17. Falcon #2
Digger studies me. “Is it bad?”
“I don’t know yet.”
"Probably not," he says, and goes back to his coffee, and I let him have the last word.
The morning drags as it always does when the intelligence hasn't caught up to the waiting.
I help Vulture review the patrol rotation, walk the repaired perimeter, check the temporary rooms without going inside.
Cara's not there, she’s probably at the transition house with Emily, and I don't message her again, because I already said I would when it mattered and I'm not going to make that word mean less by using it too often.
At eleven forty Rook sends the first warehouse update. Two vehicles arrived, both commercial, nothing unusual. At twelve, one box truck leaves and somebody follows it at a distance.
At twelve thirty Cara appears outside the clubhouse carrying a cardboard box, and I see her through the window before she's even reached the door. My whole mood shifts before I can stop it. She comes inside looking for Zip.
"Off compound," I tell her.
"Oh." Something in her expression flickers, not quite disappointment. "It's about the transition house." She lifts the box. "Emily apparently owns forty-seven books despite arriving with one bag."
I take it from her before she can argue, and it's heavier than it looks. "You're not carrying this."
Her eyebrows go up, and I hear it a second too late.
"Sorry," I say. "That came out wrong."
I start to hand the box back, and Cara begins laughing before I’ve even completed the motion.
“I was trying to help,” I say, standing there like an idiot.
“I know,” she manages.
“You can carry it.”
“Thank you for granting me permission.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I would actually like you to carry it,” she says, still laughing.
Cara holds the box out again. I take it, grateful for an excuse to move.
We carry everything out to her car together. Two more boxes are already sitting in the trunk.
“For Emily?” I ask.
“Books, clothes, and a lamp she apparently can’t function without.”
“Is it yellow?”
“Obviously,” Cara replies.
I place the box in the trunk and close it. “Ice Pick and Sterling are taking her over?”
“They’re arranging it now.”
Good. I don’t offer to go, and I know she notices.
“You’re not coming?” she asks.
“Vulture told me to stay here.”
Her eyebrows lift. “And you’re listening?”
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
“I’m adjusting,” she says.
She leans against the car. “You said you found Merrick.”
“A possible location,” I correct.
“Trafficking?”
“Maybe.”
Her face changes at the word, and I hate that it still does that to her, even now. "We don't know yet," I say. "If there are women in there, we get them out."
"We work out how to get them out without making it worse," I add, catching how the first version sounded.
She nods. "Are you involving the police?"
"Maybe."
"Do you trust them?"
"Some. We need to verify more before we go to anybody."
She looks toward the gate. "If there are women inside, they're going to be terrified of every person who walks through that door."
"I know."
"What would they need?" I ask, before I've fully decided to ask it.
She looks at me. "You're asking me?"
"Yes."
"You've rescued women before."
"Not well enough, apparently."
Something shifts in her expression. "Women," she says. "That's the first thing. Not ten bikers standing around asking questions. Not everyone touching them because they think it helps. Not telling them where they're going before anyone asks what they want."
I listen.
"Food and water, but don't make them eat. Blankets. Clean clothes. Somewhere private. Explain medical care before it happens, not after."
I nod. "Names?"
"If they want to give them."
"Police questions?"
"Not right away, unless there's a reason they have to be."
"And don't separate them automatically," she says. "Even if they don't know each other. They might be the only familiar people in the room."
I hadn't thought of that, and I say so.
"Can you write this down?" I ask.
Her eyes widen. "Not right now," I add. "Like a protocol. Something the club can use, so it's a little easier on whoever we bring out."
She stares at me, then says quietly, "Yes."
"Thank you."
"I want the women involved," she says. "Emily, Sarah, Frankie, Maggie, anyone who wants to add to it."
"Good."
My phone buzzes before either of us says anything else.
Rook:
Confirmed female occupants. Minimum three. Possibly more. Rear loading section.
Everything in me changes at once.
Cara sees it on my face. "What?"
I show her. She goes pale. "Three?"
"At least."
"What happens now?"
I want to say I go. The words are right there.
Instead, I message Vulture.
Falcon:
Rook confirms minimum three women. Need Church now.
Then I look at Cara. "We make a plan."
She studies me. "You're not going to run out there."
"No."
"Even now?"
That one lands somewhere close to the bone, not because she doubts me, because I understand exactly why she'd have to ask. "Especially not now."
She exhales, and I take one step toward her, then stop.
"Can I?" I ask.
She knows what I'm asking. She nods, and I put one hand against her cheek. Nothing more than that.
Her eyes close for half a second, then she opens them. "Go."
I smile. "That's usually my line."
"I’m borrowing it."
I lower my hand and start to move, and she catches my wrist before I get far.
"Falcon."
"Yeah?"
"Bring them home."
Not come home. Bring them home. The words feel different than anything else she's said to me in weeks.
"We will," I tell her.
Not I. We. I head for the clubhouse, and Vulture's already coming through the door with Condor behind him carrying his laptop, Zip's voice already on the radio, Rook is still watching the warehouse, Ice Pick is rerouting men, Sterling is on the phone with his contact and not giving him the address yet.
Nobody's waiting for me to save the day alone. Cara's still by her car when I glance back once. She's not watching me like she expects me to disappear. She's watching me like she expects me to do my job.
I finally understand it. What I don't know yet, walking back toward the clubhouse, is whether my job tonight is standing in that room while other men decide what happens next, or something closer to what it used to be. I don't ask. Asking would mean I still think it's mine to ask for.
I walk into Church with my brothers, and for the first time since Carrot, I let myself hope that might mean something more than a chair near the end of the table.