today, the encrypted ledger, all of it."
She nods, exhaustion evident in the slump of her shoulders. "I've told you everything I know. I swear it."
"I believe you," I say, realizing as the words leave my mouth that I truly do. "Get some rest. We'll figure this out in the morning."
I move toward the door, stopping when she speaks again.
"Falcon." Her voice is tentative. "The man who came monthly, the one they feared. He had another tattoo I only saw once. On his forearm, partially covered by his sleeve."
"What was it?"
"A club symbol," she says. "Not Reapers. Different. A crown with three points."
The description sends ice through my veins. "You're sure? Three points, not five?"
She nods. "Three. Why? Do you recognize it?"
I think of a rival club that disappeared five years ago after a territorial dispute. A club whose president vanished rather than face the Saints Outlaws in open conflict. A club we believed was defunct.
"Kings of Purgatory," I say grimly. "They were supposed to be gone. Disbanded after their president disappeared."
"Gone underground, maybe," Cara suggests. "Not gone completely."
I absorb this new information, pieces clicking into place. "If they're back, working with the Reapers..." I don't finish the thought. Don't need to.
"Be careful," she says simply. "Whatever you're planning, whatever happens next—just be careful."
I nod, hand on the doorknob. "Get some sleep. And Cara?" I meet her eyes one last time. "Thank you. For telling me everything. For surviving long enough to tell me."
As I close her door behind me, the weight of truth settles heavy across my shoulders. The Kings of Purgatory. A debt that was never mine. A woman who suffered for years because of her connection to me.
Guilt is a luxury I can't afford right now. Not when there are enemies to identify, threats to neutralize. Not when I finally have a target for the rage that's been building since I found her in that container.
But beneath the strategic calculations and promises of vengeance, one thought surfaces, quiet but insistent: she never stopped fighting to come back to me. And I gave up on her.
That's a debt I'm not sure I can ever repay.