29. HAWK
HAWK
Trouble always starts with silence. And right now, this house is too damn quiet.
CJ’s car is gone. So is Marcy. There’s no text. No note. Nothing on the calendar.
And that silence? It’s screaming in my ears.
“She didn’t say anything to you?” I ask Ryder, who’s pacing like a caged animal near the door.
He shakes his head. “Not a word. But she took CJ’s car. Just got in and drove off.”
CJ comes in fast, already grabbing his jacket. His face is all tight lines. “I’m going after her. Something is off. I can tell.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Earlier… it almost felt like she was keeping something from me. Like I couldn’t reach her,” CJ says.
“You think it has something to do with that reporter she hired?” I ask. “The one who’s going to help us expose Jake?”
“Something tells me that’s not just the plan,” CJ says quietly. “I mean, it’s hard to trust anybody in this town who’s already not in Jake’s pocket.”
“So, you think she’s up to something?” Ryder asks.
“A hunch, but yes,” CJ says.
“Then we need to find her quickly. I’ll go, too,” Ryder says, heading to the garage without waiting.
I open the drawer under the counter and pull out the small comm case we haven’t touched in years. I hand each of them an earpiece.
CJ raises an eyebrow. “Really?”
“You want to do this blind?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
Ryder clicks his in and gives a short laugh. “Feels like old times. Too bad we’re not in shape anymore.”
CJ grunts. “Speak for yourself.”
I watch them leave—Ryder on his Harley, CJ right behind him in the Charger. I want to go, but someone needs to stay behind to watch Sam. And besides, what if Marcy comes back?
“Hey,” I call out to the boy. “Did Marcy say anything before she left?”
He doesn’t look up. “Said she was going grocery shopping.”
Grocery shopping. Without saying a word to any of us. Without even grabbing her wallet.
That’s a lie.
And I know it the second the words leave his mouth.
Before I can process, my phone buzzes. It’s her! My heart thuds as I pick up fast. “Marcy? Where are you?—”
But it’s not her voice I hear. It’s low, but it’s not her. It takes me a moment to piece it together.
Fuck, it’s Jake. And he doesn’t sound too happy.
“Where did you get that picture?” Jake asks. He sounds calm. Controlled. Livid.
My blood runs cold. Wherever Marcy is, she must have managed to call me before her father confronted her in the hope we could find them.
I hit record on the call and keep the line open. Then I text CJ.
Track your car. Airtag.
CJ replies seconds later.
Got it. Bar. Preston and 11th. Backlot. Two blocks from me.
I’m already moving, Sam’s bag over my shoulder, keys in my hand.
I drop Sam off with King, one of our club’s oldest members. Then I ride—fast.
The streets blur as I tear down Preston, every instinct I’ve honed in two lifetimes telling me this is more than a bad call.
This is a trap.
I pull up next to CJ’s Charger and kill the engine. We don’t speak. Just nod once and scan.
And there she is.
Marcy. Standing near the far corner of the lot, arms crossed, chin high.
Jake’s towering in front of her, dressed like he’s still on a damn campaign ad, but his face says something else entirely.
He steps closer, but Marcy doesn’t flinch.
God, she’s brave.
Too brave.
I edge closer behind the cover of a parked truck, CJ on the other side.
Then I see it—the gun in his hand. It’s not obvious from my vantage point, not at first, but there’s no doubt in my mind he has it pointed at her.
“CJ,” I whisper into the comm. “He has a gun.”
CJ’s already moving, low and fast. I do the same.
Marcy’s line is still open on my phone, tucked in my jacket pocket, speaker low, volume maxed. CJ and I listen in from opposite sides of the lot, crouched behind the skeletal frame of a stripped-down sedan.
Jake’s voice cuts through the crackle of static, high with rage. Gone is the polished tone he uses at press conferences. This is him unfiltered. Unhinged.
“You don’t get it, do you?” he spits. “You think you can destroy me? Me? After everything I’ve built? You think you’ve won? You and your little clubhouse of degenerates? You ruined me, Marcy.”
Her breath is quick. I can tell she’s trying to stay composed, but she’s rattled. I feel her fear like it’s mine.
Jake’s voice rises. “I built this city. I protected this country. And you—you let them poison you. You were supposed to be the one thing I didn’t have to control.”
“Shut up,” Marcy says, her voice breaking, trying to be firm. “You don’t control anyone anymore. And you ruined me, too. Don’t you remember the photos you leaked? Did you not care what people were saying about me?”
“That wasn’t me,” he says impatiently. “That was your friend. I didn’t tell her to do it, but she got too impatient. Said if your character was in question, no one would think twice when I disowned you. Seems like she’s the only one who had my best interests at heart.”
Marcy’s face twists in disgust. “I can’t believe you, or her. You would steamroll me just so you could have your power?”
“You don’t get it,” Jake snarls. “It’s good you’re here. I can work with this. Frame them for killing you. Sympathy votes. Headlines. Grieving father. No one would question it.”
CJ mutters, “He’s out of his mind.”
“Keep listening,” I whisper back.
I shift behind a dumpster closer to the scene. Jake’s standing with his back to us, the gun now clearly visible in his hand. Marcy’s just a few feet in front of him, hands up but trembling. I can see her mouth moving, hear her through the earpiece.
“You let people die,” she says, shaky but determined. “At Blackthorne. You let four good men die for your goddamn mistress and your secrets.”
A pause. Then Jake laughs.
“They were pawns, Marcy. Collateral. That asset was worth a hundred men like them. And don’t act like your boyfriends are saints—they knew what they were walking into. Your precious CJ? He followed orders just like a good little soldier.”
Ryder breathes in sharply over the comms, but I cut him off. “Hold. We’re close.”
I dart behind the line of parked cars, pulling my sidearm from under my jacket.
Old instincts kick in—my breathing slows, my awareness sharpens. This is just like the ops we used to run. Except this time, the hostage is someone who matters more than anyone I’ve ever protected.
I grip the comm mic closer to my mouth.
“She’s buying us time,” I whisper. “We take him down—controlled. No shots if we can avoid it.”
CJ’s voice crackles through the earpiece. “On your go.”
I creep forward, watching Jake raise the barrel of his gun.
Marcy’s still talking—brave, angry, rattled. “You think you’re untouchable? You’re not. People know now. I made sure they would.”
Jake snarls something I can’t make out.
I’m ten feet away now. Jake’s still talking, but I’m not listening anymore. I’m watching his stance, the way he’s shaking.
He’s going to do it. He’s actually going to pull the trigger on his own daughter.
Marcy’s still facing him, eyes wide but defiant. She’s shaking, but she’s not backing down. She’s staring down the barrel like she knows she might die and is still refusing to give him the satisfaction of fear.
“Now,” I whisper into the comm.
CJ moves in from the left, fluid and fast. I break right, boots silent over gravel.
Jake’s voice rises again—louder, angrier. “You ruined everything, Marcy! You, and those goddamn bikers. You want to burn my legacy to the ground? Fine! You can go down with it?—”
He raises the gun.
And that’s when Ryder explodes onto the scene from behind the dumpster, roaring like a damn freight train. He tackles Jake from the side just as the gun goes off. The shot cracks through the parking lot like thunder.
I lunge forward, heart in my throat, eyes on Marcy.
She’s frozen.
But she’s okay.
The bullet missed. Thank God, it missed.
Jake’s on the ground now, and Ryder’s got him pinned, one knee in his back, wrenching the gun away and tossing it behind him. It clatters uselessly into the gutter.
CJ reaches them first, fists flying—one, two, three punches to the face before I get there.
Jake grunts, bleeding now, trying to turn away. He’s shouting something, but none of us cares.
I don’t wait—I slam my fist into his ribs, hard. Once. Twice. My knuckles crack.
CJ hauls him up by the collar and slams him against the car. “This is for Sam’s father,” he growls.
Ryder grabs Jake by the shirt and pulls him up just enough to meet his eyes. “And this is for Marcy.”
Jake tries to speak—maybe to spin another lie—but I cut him off with another punch. This one sends him slumping.
He goes still.
Finally.
We’re all breathing heavy now. Blood on our knuckles. Jake’s unconscious on the asphalt, half-crumpled against CJ’s front bumper.
Marcy hasn’t moved. I turn to her, heart still thundering in my chest. She’s trembling, hands still in the air like she’s frozen in that last second before the shot.
“Marcy,” I say gently. “He’s down. You’re safe.”
She blinks at me, and I see the tears start.
Then she runs straight into my arms.