Chapter Nine
~ Liam ~
I waited until Victor's sleek black car disappeared through the main gate before I settled onto the ground, cross-legged, my notepad balanced carefully on my knee.
My fingers trembled slightly as I began to sketch, not from fear but from the urgent messages pulsing through the soil beneath me.
The dandelions pushing through cracks in the pavement, the stubborn clover clinging to life at the fence line, the ancient oak near the garage—they all whispered to me through subtle shifts in their energy, painting a picture of danger that only I could see.
Rooster crouched beside me, his massive frame casting a shadow over my notepad. He remained silent, watching as my pencil flew across the paper. I appreciated that he didn't rush me, didn't demand immediate explanations. He simply waited, a steady presence at my side.
The plants were agitated, their usual gentle hum escalated to something more frantic. I placed my palm flat against the ground, closing my eyes briefly as I sorted through the jumble of impressions flooding my consciousness.
Metal-death. Signal-danger. Watching-eyes.
I opened my eyes and began sketching the compound's layout with quick, precise strokes.
The clubhouse in the center, the garage to the left, the picnic table where Rooster had first left food for me—each detail rendered with the accuracy of someone who had spent months observing from the shadows.
Then I marked Xs where the plants had sensed the buried devices, my pencil pressing harder against the paper with each mark.
Seven. Nine. Twelve.
Twelve devices forming a perfect perimeter around the Soldiers of Fortune compound. Victor had only planted one during our observation, which meant the others had been installed earlier, during previous "visits" or break-in attempts.
The realization made my stomach twist with anxiety.
"Kid, this is..." Rooster's voice trailed off as he studied my drawing. His finger traced the pattern of Xs, connecting them into a complete surveillance circle. "You're saying all these spots have devices like the one we saw him plant?"
I nodded, then flipped to a fresh page. This time I sketched Victor's silhouette near the fence line, then drew connecting lines to other figures wearing similar suits. Three men in total, with nearly identical postures—confident, entitled, dangerous.
I'd seen them before, though never all together. They took turns circling the compound, each visiting a different section of the fence to maintain their network of spying tools.
Rooster's brow furrowed as he studied the new drawing. "These other two—you've seen them here too? Recently?"
I held up two fingers, then pointed to the waxing moon overhead before making a circular motion. Two cycles. Two months. I'd been watching them watching the MC for that long.
The weeds beneath my legs shifted, their tiny roots squirming with agitation as they transmitted a fresh warning.
I quickly sketched a close-up of one of the devices—a small metal disc with a blinking light, an antenna barely thicker than a human hair, and something else.
.. something that had made the plants recoil when Victor buried it.
Poison-metal. Death-to-green.
I couldn't explain that part to Rooster. How could I make him understand that the devices weren't just listening or tracking—they were hurting the plants somehow, causing a slow decay in the soil around them?
Instead, I drew a crude shifter mid-transformation beside one of the devices, with jagged lines connecting them. Then I sketched a small cage around the shifter figure.
"These track shifters specifically?" Rooster asked, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Not just surveillance but targeting us?"
I nodded emphatically, relieved he understood.
I flipped to yet another page and drew what I'd seen three cities ago—men in similar suits setting up identical devices around a small park where I'd discovered a coyote shifter living.
Three days later, the coyote had been gone, and the suited men had returned to collect their equipment, satisfied smirks on their faces.
My hand moved faster now, sketching a map of the country with X marks in various cities—places I'd passed through, places where I'd seen these men and their technology, places where shifters had disappeared.
I'd never stayed long enough to witness the actual captures. Survival had taught me to run at the first sign of hunters. But I'd seen enough to recognize the pattern.
Rooster's breathing changed as he studied my drawings, becoming deeper, more controlled—the breathing of someone working to contain rage. "You've seen this before. Multiple times. That's why you came back. Not just because of... us."
I glanced up at him, momentarily surprised by the "us" in his statement, before nodding slowly. It wasn't just about warning Rooster, though that had been a significant part of my decision.
It was about all of them—this strange, cobbled-together family of shifters who had claimed this territory as their own. Who had unknowingly sheltered me with their presence, creating a buffer zone between me and the world's dangers.
The MC hadn't been merely my feeding ground these past months—it had been my shield, my unwitting protectors. And now they were targets because of what they were.
I turned to a fresh page and drew the clubhouse again, this time with small waves emanating from each buried device, converging on a point outside the compound.
Then I added a simple arrow pointing to tomorrow's date on a calendar.
The meaning was clear: whatever Victor and his companions were planning, it was happening soon. Very soon.
"They're triangulating," Rooster muttered, the color draining from his face. "Using these devices to pinpoint exactly where each shifter is inside our territory. Planning an ambush, maybe."
I nodded grimly, adding a final sketch—small arrows pointing inward from all directions toward the compound center. Classic hunting pattern. Surround, then close in for the kill.
Rooster's hand moved toward mine before stopping just short of contact, respecting the boundaries I'd established. "We need to show this to Butch. Immediately."
I hesitated, my instincts screaming at me to run, to disappear back into the forest where I'd survived for fifteen years. Getting involved meant becoming visible, traceable. It meant putting myself directly in the hunters' path.
But as I looked at my drawings—at the careful documentation of a threat I'd been tracking across multiple states without fully understanding—I realized I was already involved. Had been since the first time I'd sensed those devices buried near the fence line and chosen to stay rather than flee.
The clover near my knee trembled, its leaves turning subtly toward me in silent encouragement.
Not-alone now. Choose-strength.
I took a deep breath and nodded to Rooster, gathering my notepad and pencil as I rose to my feet. For the first time in fifteen years, I was choosing to step toward danger rather than away from it.
For the first time, I had something—someone—worth the risk.
My shoulders hunched as we stepped away from the sheltering pine tree into the exposed yard. Every step across the open compound felt like an invitation for watching eyes, for the click of a camera shutter or the red dot of a laser sight between my shoulder blades.
I'd spent fifteen years avoiding precisely this—being visible, trackable, an easy target in an open space.
Rooster must have sensed my discomfort because he positioned his large body between me and the fence line where Victor had planted the device, creating a living shield against whatever invisible eyes might be watching us.
"Just stay close to me," he murmured, his voice barely audible above the sound of gravel crunching beneath our feet. "If those devices are transmitting our position, they already know I'm out here. But they might not have spotted you yet."
I nodded, pressing myself closer to his broad back as we moved.
My notepad was clutched tightly against my chest, the pages containing information that could save these people—these shifters who didn't realize they were being hunted.
The knowledge felt heavy in my hands, a responsibility I hadn't asked for but couldn't ignore.
The clubhouse loomed ahead of us, its weathered exterior more imposing up close than it had appeared from my usual hiding spots. Except for my one quick trip to Butch’s office, I'd never been inside beyond the kitchen and Rooster's room.
The thought of venturing deeper into the building made my pulse quicken, but I forced myself to keep moving forward. The stakes were too high for me to retreat into the comfort of shadows now.
As we approached the back door, it swung open to reveal the bearded man—Butch, their president—his expression grim as he ushered us quickly inside. "Was wondering where you two disappeared to," he said, his eyes scanning the yard behind us before closing and locking the door.
The interior of the clubhouse assaulted my senses immediately—the mingled scents of leather, motor oil, cigarette smoke, and beer creating a potent cocktail that made my nose twitch. Voices echoed from somewhere deeper inside the building, male voices raised in animated discussion.
My steps faltered as we moved past the kitchen into unfamiliar territory, but Rooster's steady presence kept me from bolting.
"This way," he said, guiding me down a short hallway to a door at the end. "Butch's office. It's secure."
I wasn't sure what "secure" meant in this context, but I followed anyway, my fingers tightening around my notepad.
The office was smaller than I'd remembered—a cluttered space dominated by a large wooden desk covered with papers, motorcycle parts, and what appeared to be building plans.
The walls were lined with filing cabinets and shelves holding various trophies, photos, and MC memorabilia.