Page 35 of Falcon’s Forever

“We aren’t saying anything yet,” Vulture cuts in before the question can gather momentum.

Rook taps one finger against the table. “Those men weren’t looking for cargo. They were asking about routes.”

“They were mapping how we operate,” I say.

Zip studies the surveillance photograph on the screen. “Or they were trying to make us think that’s what they were doing. They hit a small run, scared a prospect, and left behind a burner with obvious messages. It’s almost too clean.”

Condor nods. “I thought the same thing.”

Ice Pick folds his arms. “It could be bait.”

“For what?” Harrier asks.

Nobody answers immediately.

I’m thinking about the women’s house, and I’d bet money that half the table is too. The club’s attention is divided between protecting the survivors and chasing whatever remains of the network.

“A distraction,” I say finally.

“Maybe,” Vulture allows. “Until we know, everybody treats this as real. Falcon has perimeter oversight. Any changes go through him or me.”

The room stills for a fraction of a second, and I understand what he’s doing. Vulture isn’t simply handing me the job. He’s telling my brothers to trust me with it, and he’s doing it in front of all of them.

“I’ve got it,” I assure him.

“Prove it,” Vulture replies.

I check on Digger at ten. He’s asleep on a couch in the back room, with Hustler sitting nearby and playing something on his phone with the sound off.

“Wake him at midnight if I’m not back,” I tell Hustler. “If he throws up, becomes confused, or says his headache is worse, call Knox.”

“Got it,” Hustler confirms.

I reach the door before he calls after me.

“Falcon?”

I turn to look at him.

Hustler lowers his phone. “Digger doesn’t blame you.”

The comment catches me off guard. “I didn’t ask.”

“I know.” Hustler gives me a small shrug. “I’m just saying.”

Outside the temperature's dropped. I grab a jacket and start the south-line walk on foot, not the bike, because I'm not giving myself the option tonight. The clubhouse never fully sleeps but the lights dim and the voices fade, somewhere near the garage somebody laughs, a door opens and closes, and music plays faint from one of the rooms.

Through the trees the women's house glows soft and steady. One light is on upstairs. I don't know which room's hers, which is probably for the best, and I stand there a few seconds anyway. She told me this afternoon she hated me for not finding her. I thought hearing that would destroy me. Instead, it's made the last five years feel more real. She wasn't somewhere waiting patiently to be rescued like a storybook victim. She was angry and terrified and furious at me, and she survived however she had to survive. So did I. Neither of us came out the other side the same people we were. Maybe that's the thing I'm finally starting to understand. We don't have to be who we were before.

A branch cracks somewhere beyond the fence.

Every thought disappears. I turn toward the sound, scanning the darkness between the trees, but I see nothing.

I raise the radio to my mouth. “Rook.”

His voice crackles through the speaker. “Yeah?”

“Are you west of south marker three?” I ask, keeping my eyes fixed on the fence line.