Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
Monk
I rolled my bike into a spot near the street, killed the engine, and sat there for a beat with my eyes on the café door. The glass threw back a warped reflection of me—patches, ink, hard mouth, dead stare. A man about to cut himself loose or hang himself trying.
Shadow and Blackjack pulled up on either side of me, their engines rumbling in sync before cutting out.
“You sure about this?” Shadow asked as he swung off his bike. His silver-gray eyes were sharp and measuring. He’d worn the Golden Skull patch once—an executioner, a man who’d spilled enough blood to drown a memory. If anybody understood the weight of what I was about to do, it was him.
“Yeah,” I said, my voice flat. “I’m sure.”
Blackjack adjusted his cut, his expression unreadable. “Roberts is gonna lose his shit.”
“Let him.”
I climbed off my bike and headed for the door. Shadow and Blackjack fell in behind me, silent and solid. I’d asked them to come for a reason—not just as backup, but as witnesses. Whatever happened in there, I wanted brothers who could swear to how it went down.
The bell above the door gave a thin little chime when we walked in. The place smelled of grease, burned coffee, and pie—apple maybe, or cherry. A few heads turned our way, eyes catching on our cuts before skittering off again. Folks in Lawton knew better than to stare too long at Diamondbacks.
James Roberts was already there in a booth near the back, exactly where a man like him would sit—far enough in to watch the room, close enough to the exit to bolt if things turned ugly.
Mid-fifties. Graying hair cut military short.
Suit worth more than my bike. Face built out of rules, leverage, and other people’s fear.
A federal vulture in a pressed suit.
He saw me and stood, his hand half-extended like he expected a handshake.
I ignored it.
“John,” he said, his voice clipped. “You’re late.”
“Traffic,” I replied, sliding into the booth across from him.
Shadow and Blackjack took a table nearby—close enough to step in if shit went sideways, far enough to fake a little privacy. Shadow ordered coffee. Blackjack just sat there with his arms crossed, watching. Roberts’ eyes flicked toward them, then back to me. “You brought company.”
“Insurance,” I said.
His jaw tightened. “This is a private conversation.”
“Not anymore.”
A waitress appeared. She was young, blonde, and wore too much makeup. She smiled nervously. “Can I get you anything?”
“Coffee,” I said. “Black.”
“Same,” Roberts said, dismissing her with a glance before she hurried off. Then he leaned forward, hands clasped on the table. “You’ve been avoiding my calls.”
“Been busy.”
“Too busy to check in with your handler? Too busy to provide intel like you’re supposed to?”
I met his gaze, unflinching. “Yeah. Too busy.”
His eyes narrowed. “You’re walking a real thin line, John. You know that, right? WITSEC isn’t a suggestion. It’s a contract. You violate the terms, there are consequences.”
“I know.”
“Do you?” He leaned back, his expression hardening. “Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like you’ve forgotten who’s keeping you and your sister alive. Who’s keeping you out of a federal prison cell?”
The waitress came back with our coffee, setting the mugs down with hands that shook just a little before she disappeared again. I wrapped both hands around mine and let the heat soak into my palms. “I haven’t forgotten.”
“Then what the hell is going on? You missed three check-ins, you stopped providing intel, and now you show up here with two bikers like you’re making some kind of statement.”
“I am making a statement.”
Roberts’ eyes went cold. “Excuse me?”
I took a sip of coffee and let the silence stretch until it started to bite. Then I set the mug down and looked him dead in the eye. “I’m done,” I said. “I’m exiting WITSEC. Effective immediately.”
For a moment, he just stared at me. Then he laughed. A short, sharp bark of disbelief. “You’re joking.”
“Do I look like I’m joking?”
His smile vanished. “You can’t just exit WITSEC, John. That’s not how this works.”
“Yeah, it is. I’m telling you right now. I’m out. I’m not doing this anymore.”
“You don’t get to make that call.” His voice rose just enough to draw a few glances from the other diners before he dragged it back down and leaned in again. “You signed an agreement. You took federal protection. You put yourself and your sister under our jurisdiction. You don’t just walk away.”
“Watch me.”
“Jesus Christ.” He ran a hand over his face, his composure cracking. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing? The people we protected you from—”
“Are dead,” I said. “William Doherty is dead. The old Golden Skulls’ guard is dead. The threats you used to justify keeping me in this cage are gone.”
“That doesn’t mean you’re safe. Do you think the Marshals are the only ones who know about you? You think there aren’t people out there who would love to get their hands on the son of Bones?”
“Let them try.”
Roberts slammed his hand on the table, making the coffee cups rattle. “You’re being reckless. Stupid. You have a sister, John. Someone who depends on you. What happens to her when you get yourself killed?”
My jaw tightened. “Abigail is my responsibility. Not yours.”
“She’s our responsibility as long as you’re in WITSEC. And if you violate the terms of your agreement, we can remove her, and you will never see her again.”
The threat hung there between us like a knife laid flat on the table. I leaned forward, my voice low enough to make him work for it. “You touch my sister, and I’ll burn your whole goddamn world to the ground.”
Roberts’ eyes widened slightly, but he recovered quickly. “You’re not thinking clearly. You’re emotional. Compromised. Whatever’s going on with your club—”
“This isn’t about the club,” I said, cutting him off.
“This is about me. I’m tired of living under your thumb.
Tired of being your puppet. Tired of you dictating every move I make, every choice I make, every goddamn breath I take.
I’ve been doing this since I was eight years old, Roberts. Eight. And I’m done.”
“You don’t get to be done. You’re a federal witness.”
“I’m not a witness to anything anymore. The case is closed. The threats are dead. You’re just keeping me around because I’m useful. Because I can feed you intel on the Biker Federation, on the club, on whatever the fuck you want to build a case against next.”
“That’s your job.”
“No,” I said, my voice hard. “That was the deal. I gave you information, and you kept Abigail safe. But the threats are gone. The deal is over.”
Roberts stared at me, his face flushed, his hands clenched into fists on the table. “You’re making a mistake.”
“Maybe. But it’s my mistake to make.”
“You’ll go to prison. Violation of WITSEC terms is a federal offense. We can prosecute you for—”
“Do it,” I challenged, calm as cold steel.
“Prosecute me. Drag me into court. Explain to a judge why you’ve been using a witness as an informant for years after the original case was closed.
Explain why you’ve been keeping a man and his sister trapped in a program they don’t need any more just so you can build cases against the Biker Federation. ”
His jaw worked, but he didn’t respond.
“Yeah,” I said. “That’s what I thought.”
He stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. “You’re going to regret this.”
“I doubt it.”
“You think you’re free now? Do you think you can just walk away and live your life? You’re a target, John. You always have been. And without us, you’re on your own.”
“Good,” I said. “I prefer it that way.”
Roberts stared at me for a long moment; his face twisted with anger and something that looked almost like disappointment. Then he turned and walked out, slamming the door behind him.
The bell chimed.
And then there was silence.
I sat there staring into my coffee while the weight of what I’d just done settled over me.
And then, slow as dawn over bad ground, I started to smile.
Because for the first time in my life—for the first time since I was eight fucking years old—I was free.
No handlers. No check-ins. No living with the Marshals’ hands around my throat, waiting for them to yank me out, relocate me, take Abigail away.
I was done.
Shadow appeared at my side, sliding into the booth across from me. “That went well.”
I laughed—a short, sharp sound that felt strange in my throat. “Yeah,” I said. “Smooth as hell.”
Blackjack joined us, dropping into the seat next to Shadow. “He’s gonna come after you.”
“Let him.”
“You sure about this, Monk?” Shadow asked, his voice serious. “You just burned a bridge with the Feds. That’s not something you can undo.”
“I know.”
“And you’re okay with that?”
I looked at him, then at Blackjack. My brothers. The men who’d stood by me, who’d shown up without questions, who’d bleed beside me if it came to that.
“Yeah,” I said. “I’m okay with that.”
Shadow nodded slowly. “Then we’re with you. Whatever comes next.”
“Appreciate it.”
I stood, tossing a twenty on the table to cover the coffee, and headed for the door. Shadow and Blackjack followed, their boots heavy on the worn linoleum.
The sun hit hard when we stepped outside, all bright glare and dry Oklahoma heat. I dragged in a breath and felt something in my chest loosen—not gone, not healed, just unlatched.
Freedom.
It tasted like dust, gasoline, and bad decisions finally owned.
We walked toward our bikes, and I was halfway across the parking lot when I glanced across the street at Comanche County Hospital.
The same building where I had taken Abigail when she broke her arm.
Where I sat in the waiting room after the massacre, waiting to hear if my club brothers would survive.
And then I saw her—a woman with long dark hair walking toward the entrance. She moved with a grace so familiar it hit like a fist. Her silhouette cut through the sunlight like something dredged up from the grave of my own memory.
My heart stopped.
No. It couldn’t be. She was gone. I’d made peace with that years ago, or at least I’d told myself I had. But the way she moved, the tilt of her head, the line of her shoulders, the length of her stride... it was her.
It was my Lina.
I stopped walking. My boots were rooted to the pavement.
“Monk?” Blackjack’s voice sounded distant, muffled. “You good, brother?”
I couldn’t answer. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t do anything but stare as she reached the hospital doors and disappeared inside.
“Monk?”
“Did you see that woman?” I asked, my voice rough as rust. “The one who just went into the hospital?”
Blackjack followed my gaze, squinting against the sun. “Yeah. Dark hair, long legs, looked like she knew where she was going. Why?”
That confirmation that I wasn’t hallucinating, that she was real, shattered whatever restraint I had left.
I didn’t think. Didn’t hesitate. I just moved.
“Monk! Where the hell are you going?” Shadow called after me.
I didn’t answer. I was already crossing the street, my boots pounding against the asphalt, my heart hammering in my chest.
The hospital doors slid open as I stepped inside.
Cool, sterile air hit me, sharp with antiseptic and floor wax.
People moved all around me—nurses, visitors, patients in wheelchairs—but they barely registered.
I was hunting for a face I’d lost years ago, someone I’d convinced myself I’d never see again.