13. Falcon
Falcon
In the morning, I learn that rebuilding a section of security fence after somebody cuts through it is a miserable job in freezing weather, and that Rook becomes unbearably cheerful the second he knows I'm in no position to tell him to shut up.
"You missed a bit." He’s pointing at the fence.
I tighten the last bolt and look over my shoulder. He's standing ten feet back holding a mug of coffee while I'm on my knees in wet grass, gloves caked in mud, and the knees of my jeans soaked through.
"Say that one more time and I'm putting you through the fence." I bit back the retort I want to give. I can’t disrespect him.
"You'd have to fix it again." I don’t know if I am going to make it through the next few minutes let alone however long it takes me to get my patch back.
Digger laughs from the other side of the post. The stitches along his forehead make his grin look slightly crooked, but Knox cleared him for light work as long as he doesn’t lift anything heavy or, in Knox’s exact words, use his damaged head for any decisions.
Apparently, standing here and annoying me counts as medically appropriate duty.
I point the wrench at him. “You’re enjoying this too much for a prospect.”
“Just learning from senior leadership,” Digger replies.
Rook nearly chokes on his coffee. I finish tightening the bolt, get back to my feet, and test the wire with both hands. Solid.
“Better,” Rook says, which from him is high praise.
Digger starts gathering the scattered tools. I bend down and take the heavier box from him before he can lift it.
“I can carry it,” he protests.
“Knox said light duty,” I remind him.
Digger keeps one hand on the box. “It’s a toolbox.”
“It’s forty pounds.”
“Thirty at most,” he argues.
I raise my eyebrows. “Want me to call Knox?”
Digger lets go immediately. Rook snorts and takes another drink of his coffee.
“That man has the whole club terrified,” Rook says.
“Let him near you with a needle and see how brave you feel,” Digger mutters.
We walk toward the garage together, and for a minute, nobody talks. Then Digger clears his throat.
“Falcon, you don’t have to keep apologizing.”
“I apologized once,” I tell him.
“You’ve checked on me about fourteen times.”
“That’s not apologizing.”
Digger gives me a sideways look. “Kind of is.”
Rook keeps his eyes forward, smart enough not to get in the middle of it.
“You got hurt on a run I was supposed to be overseeing,” I say.
“I know.” Digger adjusts his grip on the smaller toolbox. “But my mistake doesn’t stop being mine because you made one too. I swung first. Rook told me not to, and I did it anyway.”
“Nice to know something I said penetrated,” Rook comments.
Digger ignores him. “If you’d been there, I still might’ve swung.”
“Probably,” I admit.
“Definitely,” Rook adds.
“So we both learn,” Digger says. He shrugs like that settles the whole thing.
It kind of does. I stare at him for a second. “Christ. Knox should check your head again.”
“Fuck you,” Digger mutters.
Rook’s eyebrows go up.
Digger glances at him. “Respectfully.”
A short, real laugh escapes me, and both of them grin.
Inside the garage, Hustler is sitting on a stool with his shirt pushed up while Knox presses two fingers into the bruising along his ribs.
Hustler nods toward me. “Tell him I’m fine.”
“He isn’t fine,” Knox says without looking up.
“I can breathe,” Hustler argues.
Knox gives him a flat look. “Congratulations on achieving the minimum requirement for life.”
“It only hurts when I move.”
Knox presses against his ribs again, and Hustler jerks.
“Son of a bitch,” Hustler snaps.
Knox removes his hand from Hustler’s ribs. “That’s why you’re not riding today.”
“I didn’t say I was,” Hustler mutters.
“You were thinking it,” Knox says.
Hustler looks at me for backup and gets nothing. He pulls his shirt back down with a scowl. “Everybody around here is boring now.”
“Light duty for two days,” Knox tells him.
Hustler’s head snaps around. “Two?”
Knox raises an eyebrow. “You want five?”
Hustler wisely shuts up.
Knox turns his attention to me. “Did you sleep?”
“Four hours,” I answer.
His mouth tightens. “Pathetic.”
“Better than none,” I point out.
He considers that generous enough not to argue. His phone buzzes, and something in his expression changes when he reads the message.
“Hospital?” I ask, every muscle in my body tightening.
“Yeah.” Knox reads it again, then looks up. “Emily’s good, she’s very awake, apparently. She’s threatening to leave if somebody brings her another cup of weak tea.”
I smile despite myself. “She definitely sounds alive.”
"Definitely." I wait for the rest, and he doesn't offer it, because I asked to be removed from Cara's updates and Knox isn't the kind of man who hands out loopholes just because he happens to have them.
“Anything club-related?” I ask instead.
Knox closes one of the compartments in his medical bag. “Discharge planning has started. Probably tomorrow. The hospital wants to know where she’s going, and the house isn’t ready.”
“What about the transition property?”
“Not ready either,” Knox says. “It has basic security, but nowhere near enough for the current threats.”
“Then we make it enough.” I fold my arms. “Do we own it yet?”
“Vulture signed this morning.”
That catches me off guard. “He did?”
“Sterling pushed it through.” Knox zips his bag closed. “Cara’s already thinking the same thing you are. She wants the women involved before anybody moves.”
“Good,” I say.
Knox pauses and looks at me. “You agreeing without an argument is becoming unsettling.”
Hustler raises a hand as if he’s noticed it too.
I point at him. “Nobody asked you.”
“Nobody asks me anything,” Hustler complains.
“Heal quietly,” I tell him.
Knox picks up his bag and heads for the door. “Vulture called Church for eight thirty.”
I check the clock. Twenty minutes. "Condor got something off the guy Digger swung at," he adds. "Didn't say what."
That wipes everything else out of my head.
Vulture appears in the doorway a minute later. "Don't tell Vulture what?" he asks, catching the tail of it.
"Knox is plotting a coup," Rook says immediately.
"He'll probably improve efficiency." Vulture looks at Hustler. "You’re supposed to be resting."
Hustler mutters something under his breath.
"What was that?" Vulture asks.
"Nothing, Prez."
"Thought so." Vulture looks at me. "Church."
I don't move right away, because a week ago that word meant something automatic, and now it doesn't, and I don't know which version of myself is supposed to answer it.
"You're not back at the table," he says, reading me anyway. "You were at that warehouse. You know Kells's face better than anybody sitting in Church who wasn't there. I want you in the room for this one. That doesn't mean anything past today."
"Understood."
"Bring Digger." Vulture looks over at Digger.
Digger's eyebrows go up. "Me?"
"You were at the warehouse." The invitation doesn’t mean anything, it’s cut and dried.
He straightens. "Yes, Prez."
Church has a different energy than yesterday.
Less like the aftermath, more like we've got somewhere to aim.
Condor's already got his laptop hooked up to the wall monitor.
Zip sits beside him with a folder open. Sterling's got sheets spread across his side of the table.
Harrier and Ice Pick are arguing quietly about a photo until Vulture sits down and asks if they're finished.
I take a chair near Digger at the end instead of my old spot on Vulture's right, and nobody comments on it, which somehow makes it land harder than if they had.
"Probably," Harrier says.
Digger takes a chair near the end, looking like he knows he's not usually allowed in here.
"Relax," Vulture tells him. "You're a witness, you’re not getting patched today."
"Shame," Harrier says. "I was hoping for cake."
Vulture rubs his forehead. "Condor. Give me a reason why I called everyone in here."
Condor turns the screen. A photograph, a man in his forties, close-cut hair, heavy build.
“Robert Kells,” Condor says, putting a photograph on the screen.
Digger leans forward. “That’s him.”
Every head at the table turns toward him.
“You sure?” I ask.
“Yeah.” Digger points at the screen. “He’s the one who walked toward the warehouse.”
“The one you swung at?” Rook asks with a grin.
Digger gives him a flat look. “Yes.”
“Just establishing the evidence,” Rook says, lifting both hands.
I point at Digger. “Keep going.”
“He had a beard at the warehouse,” Digger explains. “It was short and dark.”
Condor pulls up a second image of the same man with a beard digitally added.
Digger nods immediately. “That’s him.”
“Where did the name come from?” Vulture asks.
“Hospital arrest prints,” Condor answers. “He’s the guy Falcon left at the industrial yard.”
So, the man Hustler shot in the leg and the man who tested our supply run are the same person. There’s not a coincidence in sight.
Sterling slides a sheet into the middle of the table. “Kells worked in private security for six years. He was a military contractor before that. Officially, he’s been self-employed for the last three.”
Harrier studies the figures. “What does ‘officially’ mean?”
“His tax returns show almost no income,” Sterling explains. “His bank accounts disagree.”
Harrier leans closer to the sheet. “How much?”
“More than four hundred thousand dollars passed through two accounts in eighteen months,” Sterling says.
Harrier whistles. “Expensive unemployed man.”
"Payments came through consulting firms," Condor says. "Most are dead ends. One isn't." A company name fills the screen. MERRICK LOGISTICS CONSULTING.
I recognize half of it immediately. "Feeder network?"
"Two directors overlap with the security company from the contract renewals," Sterling says.
Vulture folds his arms. "So, Kells connects the warehouse intimidation, the ambush, and whatever's left of Castellano's operation."
"Likely," Condor says.
"What about the compound hit?" Zip asks.
"His phone was mostly wiped, but he had an encrypted app running when police took it. They won't give us access."