13. Falcon #2
Harrier snorts. "Uncooperative of them."
"I don't need their access." Condor pulls up a map. "I can use metadata from other sources. His burner pinged three numbers repeatedly over the last month. One near the warehouse. One near the compound, twice."
"And the third?" Ice Pick asks.
Condor clicks again, and my stomach drops before Sterling even says it.
"The safe house," Sterling says. "Maggie's."
Not our women's house. A smaller property outside the city, run by a woman who's been quietly supporting survivors longer than we have, it’s further out and less protected than anything on our own land.
"Has anyone called Knox?" I ask.
"Already done," Vulture says. "He's telling Maggie now."
"What about security?" I can’t help asking, even though I’m not VP anymore.
“Rook,” Vulture says, nodding toward him.
Rook is on his feet immediately.
“No cuts,” Zip warns him. “If they don’t know we’ve found the connection, we don’t advertise a club presence.”
Rook reaches for his jacket. “Two vehicles?”
“Three,” Vulture corrects. “Keep one farther out.”
Harrier looks between them. “Why am I coming?”
“Because I said so,” Rook tells him, already steering him toward the door by the shoulder.
Harrier glances back at Vulture. “That feels misleading.”
They leave, and I look at Vulture. "Do we move on Kells's people yet?"
"No," Zip says, before Vulture can. "We protect Maggie's without letting them realize we know. Condor traces Merrick. Sterling works the money. Ice Pick checks every Kells sighting against our routes for the last month."
Ice Pick’s already writing.
"And the women?" Vulture asks, and this time he looks at me when he says it, because some things haven't changed no matter what patch is or isn't on my chest.
I think before I answer. "We tell them everything that affects their security. Maggie's house might be compromised. Whether they move is their decision unless there's an active attack."
Zip nods. "Agreed." He looks at Vulture. "That's how we'll run it."
Vulture nods. "Good."
Church runs through every detail Digger can remember about the warehouse, and this time I actually hear it instead of drowning in guilt while he talks.
Kells had asked specifically about routes, frequency, and whether women were housed on club property.
He was gathering intel before any of this started, which means the whole thing's been planned longer than we assumed.
By the time Church ends we've got a direction we didn't have yesterday. Not answers, but somewhere to point.
Digger stays in his seat while the others start clearing out.
“You good?” I ask him.
“Yeah,” he says, sitting back in his chair.
“You did well.”
Something shifts in his face, pride he’s trying and failing to hide.
“Thanks,” he says.
I point at the stitches on his forehead. “You’re still not carrying anything heavier than a coffee cup.”
Digger’s pride gives way to disbelief. “Seriously?”
“Knox’s rules,” I remind him.
“You’re all obsessed with Knox.”
“Because he controls the pain medication,” Vulture says as he passes us on his way out.
The rest of the morning disappears into work that doesn't involve riding until my head empties or finding the most dangerous thing on offer and volunteering to stand in front of it.
Condor shows me how Merrick's payment structure runs through transport companies, and I understand about sixty percent of it and pretend it's closer to eighty.
Sterling confirms one warehouse is still active.
Zip maps the surveillance pattern against our patrol schedule.
At noon Rook reports that Maggie's house is quiet, all residents accounted for. At one, Knox calls Vulture, and I catch enough of his side to know the shape of it.
"No, don't move them yet." A pause. "She said that?" Another pause. "Yeah. Good."
He hangs up and looks at me. "Cara wants the plan brought to the women before anyone decides anything."
Pride and the impulse to stay out of it hit at the same time. "What does Maggie want?"
"She wants security. She doesn't want patched men sitting outside the house, though."
"Civilian vehicles, distance surveillance, a panic line to Condor," I say.
Vulture relays it, and whatever Knox says back gets a small smile out of him. "Yeah. Good." He hangs up. "Sterling can babysit that one."
"I heard that," Sterling says from across the room.
By three the compound feels steadier. The fence is finished.
The women's house window has reinforced glass now.
Condor's rebuilt the camera network with enough redundancy to make himself unbearable about it for the rest of the day.
I spend the afternoon helping Ice Pick inventory the weapons, not overseeing, not ordering a prospect to do it.
Actually standing beside him and doing the work.
He notices.
“You could assign a prospect to this,” Ice Pick says as he checks a serial number against the inventory sheet.
“Yeah,” I reply, placing another handgun in its case.
“But you’re doing it.”
“Apparently.”
He glances at me. “Redemption through ammunition counting.”
“That phrase is banned.”
“Harrier says it.”
“Exactly,” I tell him.
We work in silence for a while. Ice Pick checks the numbers while I sort the ammunition by caliber.
“You okay?” he asks without looking up.
“Depends.”
Ice Pick closes one of the cases. “Cara?”
“She needs space.”
“You giving it to her?”
“Yeah,” I say, stacking another box on the shelf.
His mouth tightens. “That sucks.”
“You want me to tell you it’s spiritually enriching?”
“No.” He sets another box down. “It sucks. It’s still the right thing.”
I pick up the next case. “She might not see it that way.”
“She’ll see what you’re doing,” Ice Pick says.
“That’s not why I’m doing it.”
“Good.” That means more coming from him than it should. I stare at the case in my hands instead of looking at him.
“What if she doesn’t come back?” I ask.
Ice Pick doesn’t hesitate. “Then she doesn’t.”
I turn toward him. “That’s not helpful.”
“You asked.”
“I didn’t.”
“You were going to.” He picks up the inventory sheet and keeps reading, completely unbothered by my glare. “You’re still my brother. You’re still Falcon. That part was never the patch.”
“I know that.”
Ice finally looks at me. “That’s good.”
By evening the hospital confirms Emily can likely go home tomorrow if her vitals hold, not to the damaged house, but to the temporary rooms near the clubhouse until repairs finish, and then a group decision about whether she returns there or moves to the transition property.
It’s their choice, and I like that they get the choice.
The sun's nearly gone when I step outside. I think about walking toward the women's house and stop myself before I get very far, turning for the garage instead. My phone buzzes. Cara.
Cara:
Sterling said you're handling security for Maggie's house. Thank you for not moving anyone without asking them.
I read it twice before I let myself answer.
Falcon:
It was their call to make.
Three dots appear, disappear, come back.
Cara:
Yes. It was.
I wait. Nothing else follows, and then, a minute later:
Cara:
Emily is awake and being a nightmare.
I smile before I can stop it.
Falcon:
Good.
Cara:
Very good.
That's it. There’s no conversation about us, no request to see each other, and my chest still doesn't feel as tight as it did this morning. I don't need more than that tonight.
Rook's truck rolls through the gates. Harrier gets out complaining about something before it's even fully stopped.
Digger's carrying exactly one cup of coffee toward the garage, having apparently taken me literally.
Zip and Condor are arguing over camera placement on their way out of the clubhouse.
Vulture stands on the porch watching all of it.
My brothers. My family.
For too long I thought carrying the weight meant standing in front of them, taking the first hit, making every decision alone.
I don't get to do that right now even if I wanted to, and some ugly, honest part of me is starting to understand that not being allowed to is its own kind of relief.
I walk toward the clubhouse instead of the tree line, no title attached to the walking, and for the first time in longer than I can remember, that feels like exactly enough for one day.