Chapter Sixteen #2
As I slipped out of the office and headed toward the kitchen where Rooster waited, Butch's words echoed in my mind. Perhaps there was more to my years of hiding than simply fear. Perhaps watching and remembering when everyone else forgot was its own kind of strength.
The thought settled uncomfortably in my chest as I walked away, neither embraced nor rejected—just another piece of myself I was only beginning to understand.
* * * *
I didn't expect the second summons to Butch's office. The first had been necessary—urgent even—as they sorted through the aftermath of the attack. But this call, coming just after breakfast the next morning, caught me off guard.
Rooster squeezed my shoulder as I stood from the kitchen table, his eyes conveying reassurance I wasn't sure I deserved. Whatever Butch wanted, it felt different this time. Not an interrogation, but something else. Something that made my heart beat faster for reasons that weren't entirely fear.
The walk down the hallway seemed shorter than before. My fingers still traced nervous patterns against my thigh, but my shoulders weren't hunched around my ears as they had been yesterday. I'd survived one meeting with the MC president. I could survive another.
When I knocked on the heavy wooden door, Butch's voice immediately called for me to enter.
He was seated behind his massive desk again, but this time the surface was covered with stacks of papers rather than just a few notes.
The laptop was closed and pushed aside, all attention focused on whatever these documents contained.
"Come in," he said, gesturing to the chair across from him. "And close the door behind you."
I did as instructed, noting that my assessment of the room remained the same—one door, one window, hiding spot behind the filing cabinet if needed. The knowledge settled my nerves, as it always did. Escape routes identified. Safety confirmed.
"We spent most of the night interrogating Victor," Butch said without preamble, pushing a stack of papers toward me. "These are the transcripts. I want you to read them and tell me if his story matches what you've observed."
I stared at the pages, momentarily frozen. No one had ever asked for my opinion like this before. No one had ever treated my observations as valuable. For fifteen years, staying unseen had been my only goal—my thoughts and knowledge kept hidden along with my physical presence.
Butch watched me with unexpected patience, apparently understanding my hesitation. "You saw things we didn't," he said simply. "You've been tracking these bastards for years. Your perspective matters here."
My perspective matters. The concept was so foreign I could barely process it.
With slightly trembling fingers, I reached for the pages. The top sheet contained a formal-looking header: "Interrogation Subject: Victor Markus. Date: April 15. Time: 22:47."
Below that was a transcript of questions and answers.
Bear had conducted the initial questioning, his blunt style evident in the terse, sometimes profane questions.
Victor's responses were measured, calculated, revealing just enough to appear cooperative without giving away anything truly significant.
I turned to the second page, then the third, my eyes scanning rapidly. Fifteen years of survival had taught me to process information quickly, to identify patterns and inconsistencies that might mean the difference between safety and capture.
As I read, something shifted in my focus—the world around me fading as my attention narrowed to the words before me.
Victor claimed his operation began three years ago, after his uncle's death.
Lie.
He stated they'd only targeted two previous communities—one in Idaho and one in Colorado.
Lie.
He described their approach as "purely scientific," claiming they tranquilized subjects before collection, ensuring no unnecessary casualties.
The bloodiest lie of all.
Without conscious thought, I reached for the pencil Butch had placed beside the papers. I circled Victor's statement about the timeline, then wrote in the margin: "5+ years. Started earlier. Wyoming wolf pack, 2021."
Next to his claim about only two previous targets, I noted: "Nevada foxes 2022. California bears 2024. Idaho wolves? Colorado unknown—possible additional sites?"
When I reached his description of their collection methods, my hand pressed so hard against the paper that the pencil lead nearly broke.
I underlined his claim about humane treatment three times, then wrote with stark clarity: "False.
Wyoming: 4 adults shot resisting. Nevada: entire family executed after sampling, including infant.
California: 3 elderly bears killed on site, deemed 'unsuitable specimens. '"
My hands moved faster now, confidence growing as I analyzed the document.
Victor's careful lies began to unravel under my scrutiny.
He'd altered locations, confused timelines, combined separate operations into single events.
But the patterns were unmistakable to someone who'd watched his organization evolve from the shadows.
I flipped to a fresh page and quickly sketched a more accurate timeline, marking known operations with precise dates and locations.
Then I added a second layer—the evolution of their tactics over time.
Each attack had refined their approach, their extraction methods becoming more efficient, their containment procedures more sophisticated.
When Butch shifted in his chair, I looked up, suddenly aware that I'd been completely absorbed in my analysis. I'd forgotten to be afraid, forgotten to monitor the room, forgotten everything except exposing the truth buried in Victor's lies.
"Find something?" Butch asked, his voice neutral though his eyes were sharp with interest.
I nodded, then pointed to a specific paragraph where Victor claimed his operation maintained strict scientific protocols with oversight from legitimate research institutions.
My fingers rapped against the paper impatiently, then I wrote: "No oversight. Field operatives make collection decisions based on predetermined criteria. Specialized interest in rare shifter types. Higher value placed on young specimens with unusual abilities."
I'd seen their field notes. Had retrieved them from an abandoned observation post after the Nevada operation, when they'd been forced to evacuate quickly due to an unexpected forest fire.
The clinical language couldn't disguise the horror of what they'd documented—shifters ranked by potential research value, marked for collection or elimination based on cold calculations of scientific utility.
Butch leaned forward, studying my notations with growing intensity. "You're certain about these dates? These locations?"
I nodded emphatically, then flipped through my notebook until I found the relevant pages—my detailed documentation of each operation, complete with dates, locations, and tactical approaches. I'd been meticulous, recording everything from team compositions to equipment specifications.
Nothing like the sanitized version Victor was presenting.
As I compared the interrogation transcript with my own records, my hands became increasingly animated, pointing out discrepancies, connecting related operations that Victor had deliberately separated in his account.
I underlined key phrases, circled obvious lies, and filled the margins with corrections.
Without words, I was painting a comprehensive picture of Victor's true operation—larger, older, and far more deadly than he was admitting.
"He's protecting someone," Butch observed, watching me work. "Compartmentalizing information to shield higher-ups?"
I looked up, surprised by his insight, then nodded. I sketched a quick organizational chart showing Victor as just one node in a larger structure—not the architect but a key lieutenant.
Above him, I drew a question mark, then wrote: "Funding source. Someone with significant resources. Military connections?"
"You think there's military involvement?" Butch asked sharply.
I hesitated, then qualified my response: "Tactics suggest military training. Equipment is military-grade. Access to restricted areas indicates possible government connections."
Butch ran a hand through his hair, his expression darkening as he processed the implications. "So we've got a bigger problem than just Victor and his team."
I nodded grimly, then tapped the papers spread before us, trying to convey the scope of what we were facing. This wasn't a rogue operation that would end with Victor's capture. It was systematic, well-funded, and deeply embedded in structures that would survive the loss of any single operative.
Butch studied me for a long moment, his expression thoughtful.
"You know, when Rooster first started leaving food out for you, some of the guys thought he was wasting his time.
" He gestured to my notations covering the transcripts.
"But he saw something in you the rest of us missed. Turns out he was right."
I ducked my head, uncomfortable with the implicit praise.
"You've got a mind for this," Butch continued, tapping the papers. "You see patterns, connections. And you've got experience no one else here has."
I hadn't thought of my years of solitary survival as valuable experience before. I'd considered it just existence—breathing another day, avoiding capture, moving on before anyone looked too closely. But Butch was right—I'd developed skills during those years. Skills that were proving useful now.
"I'm going to need your help deciphering the rest of his statements," Butch said, reaching for another stack of papers. "If that's alright with you."
It wasn't a command from an MC president to someone at the bottom of the hierarchy. It was a request—a recognition of agency I wasn't used to being granted.