Chapter 14
FALCON
The abandoned mining office sits twenty miles outside town, its weathered exterior belying the renovations we've made inside. Once used for coal company administration, now it serves the Saints for situations requiring absolute privacy—interrogations, sensitive meetings, medical procedures that can't happen at the clubhouse. Today, it will host perhaps its most consequential conversation.
I check the secure room one final time, ensuring everything is arranged for maximum psychological impact. A single metal chair bolted to the floor. Bright overhead lights that can be adjusted from blinding to near darkness. Temperature controls that can make the room uncomfortably cold or oppressively warm. One-way observation glass. Recording equipment running but hidden from view.
"Prisoner's prepped," Ghost reports, entering behind me. "Cuffed, blindfolded during transport. No tracking possibilities."
I nod acknowledgment, trusting his thoroughness. Ghost's military background makes him meticulous about security protocols. "Walker confirmed the feds will maintain communication blackout for forty-eight hours. As far as they're concerned, Mason Griffin is still 'missing' after the raid."
Griffin—the Reapers' second-in-command and Hargrove's primary liaison—was captured three days ago during a federal operation targeting remaining Reapers leadership. His official processing was "delayed" through Walker's intervention, giving us this narrow window for unofficial questioning before he enters the system.
"How's he holding up?" I ask, referring to Griffin's physical condition rather than mental state. I need him coherent and rational for what comes next.
"Medically stable. Doc cleared him this morning." Ghost studies me with the careful assessment of a longtime brother. "You sure you want to handle this alone? Vulture offered to?—"
"I've got it," I interrupt, perhaps too sharply. I soften my tone. "Griffin knows me by reputation. That has value."
What I don't articulate is the personal stake driving my involvement. Every piece of intelligence connecting Hargrove's operation to Cara's abduction has come through Reapers sources. Griffin represents our best chance at completing that puzzle—and perhaps our only opportunity to understand the true scope of what we're fighting.
"Club's counting on you," Ghost reminds me unnecessarily. "Federal case against Hargrove goes to grand jury next week. Whatever Griffin knows could make the difference."
The timing creates urgency beyond club interests. Cara and Miranda are scheduled to testify, their safety dependent on our ability to neutralize threats. The safe house project breaks ground in ten days. Everything converges around this moment, this interrogation, this potential intelligence breakthrough.
"I know what's at stake," I tell him, checking my watch. Four-thirty AM. Dawn still hours away. "Let's get started."
Ghost nods and exits to retrieve our guest. I settle into the mental state required for interrogation—calm, focused, utterly present. The exhaustion of recent weeks fades to background noise, adrenaline providing temporary clarity. Sleep can come later, after we get what we need.
The door opens again, and two prospects guide Griffin into the room. His hands are cuffed before him, ankles shackled with just enough chain to allow shuffling steps. Despite these restraints and three days in captivity, he maintains the arrogant bearing of a man accustomed to authority. His Reapers cut has been confiscated, leaving him in a plain white t-shirt that reveals muscled arms covered in tattoos—including the distinctive Reapers insignia on his right forearm.
"Mason Griffin," I acknowledge as the prospects secure him to the chair. "Been a while."
He meets my gaze without flinching, recognition evident. "Falcon Reed. Still playing soldier for the Saints, I see."
The prospects exit silently, leaving us alone in the stark room. For several moments, we assess each other like fighters before a match, gauging strengths and weaknesses, searching for leverage points.
"Federal authorities are very interested in your whereabouts," I begin conversationally. "Officially, you're in the wind after the raid. Unofficially..." I gesture to our surroundings. "You're having an off-the-record conversation with me."
"Is that what we're calling this?" Griffin's tone is sardonic, but I catch the calculation behind his eyes. He's smart enough to understand his precarious position.
"What we call it depends entirely on how productive our discussion proves to be." I lean against the wall, deliberately casual. "The feds have enough to put you away for decades—trafficking, racketeering, conspiracy, weapons charges. That's without adding the murder charges they're building."
He shrugs, the movement limited by his restraints. "Hearing a lot of federal problems. Nothing that explains my current accommodations with the Saints."
"Let's just say our interests temporarily align with law enforcement, but our methods offer more flexibility." I straighten, stepping closer. "We want information the feds might not think to ask for. Or might choose to ignore if it complicates their case."
A flicker of interest crosses his face—the first genuine reaction. "And in return?"
"Depends on what you're offering." I maintain a neutral expression despite the surge of anticipation. He's engaging, which means he believes he has something valuable enough to trade.
"I'm not offering shit until I understand the terms," Griffin counters. "I know how this works, Reed. Information has value only when properly leveraged."
I consider my approach carefully. Push too hard, he shuts down. Reveal too much interest, he overvalues his position. The interrogation is a delicate balance of pressure and incentive, particularly with someone as experienced as Griffin.
"Here's the situation as I see it," I begin, pacing slowly before him. "You're facing federal charges that guarantee life imprisonment. The Reapers are decimated after our raids. Hargrove's operation is exposed. Your former associates know you've been captured and will assume you're talking." I pause, letting the implications sink in. "Your past is gone, Griffin. The only variable is your future."
He listens impassively, but I note the subtle tensing of his jaw—recognition of truths he's already calculated.
"The feds can offer witness protection," I continue. "New identity, minimum security. But they can't guarantee your safety inside the system, especially against an organization with the reach you know exists."
"And the Saints can?" Skepticism edges his voice.
"We offer different advantages. Immediate escape from federal custody. Transport to a non-extradition country. Sufficient funds to establish yourself elsewhere." I meet his eyes directly. "But only for information that justifies that investment."
The offer isn't officially sanctioned by the club, but I know Vulture would support it if Griffin's intelligence proves valuable enough. Some battles require uncomfortable compromises.
Griffin stares at me, assessing the authenticity of the proposition. Finally, he chuckles—a dry, humorless sound. "You have no idea what you're really dealing with, do you?"
"Enlighten me," I reply, keeping my expression neutral despite the surge of anticipation.
"Hargrove, the Reapers, the local trafficking operation—it's just one small branch of a much larger tree." Griffin leans forward as much as his restraints allow. "What you've uncovered is effectively a regional franchise. One operation in a global network."
Though I've suspected as much, hearing confirmation sends ice through my veins. "Details."
"The organization operates on four continents. Territorial managers like Hargrove oversee regional operations with local muscle—in our case, the Reapers. Above the territorial level is what they call 'The Board'—six individuals who coordinate global operations." Griffin watches my reaction carefully. "Taking down Hargrove is like removing a middle manager from Amazon. Satisfying, perhaps, but ultimately inconsequential to the larger operation."
"Names," I demand. "Locations. Structure."
"Not so fast." Griffin's confidence grows visibly as he recognizes the value of his knowledge. "We need to establish parameters. What exactly am I getting in exchange for international intelligence that goes well beyond your local concerns?"
I study him, recalculating our approach. If what he suggests is accurate, his information could be worth far more than our initial offering. But verification is essential before committing resources.
"Give me something concrete," I counter. "Prove the value of what you know. Then we can discuss specific terms."
He considers this, weighing his options with the calculation of someone accustomed to negotiating from disadvantaged positions. "The operation in Seattle that sourced some of your... recent rescues," he begins, choosing his words carefully. "It reports to a hub in Vancouver. That hub coordinates all West Coast trafficking for the network, moving 'product' between Asia and North America."
The clinical terminology for human beings turns my stomach, but I maintain my dispassionate exterior. "Vancouver connection was already established through the ledger decryption."
"Sure, but you don't have access to the secure server in a high-rise downtown that contains client lists, financial records, and blackmail material on half the political establishment in the Pacific Northwest." Griffin smiles thinly. "Or the fact that the Vancouver operation is personally overseen by a Board member named Michael Chen, who travels between legitimate business ventures and trafficking operations using diplomatic credentials provided by compromised officials."
The specificity suggests legitimate intelligence rather than desperate fabrication. "How would you have access to Board-level information?"
"Quarterly operational reviews," Griffin explains. "Territorial managers like Hargrove report directly to their assigned board member. Regional security chiefs—my position—are included in select briefings to ensure proper protocols." His expression hardens. "I've met Chen personally during inspections of our security arrangements."
I process this, evaluating both the information and its source. Griffin has always been ambitious—his rapid rise through Reapers ranks testament to that quality. His willingness to sacrifice Hargrove and the organization suggests he's already calculated their downfall as inevitable and is simply leveraging his position for maximum personal benefit.
"If what you're saying is accurate," I begin cautiously, "the federal case against Hargrove barely scratches the surface of the operation."
"Finally catching up," Griffin says with condescending satisfaction. "Hargrove goes down, The Board simply replaces him. Operations pause briefly, then resume under new management. The women your club rescued? Others take their place within months."
The implications are disturbing on multiple levels—not just for the trafficking victims but for the safety of witnesses against Hargrove. If the network is truly this extensive, they could easily reach Cara, Miranda, and others scheduled to testify.
"I need verification," I tell him, maintaining professional distance despite the urgency building inside me. "Specific details we can confirm independently."
Griffin nods, apparently having anticipated this requirement. "In my cut, behind the liner, is a microSD card. Contains account numbers, contact protocols, meeting locations for the Vancouver operation. Enough to verify everything I'm telling you."
I signal through the observation glass, and moments later Ghost enters with Griffin's cut. A careful search reveals the hidden card exactly where described. Ice Pick will need to verify its contents, but the existence of the card itself lends credibility to Griffin's claims.
"Start talking," I instruct, returning to my position. "Everything you know about the international structure. Names, locations, operations."
For the next two hours, Griffin details an organization more extensive and sophisticated than anything we imagined. Operations spanning Asia, Eastern Europe, South America, and North America. Political protection purchased at highest levels. Financial structures laundering profits through legitimate businesses. Security protocols including counter-surveillance and proactive elimination of threats—like Sophia's murder.
Most disturbing are the contingency plans Griffin describes—pre-established responses to exactly the kind of legal case we're building against Hargrove.
"They've already activated protocols for witness elimination," he explains with disturbing detachment. "The shelter attack was just the beginning. They have detailed files on every potential witness, including family connections, daily routines, security vulnerabilities."
"Cara Mitchell," I say, her name feeling strange on my tongue in this context. "What specifically do they know about her?"
Griffin's expression shifts subtly—recognition of particular interest he can leverage. "She's designated Priority One. Not just as a witness, but as a message. Kane has personal interest in her elimination due to her connection to you."
Though I've maintained professional distance throughout the interrogation, this direct threat ignites a cold fury I struggle to contain. "Specific threat assessment."
"Multiple approaches planned," Griffin continues, clearly aware of the emotional impact of this information. "Surveillance on the safe house project she's developing. Three separate infiltration attempts at the Saints compound already. Two assets inside federal building security where she'll testify."
Each detail lands like a physical blow, but I force myself to process the intelligence objectively. "And you know this how?"
"Security briefing two weeks ago. I personally reviewed the elimination protocols." He studies my reaction with calculated interest. "That's why I brought the microSD. Insurance, in case I was captured. The Saints might be the only organization capable of disrupting those protocols before they're fully implemented."
The statement contains both flattery and manipulation, but potentially truth as well. If the network is as extensive as Griffin describes, conventional law enforcement would be too constrained by jurisdiction, procedure, and potentially corruption to respond effectively.
"What exactly are you proposing?" I ask, needing absolute clarity on his expectations.
"Safe passage out of the country. New identity documentation. Five million in untraceable cryptocurrency." Griffin delivers these demands without hesitation. "In exchange, I provide complete operational details on the Northwest trafficking network, including the Vancouver hub, Chen's movements, and all active elimination protocols targeting your witnesses."
The price is steep but potentially justified if his information proves authentic. Still, something doesn't align in his proposal.
"Why not take this to the feds?" I challenge. "Witness protection, immunity deal, the works. Why come to us?"
Griffin's laugh holds genuine amusement. "Because I'm not stupid. The network has people inside every federal agency. Witness protection programs have mysteriously 'lost' participants before. Besides," he adds with cynical pragmatism, "the Saints have more motivation to act quickly. Personal stakes tend to accelerate response times."
His assessment isn't wrong. The club's connection to this case—particularly through Cara—creates urgency that bureaucratic processes can't match. Still, the decision to assist a high-ranking Reaper in escaping justice carries significant moral and practical complications.
"I need to discuss terms with club leadership," I tell him, standing to signal the interrogation's pause. "Your information will be verified first."
"Don't take too long," Griffin advises, his expression darkening. "Those elimination protocols are already active. Clock's ticking for your witnesses."
As I exit the interrogation room, the weight of what I've learned settles across my shoulders. The trafficking network we've been fighting extends far beyond Hargrove and the Reapers. Our current approach—building a federal case against local operations—suddenly seems woefully inadequate against the scope of the larger organization.
"The SD card checks out," Ice Pick confirms, displaying complex financial records on his laptop screen. "Account numbers, transaction histories, contact protocols—all consistent with information we've already verified through other sources. But much more extensive."
Four hours after Griffin's initial revelations, club leadership has convened in the mining office's secure meeting room. Vulture, Ghost, Ice Pick, and Osprey review the intelligence while Griffin remains isolated in the interrogation room.
"What about his claims regarding the international network?" Vulture asks, his expression betraying nothing of his thoughts.
"Consistent with patterns we've observed," Ghost replies. "The operational structure he described matches intelligence from our contacts in Europe and Asia. Multiple MC chapters globally have reported similar trafficking methods, security protocols, and financial arrangements."
"And the threat assessment against our witnesses?" This question comes from Vulture, but his eyes meet mine, acknowledging my personal stake in the answer.
Ice Pick grimaces. "Verified through back channels. Federal building security recently hired three new contractors with connections to shell companies linked to Hargrove's operation. And surveillance photos of the safe house property match what our own security team has documented."
The confirmation sends ice through my veins. Cara's safety—along with Miranda and the other witnesses—faces more immediate threat than we realized.
"Options," Vulture says simply, looking to each officer for assessment.
"We have two distinct approaches," I begin, having spent the intervening hours analyzing potential responses. "Option one: Continue with the current federal case against Hargrove and local operations. Increase security around witnesses, accept the limited scope of justice, and effectively take the win we've earned."
"And option two?" Osprey prompts.
"Expand our focus to the international network. Use Griffin's intelligence to target the Vancouver hub and potentially disrupt the entire West Coast trafficking operation." I meet each brother's eyes in turn. "Higher risk, bigger potential impact, but significantly more dangerous for the club."
"Resources required for option two?" Vulture asks practically.
"Substantial," Ghost acknowledges. "We'd need to commit most of our manpower, financial reserves, and call in favors from allied chapters. Vancouver operation would require cross-border coordination, potential conflict with Canadian clubs if not properly negotiated."
"And Griffin's deal?" Ice Pick raises the elephant in the room. "Five million and escape from justice for a man who's participated in trafficking operations for years?"
The moral compromise inherent in the arrangement sits uneasily with all of us. Griffin is no innocent forced into criminal behavior. He's a willing, active participant in an organization that has destroyed countless lives.
"Distasteful," I acknowledge. "But potentially necessary if his intelligence prevents further trafficking and protects our witnesses."
Vulture considers all angles with the measured assessment that makes him an effective president. "Federal case status?"
"Proceeding as planned," I report. "Grand jury is next week. Cara and Miranda are scheduled to testify Thursday. Walker believes indictments against Hargrove and twenty-three associates are virtually guaranteed based on existing evidence."
"So justice will be served either way," Osprey observes. "At least for Hargrove and local operations."
"Local justice only," I remind him. "If Griffin's information is accurate, the international network continues unaffected. New operations replace those we've shut down. Different faces, same system."
The implications hang heavy in the room—the possibility that our hard-won victory represents merely a temporary disruption rather than lasting change. After months of effort, risk, and sacrifice, the scope of what remains untouched is deeply unsettling.
"We need Walker's input," Vulture decides after lengthy consideration. "See if federal resources could support expanded operations without compromising the current case."
I nod agreement, having already requested an urgent meeting with our FBI contact. "He's meeting us here at noon. Three hours from now."
As the discussion continues—tactical considerations, resource allocation, security protocols—my mind keeps returning to Cara. Her safety has been my priority since her rescue, but her testimony represents deliberate risk accepted for the cause of justice. The question now becomes whether that risk yields meaningful results or merely symbolic victory.
"Officially, this conversation isn't happening," Agent Walker begins, his usual professional demeanor strained by the complexity of our situation. "What you're describing falls under multiple federal jurisdictions, international law enforcement cooperation agreements, and sensitive diplomatic considerations."
We've moved to the facility's main office, converted to a secure briefing room for this discussion. Maps of the Pacific Northwest cover one wall, with Vancouver highlighted and specific locations marked based on Griffin's intelligence.
"Understood," Vulture replies. "We're not asking for official sanction. Just a realistic assessment of federal approach to the international network."
Walker sighs, running a hand through his short-cropped hair. "The truth? Bureaucratic reality would delay significant action for months, potentially years. International operations require task force creation, diplomatic clearances, coordinated efforts between agencies that don't always play well together."
"While women continue being trafficked," I observe.
"Unfortunately, yes." Walker's frustration appears genuine. "The Hargrove case is proceeding because it's contained within U.S. jurisdiction and supported by solid evidence your club helped secure. Expanding to international operations, particularly with alleged political protection at high levels..."
"Would be buried," Ice Pick concludes bluntly.
Walker doesn't explicitly confirm this assessment, but his expression speaks volumes. "Let's just say that certain details might be deemed too sensitive for immediate action, pending further investigation and approval from multiple oversight committees."
The diplomatic phrasing disguises an ugly reality—political considerations would likely prevent effective action against the larger network, particularly if high-level officials are implicated as Griffin suggests.
"And witness security?" I press, focusing on my primary concern. "Griffin described active elimination protocols targeting those testifying against Hargrove."
"We've increased protective details," Walker assures us. "But I'll be honest—if this network has the reach your source describes, federal protection has limitations. Especially long-term."
The assessment confirms my fears. Conventional witness protection might address immediate trial security, but the network's patience and resources create vulnerability that standard procedures can't mitigate indefinitely.
"Griffin's offer," Vulture prompts. "Your professional assessment?"
Walker chooses his words with extreme care. "Officially, facilitating a federal suspect's escape from jurisdiction would constitute multiple felonies." He pauses significantly. "Unofficially, intelligence from someone at his level could save countless lives if properly utilized."
"Would you look the other way?" I ask directly.
"I would never know about any arrangement made outside official channels," Walker replies with deliberate ambiguity. "Just as certain intelligence might reach appropriate federal agencies through anonymous sources after independent action secured it."