Epilogue #3
Hannah was quiet for a long moment. He could see her calculating—weighing her options, measuring him against whatever threat had just blown her world apart. Smart woman. She'd figure out soon enough that her options had narrowed to one.
"Patient files," she finally said. "They wanted access to my patient records. Specifically, veterans with chronic pain conditions."
Something clicked in Legion's mind. The overdose deaths Ghost had mentioned last week—three veterans in two months, all with similar injury profiles. The rumors of a new pill pipeline running through Fayetteville's veteran community.
"How many times have they come before tonight?"
"This was the third visit." Hannah's voice went flat. "First time was polite. Second time they made threats. Tonight they stopped asking."
"And you didn't think to call anyone? Report it?"
Her laugh was bitter. "Report it to who? The cops they probably own? The VA that takes six months to return a phone call?" She shook her head. "I've spent my whole life watching the system fail people, Mr. Kane. I stopped expecting it to help a long time ago."
Legion studied her—the bruise darkening across her cheekbone, the defiance burning in her eyes, the way she held herself like she was ready to fight even though she had to know she was outmatched.
Six years building something that actually helped veterans, and someone had just burned it to the ground because she wouldn't hand over the people she'd dedicated herself to healing.
The cold thing in his chest shifted, becoming something sharper. More personal.
"My name's not Kane." He reached into his cut and pulled out a card—plain black, just a phone number and a patch logo. "Not anymore. And this isn't something the system can fix."
Hannah took the card, stared at it. "Black Ops Brotherhood." She looked up at him, something new in her expression. Realization, maybe. Or the beginning of fear. "You're that motorcycle club. The one with the Special Forces veterans."
"I'm the president of that motorcycle club." Legion held her gaze, let her see exactly what kind of man she was dealing with. "And whatever's happening here—whatever these people want with your patients—it just became club business."
"I don't want to be anyone's business."
"Too late." He nodded toward the parking lot, where the SUV sat with two bodies cooling inside. "You became my business the second I walked in and saw your face. Now we can do this the hard way, where you argue and I ignore you and we waste time while whoever's behind this sends more people. Or—"
"Or?"
Legion stepped closer. Close enough that she had to tilt her head back to hold his eyes. Close enough that he could smell antiseptic and fear and something softer underneath—something that made him want to put his hands on her for reasons that had nothing to do with checking her injuries.
"Or you trust me. Just long enough to figure out who did this and make sure they never come near you again."
Hannah stared at him for a long, charged moment. He watched her weigh his words against everything she knew—the violence she'd witnessed, the bodies in the parking lot, the destroyed clinic around them.
"I don't trust anyone."
"Good." Legion's mouth curved slightly—not quite a smile, but close. "Neither do I. That's why we're going to get along."
The sound of motorcycles rumbled in the distance—brothers coming for the cleanup, right on schedule. Hannah's eyes darted toward the window, then back to him.
"We need to talk," Legion said. "About what you know, who's targeting you, and how we're going to make them regret it."
The look in his eyes made it clear: refusing wasn't an option.
Chapter 2
Hannah couldn't stop seeing him kill those men.
Fifteen seconds. Maybe less. Two men with guns, military training, the kind of muscle that made her skin crawl when they'd walked into her clinic three hours ago—and Legion had gone through them like they were nothing.
She stood in the ruins of her waiting room, arms wrapped around herself, watching him through the shattered front window.
He was on the phone again, pacing the parking lot with that controlled energy that reminded her of the operators she treated.
The ones who never quite stopped scanning for threats, even when they were face-down on her treatment table.
Except those men had been broken.
Legion wasn't broken. Legion was something else entirely.
The rumble of motorcycles grew louder, and two bikes pulled into the lot.
The riders dismounted with the same economical movements she'd watched Legion use—no wasted motion, no hesitation.
They exchanged words she couldn't hear, then one of them climbed into the SUV with the bodies while the other started photographing the scene.
Like this was routine.
Like they'd done this before.
Hannah's stomach lurched. She pressed her hand against the cool glass of the window, steadying herself. She'd spent her entire adult life around military men. Knew the difference between training and trauma, between capability and violence.
What she'd just witnessed was neither.
It was precision. It was practice. It was a man who killed the way other people breathed.
And he was walking back toward her.
"Brothers are handling the cleanup." Legion pushed through the door, bringing the humid evening air with him. "SUV will disappear. Bodies too."
"Just like that."
"Just like that." He stopped in front of her, close enough that she had to tilt her head to meet his eyes.
Silver hair, weathered face, scars she'd traced during PT sessions without understanding what they meant.
She understood now. "You have about twenty minutes before we need to move. Start talking."
"Move where?"
"Somewhere these people can't find you." His eyes swept her face, lingering on the bruise. Something dark flickered in his expression. "The pattern. You said they were targeting veterans. Explain."
Hannah wanted to argue. Wanted to tell him she didn't take orders from patients—former patients—motorcycle club presidents—whatever the hell he was. But the adrenaline was crashing, her cheek throbbed with every heartbeat, and everything she'd built lay in ruins around her.
"Three months ago, I lost a patient." She moved away from the window, unable to stand still. "Tommy Reeves. Rangers, two deployments, chronic back pain from a bad jump. I'd been treating him for eighteen months. He was doing well—reducing his medication, building strength."
"And?"
"Overdose. Fentanyl-laced pills the ME said he bought off the street." Hannah's voice cracked. "Tommy wasn't buying street pills. He had a prescription. He had me. He was getting better."
Legion's expression didn't change, but she felt the shift in his attention. The same focus he'd turned on those men in the parking lot.
"Two more deaths followed," she continued. "Scott Wiltern, six weeks after Tommy. Chronic knee issues from IED shrapnel. Then David Bueller, three weeks ago. Rotator cuff from a training accident."
"All your patients."
"All my patients. All with similar injury profiles—chronic pain requiring long-term management." Hannah stopped pacing, turned to face him. "And all three of them received phone calls in the weeks before they died. Calls from a 'pain management specialist' offering 'alternative treatments.'"
"Someone's using your patient list to identify targets."
"Not just identify." She felt the anger rising, the fury she'd been choking on for months. "They're hunting them. Finding veterans who are already in pain, already struggling, and offering them exactly what they think they need. Cheaper pills. Faster relief. No insurance hassles."
"And then they're dead."
"Then they're dead." Her voice broke. "Three men who trusted me with their recovery. Three men I was supposed to help heal."
Legion was quiet for a moment. His eyes tracked around the destroyed clinic—the smashed equipment, the scattered files, the wreckage of six years of her life.
"How'd they get your patient list?"
"I don't know." Hannah ran her hands through her hair, dislodging the ponytail she'd forgotten she was wearing. "My system's secure. HIPAA compliant. I don't share records with anyone."
"Someone got in anyway."
"Obviously." Frustration sharpened her tone. "I've been trying to figure out how for months. I reported the pattern to the VA, the local police, anyone who would listen. No one cared. Three dead veterans are just statistics to them."
"Not to me."
The words landed like stones in still water. Hannah looked at him—really looked—and saw something she hadn't expected.
Rage.
Not the hot, explosive anger she'd seen in damaged operators. This was colder. Deeper. The fury of a man who'd spent decades protecting people and was watching them die on his home ground.
"These men," she said slowly. "Tonight. They work for whoever's running this?"
"That's what we're going to find out."
"We?"
Legion stepped closer. Close enough that she could smell leather and gunpowder and something sharper underneath—the copper scent of the violence he'd just committed, still clinging to his skin.
"You've got information I need," he said. "Patient patterns, contact histories, anything that might lead to whoever's running this operation. And I've got the resources to do something about it."
"Resources." Hannah laughed, the sound thin and brittle. "You mean more men like you? More... whatever that was in the parking lot?"
"I mean a brotherhood of operators who spent their careers taking down threats exactly like this one." His voice dropped, rough with something that made her pulse jump. "Men who protect their own. And right now, whether you like it or not, you're one of ours."
"I'm not—"
"You treat veterans. Special operations veterans. Men who came home broken and needed someone to put them back together." Legion's hand came up, fingers brushing her chin, turning her face toward the light. Toward the bruise. "That makes you ours. That makes this our fight."