23. HAWK
HAWK
The station smells like bleach and stale coffee.
I sit stiff in the hard plastic chair across from our lawyer, Ortiz, in a grimy side room barely big enough for the four of us—me, Ortiz, and two of our club guys flanking the door like shadows.
CJ’s words echo in my head: Stay calm. Don’t give them a reason.
He said it with that low, quiet certainty right before they hauled him away in cuffs. And as much as I want to flip the nearest desk and put someone through a wall, I keep my fists tight in my lap and my mouth shut.
Ortiz flips through a folder, brows furrowed. “They’re holding CJ and Ryder without bond until at least the hearing. Possession charges, plus they’re adding gang enhancement. It’s bullshit, and they know it—but it’ll stick unless we push hard.”
“What about the weed?” I ask, voice low.
“Planted, and it can’t be any more obvious,” he says without hesitation. “The report’s a mess. No chain of custody. No bodycam footage showing where it was ‘found.’ They rushed this.”
Of course they did. Jake doesn’t give a damn about truth—only headlines.
A couple of officers walk past the glass wall. One of them looks right at me and smirks.
That little curl of his lip? That’s the kind of thing that gets teeth broken.
My jaw clenches. My fingers twitch. But I hear CJ’s voice again—You throw a punch, they win—and I stay planted.
Barely.
“What happens next?” I ask Ortiz.
“We wait,” he says. “A hearing is possible tomorrow if the paperwork moves fast enough. I’m working on bail arguments now, but the DA’s resisting. They’re treating CJ and Ryder like flight risks. Or threats.”
I look down at my phone again. Still nothing from Marcy.
I’ve texted her twice. No answer. No read receipts. She could be somewhere safe. With Bianca, maybe. But the silence? It eats at me worse than the raid, worse than seeing CJ shoved into a cruiser, worse than watching Ryder get slammed to the pavement like some street punk.
She should’ve called. Should’ve said something.
“What?” Ortiz asks, catching my expression.
“Nothing,” I manage.
I want to ask Ortiz if he’s heard anything—if maybe someone from the legal team got wind of her being brought in or questioned—but the words don’t come out. They sit like lead in the back of my throat. Saying them makes it real.
And right now? I’m barely holding my shit together.
A couple of uniforms stroll by, eyes flicking toward us. One of them chuckles under his breath, just loud enough for it to carry. “Should’ve tossed the whole pack in. Club full of criminals.”
The other one laughs like we’re not three feet away.
I push off the wall slow, straightening to my full height. I see one of the guys from our side—Tucker—tense behind me, ready to step in.
But I don’t make a move. I just look at them.
And they shut up real quick.
Then I hear it—the jangle of chains and the hollow stomp of boots. I turn just in time to see them.
CJ and Ryder. Being led down the hallway by two officers like it’s some goddamn perp parade.
My chest tightens at the sight of them. Ryder’s jaw is locked, face unreadable as always. CJ looks…
Haunted. Like something crawled under his skin in that room and hasn’t let go.
Ortiz stands up beside me. “Hope you two kept your mouths shut!” he calls.
CJ barely nods. “Didn’t give them a thing.”
He doesn’t look at anyone in particular, just keeps walking, but when his eyes pass over me, there’s something behind them. And I get this weird ache in my gut.
I wish Marcy were here.
It hits me hard and sudden. A strange thought. So out of place, it makes me blink.
Before Marcy, I never let anyone in. Never wanted to. Sure, there were women—brief, no strings, no mornings after—but nothing like this.
I never imagined falling for someone like her. Soft but strong. Smart-mouthed but kind. The kind of woman who could take one look at a man like CJ and not flinch.
The kind of woman I somehow ended up sharing—willingly—with my brothers.
The officer who’s leading them looks annoyed at the interruption. “I’m taking them back to their cell. Please excuse us.”
“These men have legal counsel,” Ortiz says firmly. “I need to speak with my clients now. Alone.”
One of the officers gives a little smirk. “You’ve got five minutes. No funny business.”
Ortiz doesn’t bother replying. He just turns to us. “Let’s move.”
The officers don’t uncuff CJ or Ryder, but they do lead us—reluctantly—down a side corridor to a cramped consultation room with yellowing walls and a flickering light above the table.
One of the officers shuts the door behind us with a little too much force.
CJ sits slowly, the chain between his cuffs clinking against the metal table. Ryder stays standing, back against the wall, his eyes tracking the door like he expects someone to burst in at any second.
Ortiz drops his folder on the table and lets out a breath. “Jesus. You all look like you just crawled out of a trench.”
“They might as well’ve tried to bury us in one,” Ryder mutters.
I cross my arms and take the seat beside CJ, my blood still boiling. “We can’t just sit on this. We have to expose Jake.”
Ortiz blinks. “Jake Hollingbow?”
CJ’s head snaps toward me, and Ortiz frowns. “What are you talking about?” Ortiz asks.
“Project Blackthorne,” I say. “A black op Jake helped create and cover up.”
Ortiz’s brows rise. “If you’ve got something like that on him, why haven’t we used it?”
CJ glares at me. “Because we don’t have proof.”
Ortiz lifts his hands. “Start from the top.”
CJ exhales slowly, like dragging the words up costs something. “It was classified. No paper trail. No survivors we know of who’d go on record. No audio, no footage. Just us. If we talk, it’s hearsay. And it puts us under the spotlight, too.”
“We come forward now,” I add, “and we’re the story. ‘Ex-soldiers-turned-bikers-accuse senator of war crimes.’ They’ll turn us into a joke before the first article hits the wire.”
Ortiz nods slowly, calculating. “So what do you have?”
CJ looks up, his face grim. “Not enough.”
Ryder finally speaks. “But if we dig?”
CJ hesitates, then nods. “If we dig. We might find something.”
I lean forward, heart pounding. “Then it’s time we started digging.”
Because I don’t care how deep Jake thinks he buried Blackthorne. We’re about to dig it back up.
A half hour later, Ortiz finishes scribbling notes into a slim black notebook, his pen gliding in quick, efficient strokes. He’s been quiet ever since CJ laid out just enough of Blackthorne to give him context—without giving him ammunition. CJ was careful. Every word measured.
“You understand this doesn’t leave this room,” CJ says, voice low but clear. His cuffs clink lightly as he leans forward. “Especially that name.”
Ortiz closes the notebook and nods. “You have my word. I won’t say a thing about Project Blackthorne unless you give me the green light.”
CJ holds his gaze for a beat, then nods.
“Alright,” Ortiz says, smoothing his jacket. “Now let me do my job.”
He gathers his papers and heads for the door. Just before he walks out, I mumble to CJ, “Are you sure we can trust him?”
CJ doesn’t even hesitate. “Yes. He’s going to get us out of here.”
I glance over at Ryder. He doesn’t say anything, just keeps his eyes locked on the door after Ortiz disappears down the hallway.
Ten minutes pass. Then fifteen.
We don’t talk. There’s nothing left to say that won’t send my blood pressure through the roof. CJ’s knee bounces under the table. Ryder still hasn’t sat down. I can feel the tension pulsing through the air like static before a lightning strike.
Finally, the door swings open.
Ortiz walks in—alone—wearing the faintest, smug grin I’ve ever seen on the man.
“Well,” he says, “you boys are lucky the local PD’s more focused on headlines than proper paperwork.”
CJ sits up straighter. “What do you mean?”
Ortiz tosses a sheet of paper onto the table. “You’re released. For tonight.”
I blink. “What?”
“They didn’t have enough to hold you,” Ortiz explains, clearly enjoying this. “Turns out they never had a proper search warrant for your property. Someone in the hierarchy got sloppy trying to impress their political puppet master.”
CJ exhales slowly, his shoulders loosening ever so slightly. Ryder finally drops into the chair beside him, shaking his head.
“You’re free to go,” Ortiz adds. “But don’t get too comfortable.” He pulls another folded document from his jacket pocket. “You’ve got a court-mandated hearing after the holidays. They’ll be watching you like hawks until then.”
“Let them watch,” I mutter, standing up. “We’re done hiding.”
Ortiz moves to uncuff CJ. He stands, stretching his arms after hours in restraints. “Thanks, Ortiz.”
The lawyer nods, already gathering his materials. “Just don’t make me work this hard again before your hearing. Stay quiet. Stay clean. Let me handle the rest.”
The second we step through the main doors of the station, cold night air smacks us in the face. It’s sharp and biting, but after hours under flickering lights and walls that reeked of sweat and paranoia, it feels like freedom.
CJ doesn’t say much, just rolls his shoulders and cracks his neck like he’s trying to shrug off what they did to him. Ryder walks a step ahead of me, scanning the lot like he expects someone to still be watching.
Then he turns, looking at me. “How’s Marcy holding up?”
I stop walking. My throat tightens.
Ryder notices the hesitation immediately. “Hawk?”
I’m about to answer. About to say I haven’t heard from her, that I’ve texted her and gotten nothing, that I’ve been imagining every worst-case scenario on repeat since last night, when I hear a voice.
“CJ!”
All three of us turn.
And there she is.
Running across the lot in a blur of motion—hair flying, oversized jacket slipping off one shoulder, eyes wide and already brimming with tears.
“Ryder!” she cries. “Hawk!”
She barrels into CJ first, throwing her arms around his neck so hard, he staggers back a step. He clutches her to him like a lifeline, one arm wrapped around her waist, the other stroking her hair.
She pulls back just enough to kiss him. Quick, urgent, like she has to prove he’s real.
Then she moves to Ryder, and his arms are already open. He catches her, holding her tightly against his chest, his eyes closed for a beat longer than I’ve ever seen. She presses a kiss to his cheek, then to his lips, whispering something I can’t hear.
When she finally turns to me, I don’t know what to expect. But then she’s there, crashing into me like a goddamn wave, wrapping her arms around my neck and pressing her face to my chest.
“Jesus,” I breathe, my hands sliding around her waist, burying in her hair. “You scared the hell out of me.”
She leans back and kisses me full on the mouth. Deep and breathless and real.
And just like that, I can breathe again.