Page 93 of Falcon’s Forever

Condor clicks again, and my stomach drops before Sterling even says it.

"The safe house," Sterling says. "Maggie's."

Not our women's house. A smaller property outside the city, run by a woman who's been quietly supporting survivors longer than we have, it’s further out and less protected than anything on our own land.

"Has anyone called Knox?" I ask.

"Already done," Vulture says. "He's telling Maggie now."

"What about security?" I can’t help asking, even though I’m not VP anymore.

“Rook,” Vulture says, nodding toward him.

Rook is on his feet immediately.

“No cuts,” Zip warns him. “If they don’t know we’ve found the connection, we don’t advertise a club presence.”

Rook reaches for his jacket. “Two vehicles?”

“Three,” Vulture corrects. “Keep one farther out.”

Harrier looks between them. “Why am I coming?”

“Because I said so,” Rook tells him, already steering him toward the door by the shoulder.

Harrier glances back at Vulture. “That feels misleading.”

They leave, and I look at Vulture. "Do we move on Kells's people yet?"

"No," Zip says, before Vulture can. "We protect Maggie's without letting them realize we know. Condor traces Merrick. Sterling works the money. Ice Pick checks every Kells sighting against our routes for the last month."

Ice Pick’s already writing.

"And the women?" Vulture asks, and this time he looks at me when he says it, because some things haven't changed no matter what patch is or isn't on my chest.

I think before I answer. "We tell them everything that affects their security. Maggie's house might be compromised. Whether they move is their decision unless there's an active attack."

Zip nods. "Agreed." He looks at Vulture. "That's how we'll run it."

Vulture nods. "Good."

Church runs through every detail Digger can remember about the warehouse, and this time I actually hear it instead of drowning in guilt while he talks. Kells had asked specifically about routes, frequency, and whether women were housed on club property. He was gathering intel before any of this started, which means the whole thing's been planned longer than we assumed.

By the time Church ends we've got a direction we didn't have yesterday. Not answers, but somewhere to point.

Digger stays in his seat while the others start clearing out.

“You good?” I ask him.

“Yeah,” he says, sitting back in his chair.

“You did well.”

Something shifts in his face, pride he’s trying and failing to hide.

“Thanks,” he says.

I point at the stitches on his forehead. “You’re still not carrying anything heavier than a coffee cup.”