5. Falcon #3
“There’s no confirmed source for the schedule leak,” Condor reports. “But somebody knew within fourteen minutes of Sterling sending the update.”
Ice Pick looks away from the screen. “Who had access?”
“All patched members, the three prospects assigned to the run, the warehouse manager, and Sterling’s contact at the delivery company,” Condor replies.
Harrier leans forward in his chair. “Are we saying we have a leak?”
“We aren’t saying anything yet,” Vulture cuts in before the question can gather momentum.
Rook taps one finger against the table. “Those men weren’t looking for cargo. They were asking about routes.”
“They were mapping how we operate,” I say.
Zip studies the surveillance photograph on the screen. “Or they were trying to make us think that’s what they were doing. They hit a small run, scared a prospect, and left behind a burner with obvious messages. It’s almost too clean.”
Condor nods. “I thought the same thing.”
Ice Pick folds his arms. “It could be bait.”
“For what?” Harrier asks.
Nobody answers immediately.
I’m thinking about the women’s house, and I’d bet money that half the table is too. The club’s attention is divided between protecting the survivors and chasing whatever remains of the network.
“A distraction,” I say finally.
“Maybe,” Vulture allows. “Until we know, everybody treats this as real. Falcon has perimeter oversight. Any changes go through him or me.”
The room stills for a fraction of a second, and I understand what he’s doing. Vulture isn’t simply handing me the job. He’s telling my brothers to trust me with it, and he’s doing it in front of all of them.
“I’ve got it,” I assure him.
“Prove it,” Vulture replies.
I check on Digger at ten. He’s asleep on a couch in the back room, with Hustler sitting nearby and playing something on his phone with the sound off.
“Wake him at midnight if I’m not back,” I tell Hustler. “If he throws up, becomes confused, or says his headache is worse, call Knox.”
“Got it,” Hustler confirms.
I reach the door before he calls after me.
“Falcon?”
I turn to look at him.
Hustler lowers his phone. “Digger doesn’t blame you.”
The comment catches me off guard. “I didn’t ask.”
“I know.” Hustler gives me a small shrug. “I’m just saying.”
Outside the temperature's dropped. I grab a jacket and start the south-line walk on foot, not the bike, because I'm not giving myself the option tonight.
The clubhouse never fully sleeps but the lights dim and the voices fade, somewhere near the garage somebody laughs, a door opens and closes, and music plays faint from one of the rooms.
Through the trees the women's house glows soft and steady.
One light is on upstairs. I don't know which room's hers, which is probably for the best, and I stand there a few seconds anyway.
She told me this afternoon she hated me for not finding her.
I thought hearing that would destroy me.
Instead, it's made the last five years feel more real.
She wasn't somewhere waiting patiently to be rescued like a storybook victim.
She was angry and terrified and furious at me, and she survived however she had to survive.
So did I. Neither of us came out the other side the same people we were.
Maybe that's the thing I'm finally starting to understand. We don't have to be who we were before.
A branch cracks somewhere beyond the fence.
Every thought disappears. I turn toward the sound, scanning the darkness between the trees, but I see nothing.
I raise the radio to my mouth. “Rook.”
His voice crackles through the speaker. “Yeah?”
“Are you west of south marker three?” I ask, keeping my eyes fixed on the fence line.
“No,” Rook replies. “I’m at marker five with Ice Pick.”
“I heard movement at three,” I report.
“We’re coming,” he says immediately.
“Don’t rush,” I warn him. “Approach quietly.”
“Copy,” Rook confirms.
I hold my position instead of climbing the fence to find it myself, which used to be automatic and isn't tonight. Ten seconds later there's a low engine, too far off to place, headlights flickering through the trees once before they cut out. I key the radio again. "Vehicle on outer road."
"See it," Rook says.
"Black SUV?" Ice Pick, from the other direction.
"Can't confirm." I hold my position, and every part of me wants to climb the fence and reach the road and find out who's sitting out there watching my family.
I wait for my brothers instead. Rook reaches me first, Ice Pick from the opposite line, and the three of us stand at the fence watching the road until the engine fades and disappears altogether.
"Want to follow?" Rook asks.
Yesterday I'd have said yes before he finished the question. Tonight I think about the warehouse, Digger's blood, Zip's face, Cara telling me safety means knowing what's happening, not being shielded from it.
"No," I say. "We log the time, pull the camera footage, keep the perimeter covered."
Rook nods. "Smart."
"Don't sound so surprised."
Ice Pick studies me a second, then nods too. "Good enough."
We finish the perimeter together, and for once I don't walk ahead of them.