Chapter Thirteen #2
"The fuckers hit us from all sides," Butch growled, lowering the wounded man to the ground. "They knew exactly where our defenses were weakest."
Bear moved forward. "How many still inside?"
"Maybe ten of ours, holding the central rooms," Butch answered, his face grim in the moonlight. "Victor's on a goddamn walkie giving orders. This isn't some random attack—it's a fucking military operation."
I glanced back toward where I'd spotted the approaching figures. We had minutes, maybe less.
Butch seemed to read my concern. "We need to split up," he said decisively. "I'll take the wounded to Henry's clinic—they need medical attention now. You three follow the kid." He nodded toward me. "He seems to know what he's doing."
Rooster looked at me, a question in his eyes. I nodded once, though anxiety churned in my stomach. What I was about to show them was my most closely guarded secret—the network I'd spent months building around their territory.
I hesitated only briefly before leading them deeper into the forest, away from the approaching threat. The others followed silently, trusting me despite having no reason to. The weight of that trust pressed against my chest like a physical thing.
After ten minutes of careful navigation through the underbrush, I brought them to the first of my observation posts—a hollow log positioned with precise sightlines to the eastern approach of the compound.
To casual observers, it looked like a natural deadfall. But I'd carefully hollowed it to create a sheltered viewpoint, complete with a small cache of supplies hidden in a waterproof compartment beneath.
Bear crouched to examine it, his massive frame dwarfing my carefully constructed hiding place. "What the hell?" he muttered, running his fingers along the smooth interior where I'd painstakingly carved away the rot.
I didn't wait for further questions, just continued leading them through my network.
Twenty yards north was a platform nestled in the branches of an ancient oak, positioned to overlook the main road.
Beyond that, a small depression beneath a rock outcropping that gave clear views of the clubhouse's southern exposure.
At each location, I'd stashed essentials—water, protein bars, a first aid kit, matches sealed in wax. Not enough to live on permanently, but sufficient for surveillance or emergency retreat.
"Jesus Christ," Bear muttered as he examined the tree platform. "This is professional-grade work. Military level observation post." He turned to stare at me with new eyes. "Who the hell taught you to build something like this?"
I tapped my temple. Necessity. Survival. The best teacher I'd ever had.
Gunner circled the platform, his tactician's mind clearly assessing its strategic value. "How many of these do you have?"
I held up both hands, fingers spread. Ten. Ten observation posts surrounding their compound, positioned for optimal surveillance of every approach.
"How long?" Rooster asked quietly, his eyes meeting mine. "How long have you been watching us?"
I hesitated, then held up seven fingers, followed by a circular motion. Seven months. Longer than any of them had realized. Since before Rooster had first noticed me scavenging from their dumpsters, before he'd started leaving food at the picnic table.
"Seven months," Rooster repeated, his voice barely above a whisper. Understanding dawned on his face. "That's why you knew about the surveillance devices. Why you could find them all. You've been..." He trailed off, struggling to find the words.
"You've been protecting us," Bear finished for him, incredulity coloring his tone. "All this time, we thought you were just some homeless kid Rooster was feeding. But you've been watching our perimeter, tracking threats."
I shrugged uncomfortably under their stares. It hadn't been entirely selfless. Their territory had become my territory by proximity. Their enemies potentially mine. Protecting them had been protecting myself.
But even I knew that wasn't the whole truth.
The four men stood silent around me, the hardened bikers studying me with new eyes.
In their expressions I saw something I hadn't expected—respect.
Not pity, not the cautious concern they'd shown the traumatized mute who flinched at sudden movements.
But genuine respect for a fellow survivor, a watcher, a protector.
"Well, I'll be damned," Gunner said finally, breaking the silence. "Looks like our stray cat's got some serious claws."
Rooster's hand found my shoulder, the weight of it warm and steadying.
I didn't flinch away from his touch this time.
Something had shifted between us—between all of us—in the revelation of my secret surveillance network.
I wasn't just Rooster's damaged mate anymore.
I was someone with skills they needed, knowledge they valued.
For the first time in fifteen years, I felt like I might belong somewhere. And it had taken an attack to reveal it.
The distant crack of gunfire reminded us that revelations wouldn't keep us alive. We had work to do.
I led them higher up the ridge to my most strategic observation post, a natural depression between two boulders that offered perfect sightlines to the entire compound while remaining virtually invisible from below.
The moon cast enough light for the others to follow my silent steps, though I doubted they could appreciate just how carefully I'd selected this location—how I'd spent days testing visibility angles, calculating blind spots, ensuring multiple escape routes.
This wasn't just another hiding place. This was my command center.
"Down," I mouthed silently, gesturing for them to crouch as we approached the edge of the outcropping. They obeyed immediately, veterans of enough combat to recognize the authority in my movements.
Below us, the clubhouse burned in sections, tactical flashlights cutting through smoke as Victor's men methodically cleared rooms. Their movements betrayed professional training—coordinated, disciplined, ruthlessly efficient.
I reached for a stick nearby, then cleared a patch of dirt between us. Without hesitation, I began to draw, my hands moving with practiced precision. First the clubhouse, each window and door placed exactly where it stood. Then the garage, the fence line, the tree line.
My fingers worked quickly, adding details most would overlook—the slight depression near the east gate, the drainage ditch that offered concealed approach from the north, the blind spot behind the propane tank.
Bear leaned forward, his breath catching as I marked Victor's team positions with X's—twelve men total, divided into four three-man teams. I indicated their movement patterns with arrows, showing how they'd systematically herded the MC members toward the central rooms while cutting off escape routes.
"Jesus Christ," Gunner whispered, studying my dirt map with growing astonishment. "This is Special Forces level tactical analysis. How the hell do you—"
I held up my hand for silence, continuing to add details.
I marked their likely extraction routes, the command vehicle's position, the snipers' fields of fire.
Every detail rendered with military precision, informed by years of watching similar operations unfold.
Years of being the invisible observer as communities like this one were methodically destroyed.
When I finished, I sat back on my heels, giving them time to absorb what I'd drawn. They crowded around the dirt map, their expressions shifting from confusion to grudging respect as they recognized the accuracy of my assessment.
"This is how they knew our blind spots," Bear muttered. "They've been planning this for months."
Rooster's eyes met mine across the drawing. "But why? What do they want with us?"
I reached into my pocket and pulled out the small, weathered notebook I carried everywhere—the one I'd had long before Percy's gift. Its pages were filled with observations, maps, sketches compiled over years of silent witness. I flipped to a specific page and held it out.
Gunner took it carefully, angling it toward the moonlight. His eyes widened as he studied my detailed sketch of another compound—a wolf shifter pack in Wyoming I'd stumbled across two years ago.
The drawing showed an attack pattern identical to what was happening below us now—same team formations, same approach vectors, same systematic sweep.
"This... this is the same tactical approach," Gunner said, his voice tense. "Same team composition."
I nodded, flipping to another page—a fox shifter community in Nevada. Then another—bear shifters in northern California. Three separate attacks, months apart, hundreds of miles distant. All executed with the same precision, the same methodology.
But it was the fourth drawing that made Bear curse under his breath. My sketch showed the aftermath—bodies arranged in clinical rows, blood samples being taken, distinctive markers indicating scientific documentation rather than simple slaughter.
"This isn't just an attack," Bear whispered, horrified understanding dawning on his face. "It's a collection. A harvest."
I nodded grimly, then pulled out my pencil and wrote in the margin of the page: "No survivors found in previous attacks. All bodies removed after documentation. Special interest in rare shifter types."
"Like Preston Markus's experiments," Rooster said, the connection clicking into place. "This is the same operation, just under Victor now."
I flipped to a blank page and wrote rapidly, my pencil nearly tearing the paper with urgency: "This isn't random. It's systematic extermination of shifters. Been tracking for years. You're the only ones who fed me. Only ones I warned."
The words hung in the air between us, heavy with implication. Not just that I'd witnessed other attacks—but that I'd chosen not to intervene, to remain hidden and survive. Until now. Until them.
Rooster read the words aloud softly, his voice catching on the final sentence. "Only ones I warned." He looked at me, understanding dawning in his eyes. "Because we were the first ones who treated you like a person instead of a threat."
I dropped my gaze, uncomfortable with the raw gratitude in his expression. It hadn't been just that. There were practical considerations—this group was larger, better armed, with underground passages I could leverage. My chances of successful intervention were higher. My risk of capture lower.
But even as I thought it, I knew it wasn't entirely true.
Something had shifted when Rooster had first left that plate of food on the picnic table.
Something I hadn't experienced in fifteen years of solitary survival.
Something that had made me risk exposure to warn them about Victor's surveillance devices.
Something that had pulled me back to the compound after I'd fled in terror at the mention of a claiming bite.
Something that felt dangerously close to caring.
"How long have you been tracking these attacks?" Gunner asked, pulling me from my thoughts.
I held up five fingers.
"Five years? You've been following these bastards across the country for five years?" The incredulity in his voice was matched by the new respect in his eyes. "Why?"
I couldn't easily explain that answer without speaking, and I wasn't ready to break my silence.
How could I tell them that after watching the first attack—after seeing the clinical efficiency with which the shifters were cataloged, sampled, and removed—I'd recognized a pattern that terrified me to my core?
That I'd been marked as "specimen of interest" once before, barely escaping with my life?
That I'd survived by becoming the watcher, staying one step ahead of those who would cage me?
Instead, I just tapped my chest, then pointed to my golden lynx eyes. Because I was like them. Because it could have been me.
"All this time," Bear muttered, shaking his head. "We thought we were watching out for you, but you've been the one protecting us."
Below us, Victor's men continued their methodical search of the compound.
One team had reached the garage, flashlight beams sweeping through the windows.
Another approached the tree line where our tunnel had emerged.
They were thorough, professional—and getting closer to our position with every passing minute.
The weight of Rooster's hand settled on my shoulder, warm and steady. I didn't flinch away this time, didn't tense at the contact. Instead, I found myself leaning slightly into his touch, accepting the connection it offered.
"What happens now?" Gunner asked, his eyes fixed on the destruction below.
I looked at these men—these fighters who had unknowingly given me something worth fighting for after fifteen years of running—and made my decision. With my pencil, I wrote one more message in my notebook, the words stark against the page: "Now we hunt the hunters."
Rooster's hand tightened on my shoulder, a silent promise of protection and partnership.
As Victor's men moved through the compound below us, searching for prey that had slipped through their fingers, I felt something unfamiliar settle in my chest—a fierce determination that went beyond mere survival.
For the first time in my life, I wasn't just trying to stay alive. I was fighting to protect something that mattered. Something that might, against all odds, be worth the risk of being seen.