"How long have you been feeding Cross information?"
A muscle twitched in his jaw. "Six months. Since before I started prospecting."
Six months. That meant Cross had planned this from the beginning—planted Vince as a long-term asset, waiting for the right moment to activate him.
"You were never trying to become a Phoenix." Tyler's voice had gone flat, analytical—the FBI agent fully surfaced beneath the man I'd come to know. "You were always a spy."
"Cross pays better." Vince's lips curled into something that wasn't quite a smile. "And he doesn't make you spend years earning a patch that might never come."
I wanted to hit him. Wanted to feel his face break under my knuckles, wanted to make him pay for every piece of information he'd passed along, every life his betrayal had endangered. But Tyler was right—we needed him talking, not bleeding.
"Get up." I grabbed his arm, hauled him to his feet. "You're coming back to the compound. And you're going to tell Hawk everything."
For the first time, genuine fear flickered in Vince's eyes. "Hawk? No, you don't understand?—"
"I understand perfectly." I yanked my belt free, wrapped it around his wrists and cinched it tight, the leather biting into his skin. "You betrayed the club. You helped Cross try to kill our people. And now you're going to answer for it."
"You don't know what Cross has planned?—"
"Then you'd better start talking."
Vince's mouth snapped shut. Whatever he knew, he wasn't ready to share it with us. Fine. Hawk would get it out of him. Hawk always did.
Tyler dismounted, coming to stand beside me. His shoulder brushed mine—a small contact, barely noticeable, but I felt it like a brand.
"Nice riding." The words came out rough, inadequate for what I actually felt.
He glanced at me, and despite everything—the adrenaline, the rage, the weight of what we'd just done—the corner of his mouth twitched upward.
"Learned from the best."
The ride back took longer with a prisoner.
We'd secured Vince on the back of my Harley, his bound wrists attached to a cargo strap that made escape impossible without falling off and being dragged. Not comfortable, but I wasn't feeling particularly concerned about his comfort. Tyler rode beside us, close enough to intercept if Vince tried anything.
The compound gates loomed ahead within the hour, security lights cutting harsh circles against the darkness. Members had been trickling back all night, empty-handed and frustrated, and faces turned toward us as we rumbled through.
Hawk was waiting in the lot.
He stood like a monolith in the center of the concrete—six-foot-four of coiled muscle and barely contained fury, arms crossed over his massive chest. The security lights threw sharp shadows across hisface, turning his features into something carved from obsidian. His eyes fixed on Vince with the kind of intensity that made hardened men confess their sins.
"You found him."
"Tyler found him." I cut the engine, hauled Vince off the back of the bike. "He was heading for the old silver mine. Probably had extraction planned."
Hawk's gaze shifted to Tyler, something like approval flickering beneath the cold fury. "Good work."
Tyler just nodded.
"The basement." Hawk's voice left no room for questions.
Two prospects appeared—the ones who'd taken over gate duty since Vince's position had become suddenly vacant—and grabbed the prisoner's arms. Vince struggled briefly, instinctively, but one look from Hawk stilled him like a rabbit under a hawk's shadow.
"Cross knows you caught me." Vince's voice rose as they dragged him toward the clubhouse, an edge of desperation cracking through. "He'll know something's wrong when I don't check in. He has plans?—"
"Then you'd better tell me what they are."
The clubhouse door swung shut behind them, cutting off whatever Vince was going to say next.
