Page 30 of Falcon’s Forever

Then Ice Pick's voice from the hallway this morning comes back to me. Sooner or later, somebody gets hurt while you're figuring out when you feel like being Falcon again.

I turn around immediately. The ride back takes longer than it should, not because of traffic, the roads are quiet, but because every mile gives me more time to understand something's wrong. By the time my phone finds signal again there are six missed calls. Three from Zip, two from Vulture, one from Rook. Cold drops straight into my stomach. I hit Zip’s number while I’m still moving.

He answers before the first ring finishes. “Where the fuck are you?”

“I’m ten minutes out,” I tell him. “What happened?”

“You were supposed to be at the south warehouse,” Zip snaps.

“I know,” I bite out.

His voice hardens. “Do you?”

“Zip.” I tighten my grip on the handlebars. “What happened?”

His breathing is heavy in my ear. It isn’t panic. It’s adrenaline.

“We had company,” he says.

Everything inside me sharpens. “Who?”

“We don’t know yet,” Zip replies. “A black SUV rolled up while the prospects were loading. Two guys got out and started asking questions.”

“What kind of questions?” I demand.

“They wanted to know who runs the route, how often we move supplies, and whether we’re storing anything off-compound.” His words come quickly now.

My stomach tightens. “Is anybody hurt?”

Zip pauses a beat too long.

“Zip,” I warn.

“Digger took a hit,” he admits.

My hand tightens around the throttle. “How bad?”

“He’s conscious,” Zip assures me. “Knox is checking him now.”

“What the fuck happened out there?” I ask.

“What happened is you fucking weren’t here,” Zip fires back.

I don’t argue because he’s right. I’m already furious enough with myself, and fighting with him would only be another way to hide from it.

“I’m coming in,” I tell him before ending the call.

The gates are already sliding open when I reach the compound. I ride straight to the garage where half the club's standing. Digger's on a workbench with blood running down the side of his face while Knox shines a light in one of his pupils. Rook's cut hangs half open, his knuckles split. Harrier's got a shotgun resting against the wall, which means somebody had the sense to stop him taking it outside. Carrot's crouched by the truck bumper looking at the bullet damage like he's trying to memorize it, his jaw is tight because I’d says he’s pissed he wasn't.

Zip stops pacing the second he sees me. Nobody says anything, and the silence tells me everything I need to know.

I kill the bike and get off. "How is he?"

Knox doesn't look up. "Mild concussion probably. Cut needs stitches."

Digger tries to grin. "I'm good."

"You're not good. You're twenty-three and apparently your skull's been protecting a completely unused brain."