Chapter Sixteen
~ Liam ~
I stood outside Butch's office, my fingers tracing nervous patterns against my thigh.
The hallway felt too narrow, the air too thin.
Just yesterday, I'd been nothing but a shadow on the edge of their lives—a feral creature they tolerated because of Rooster.
Now Butch himself had summoned me, wanting everything I knew about Victor Markus and his operation.
Fifteen years of watching from the darkness had taught me much, but nothing had prepared me for this—stepping into the light, being asked to share rather than hide.
Rooster's hand settled gently on my shoulder, his touch no longer making me flinch as it once had. "He just wants information, baby boy. Nothing to be afraid of."
Easy for him to say. He hadn't spent most of his life learning that attention from powerful men usually ended in pain.
I took a deep breath and nodded once, reaching up to adjust my hood.
Though I no longer pulled it tight around my face as I once had, the familiar fabric still provided comfort against my scarred skin.
The weight of Percy's notebook pressed against my chest from its place in my inner pocket, a tangible reminder of why I was doing this.
I choose you. The words I'd written to Rooster just hours ago. And by extension, I'd chosen this—his family, his world.
Rooster knocked on the heavy wooden door, then squeezed my shoulder once more before stepping back. "I'll be in the kitchen when you're done."
The door swung open before I could panic about facing Butch alone. The MC president stood in the doorway, his massive frame blocking the light from inside his office. His eyes flickered briefly between Rooster and me before he stepped aside.
"Come in," he said, his voice carrying the easy authority of a man accustomed to being obeyed without question.
I slipped past him, immediately cataloguing the room as I'd done with every new space for fifteen years. Exits—there was one door and one window. Threats—none immediate. Hiding spots—behind the filing cabinet and under the desk.
The office was all dark wood and leather, motorcycle memorabilia covering the walls alongside framed photographs of men in club cuts. Trophy weapons hung on display—knives with ornate handles, a Civil War era revolver, brass knuckles mounted in a shadow box.
Butch's desk dominated the center of the room, massive and scarred with history. Papers were spread across its surface, some bearing official-looking letterhead, others covered in handwritten notes. A laptop sat open to one side, its screen displaying what looked like security camera feeds.
"Sit," Butch said, gesturing to the chair across from his desk.
I perched on the edge of the seat, my body tense and ready for flight. Butch moved around the desk and settled into his own chair with the unhurried confidence of a predator in his territory. He studied me openly, his gaze neither hostile nor particularly warm—just assessing.
"Victor's talking," he said finally, leaning back. "But I need to know if what he's saying matches what you know."
My fingers started tapping against my thigh again—a nervous habit I'd never managed to break. How could I possibly explain years of observation, patterns recognized across state lines, the systematic destruction of shifter communities?
My throat tightened at the very idea of speaking, the familiar panic rising as it always did when faced with verbal communication.
"What exactly was Victor Markus doing tracking our compound? And how long has his organization been hunting shifters?"
The direct questions made my mind race too fast for coherent thought.
Images flashed before my eyes—the wolf pack in Wyoming, the fox shifter family in Nevada, the bear community in northern California.
All gone. All taken. All while I watched from the shadows, documenting, but never intervening. Until now.
Butch must have recognized my rising panic, because his expression softened slightly. He reached for a notepad and pencil on his desk, sliding them toward me.
"Take your time," he said, his tone still firm but with an undercurrent of patience I hadn't expected. "Write it down if that's easier."
I stared at the blank page, my heart still hammering against my ribs. The pencil felt awkward in my fingers as I picked it up—I was more accustomed to the small stub I kept in my pocket for emergency notations. The first few lines I wrote were shaky, barely legible even to me.
"5 years tracking. Started in Wyoming. Wolf pack."
I frowned at the inadequate words. How could I possibly convey the horror of what I'd witnessed through such simplified notes? Frustration built inside me as I crossed out the words and tried again, my hand still unsteady.
Butch watched without comment as I struggled, neither rushing me nor showing impatience. After a few failed attempts at written explanation, I flipped to a fresh page and began to draw instead.
The lines flowed more easily as I sketched a rough map of the western United States, marking locations with small X's.
Beside each X, I drew crude representations—a wolf for Wyoming, a fox for Nevada, a bear for California, and finally, a motorcycle for the Soldiers of Fortune MC.
Then I started adding dates, creating a timeline that spread across two pages.
As my hands found their purpose, my anxiety receded enough for clearer thought. I added more details—surveillance patterns, infiltration methods, extraction techniques.
With each stroke of the pencil, my confidence grew. This was something I knew. Something I'd studied with the intense focus of someone whose survival depended on understanding predators.
"These all followed the same pattern?" Butch asked, leaning forward to study my drawings.
I nodded, then continued sketching. Three phases for each target:
Surveillance—cameras, planted devices, perimeter watchers.
Infiltration—agents inserted into the community or nearby towns.
Extraction or elimination—coordinated night raids, clinical collection of "specimens," no survivors.
Butch's eyes narrowed as he processed the information. "And you witnessed all of these personally?"
I nodded again, then wrote beside the Wyoming X: "Watched from lightning-struck tree. 200 yards distance. 12 wolves taken."
Beside Nevada: "Hill observation post. 7 foxes. Youngest was infant."
California: "Forest blind. 15 bears. Collection team used tranquilizers before blood sampling."
Each notation carried the weight of memories I'd tried to bury—the silent screams as shifters were loaded into unmarked vans, the clinical efficiency of men in tactical gear as they documented their "specimens."
"Jesus Christ," Butch muttered, studying my timeline. "They've been doing this systematically. Testing methods, refining their approach."
I tapped the MC's location on my map, then added a final notation: "Only ones who fought back. Only ones I warned."
Something shifted in Butch's expression as he read those words—a recognition that went beyond the tactical information I was providing. He looked up from the papers to study me directly, his gaze more penetrating than before.
"Why us, Liam? Why warn us when you didn't warn the others?"
The question hit me like a physical blow.
I stared at the notepad, the pencil suddenly heavy in my hand.
There were practical reasons, of course—this group was larger, better armed, with escape routes I'd mapped through their hidden passages.
My chances of successful intervention were higher. My risk of capture lower.
But those weren't the real reasons, and something in Butch's steady gaze told me he wouldn't accept such a calculating answer.
I wrote slowly, the words coming with difficulty: "Rooster left food. No one ever just... gave before. No demands. Just gave."
Butch nodded, something like understanding crossing his features. "Simple kindness," he said quietly. "That was all it took."
I shrugged uncomfortably, not wanting to acknowledge how completely that simple act had transformed my existence.
Instead, I returned to the safer ground of tactics, adding more details about Victor's operation—the rotation of surveillance teams, the communication protocols I'd observed, the equipment they used for tracking shifters.
As I worked, I felt a strange sense of unburdening. For years, I'd carried these observations alone, my notebook the only record of communities that had been systematically erased. Now, finally, someone else was seeing what I'd seen. Someone with the power and resources to potentially stop it.
"This is good work," Butch said finally, gathering the pages I'd filled. "Better than good. Military-grade intelligence gathering." He studied me with new respect. "Rooster was right about you. There's more to you than meets the eye, kid."
I ducked my head, uncomfortable with the praise. My skills hadn't developed through any noble purpose—just the brutal necessity of staying one step ahead of those who would cage or kill me.
"I have more questions," Butch continued, "but they can wait. You've given me plenty to start with." He stood, signaling the end of our meeting. "We'll use what you've shared to verify Victor's statements. See if he's feeding us bullshit."
I rose quickly, relieved the interrogation was over. As I turned to leave, Butch's voice stopped me.
"Liam."
I looked back, tensing slightly.
"What you did—watching, documenting, staying alive when everyone else didn't—that took courage. And bringing this information to us instead of running when things got hot..." He shook his head slightly. "That's loyalty I don't take lightly."
I didn't know how to respond to that. Courage wasn't a word I'd ever associated with my existence. Survival, yes. Necessity. But not courage.