5. Falcon #2
I look at Digger, and some of the anger drains out of me fast enough to catch me off guard.
“You weren’t wrong for standing your ground,” I tell him. “You were wrong for escalating without knowing the board.”
Digger nods slowly. “Yeah.”
“You’re a prospect,” I continue. “You don’t start a fight with men you don’t know outside a warehouse.”
“Got it,” he says, lowering his gaze.
I square myself in front of him and force the next words out. “I’m sorry.”
Digger’s eyes widen. “Falcon, you didn’t hit me.”
“No,” I agree. “But I wasn’t where I was supposed to be.”
The garage falls silent. Prospects don’t hear officers admit that often, and maybe they should.
Zip pushes away from the workbench and folds his arms. “Yeah, this is on you.”
His voice remains level, which is worse than if he’d shouted at me.
I turn to face him. “Go ahead.”
Zip’s forehead creases. “Go ahead with what?”
“Say whatever you’ve been holding in since I rode in,” I tell him.
His jaw works before he finally speaks. “You had one job this afternoon. Oversee the supply meet. That’s it.”
“I know,” I admit.
"No, Falcon, you don't, because knowing means you show up.
You keep saying you're handling your shit.
You're not. You're handling your guilt and making the rest of us handle everything else.
" He gestures around the garage. "Vulture's covered your meetings.
Sterling's covered your intel. I've covered two runs.
Ice Pick's covered security. Now a prospect gets hurt because we had to shuffle positions when you disappeared. "
"I didn't know the time changed." I know it’s a pathetic excuse.
"You didn't know because nobody could reach you." Zip is right, and I hate it.
"We get that you're hurting," he says, quieter now. "Cara came back from hell and your head's upside down. Nobody expects you to walk around smiling like it's fine. But you don't get to burn this club down with you."
“I’m not trying to,” I tell Zip.
“I know.” His gaze drops to the VP patch on my cut. “That’s the only reason we’re still having this conversation instead of Vulture taking your patch.”
I follow his gaze without meaning to.
Zip pushes away from the workbench. “I don’t want your job.”
“I never said you did,” I reply.
“Then stop making everybody else do it,” he fires back.
Behind us, Knox cuts the final stitch in Digger’s forehead and leans away to inspect his work. “Done. He’s staying here tonight, and somebody needs to wake him every few hours.”
“I’ll do it,” I offer before Zip can.
Knox strips off his gloves. “Every two hours for the first six. If he’s fine after that, move to every four.”
“Done,” I confirm.
Vulture walks into the garage before anyone can break the tension properly. One sweep of his gaze takes in Digger’s stitched forehead, Rook’s scraped hands, Zip’s expression, and me.
“My office,” Vulture orders.
I follow him without argument.
This time, there’s no lecture. Vulture shuts the door, sits behind his desk, and waits until I take the chair opposite him.
“What happened?” he asks.
“I fucked up,” I admit. “I left for a ride and lost signal. The supply time changed, Zip covered for me, and the SUV showed up. Digger got hurt.”
Vulture’s expression doesn’t change. “Why did you leave?”
There are a dozen answers I could give him. I needed air. I needed to clear my head. I needed twenty minutes. They’re all versions of the same lie, and I owe him the truth.
“Because I wanted to run,” I confess.
Vulture leans back in his chair. “From what?”
“Pick something,” I mutter.
“No.” His stare remains fixed on me. “Try.”
I rub a hand over my face. “Cara told me she blamed me for not finding her.”
Vulture is quiet for a moment. “That’s a rough thing to hear.”
“She had every right,” I remind him.
“I didn’t say she didn’t.” He leans forward and braces his forearms on the desk. “Do you know what your problem is?”
“I’ve got a few,” I reply.
“You think guilt makes you loyal,” Vulture says. “You think that if you stop hurting, it means what happened to her mattered less.”
Cold moves through me because he isn’t wrong. “That’s not what I’m doing.”
“Sure,” he says, clearly unconvinced.
“It’s not,” I insist.
“Then why are you drinking yourself unconscious and riding like every guardrail personally offended you?” Vulture demands.
I don’t have an answer that isn’t the truth, and I’m not ready to say it aloud twice in one day.
“Pain isn’t penance, Falcon,” he says, his voice quieter now.
“I know,” I tell him.
“Stop saying you know when you’re not doing anything with it.” Vulture settles back in his chair. “Start smaller.”
“How?” I ask.
“Do your fucking job,” he replies.
I stare at him. “Inspirational.”
“I’m your Prez, not your therapist,” Vulture points out.
“You could’ve fooled me today,” I mutter.
“Fuck off,” he says, but some of the tension leaves his face.
Some of the weight lifts from my chest despite myself.
Vulture opens a folder on his desk. “Condor got something off the burner Rook took.”
My attention sharpens. “What did he find?”
“Three texts,” Vulture explains. “The outgoing messages were wiped, but the incoming ones didn’t clear properly.”
He slides a sheet of paper across the desk. It shows the revised supply time, the warehouse address, and a single word.
CONFIRM.
My stomach turns cold. “They knew.”
“Yeah,” Vulture confirms.
“That wasn’t random.” I look up from the paper. “How did they get the change?”
“That’s what we’re figuring out,” he tells me. “Condor is checking the metadata. Sterling is tracing everyone outside the club who had access to the schedule.”
“Do you think it’s internal?” I ask.
“Don’t jump there yet,” Vulture warns.
“I wasn’t,” I lie.
“You were,” he says.
Fair enough.
I tap the paper. “What about the SUV?”
“Rook thinks it’s the same one from the south road,” Vulture replies.
“They’re testing us because they think we’re weak,” I say.
Vulture doesn’t answer because he doesn’t need to.
We dismantled the trafficking network. The feds are watching and the survivors are living on our property. Our attention is divided, and our VP can’t keep his head out of his ass.
Weakness doesn’t have to be real. It only has to be believed.
“I’ll fix it,” I promise.
“How?” Vulture asks.
I sit forward and start listing the changes.
“We alter the perimeter rotation and the supply routes. Nobody moves alone until we know who those men were. We take the warehouse off its routine, randomise the resupply times, and use two locations. Condor checks the cameras all the way back to the main road.”
“Good.” Vulture studies me for a moment. “What about you?”
“I’ll take the south line,” I tell him. “All night, if that’s what it takes.”
“What about Digger?” he asks.
“I’ll wake him every two hours,” I reply. “The south line isn’t far from the garage.”
Vulture nods slowly. “Do both.”
I get to my feet, but his voice stops me at the door.
“This isn’t punishment,” Vulture says. “You’re on the south line because we need our VP there, not because you fucked up today.”
“I know,” I tell him.
His expression hardens. “Do better than knowing.”
By evening, the entire compound has shifted the way it does before trouble. Everything is quieter, not louder. Bikes are moved, fuel is checked, and prospects are handed jobs without arguing about them for once.
Vulture calls Church again at eight thirty. The meeting is shorter this time and much tighter. Condor puts the burner messages on the screen at the front of the room.