"Liam, what are you—" Rooster started, but fell silent as I leaped, catching the lowest branch with practiced ease.
My body remembered this, even if my conscious mind sometimes forgot what I was capable of. My muscles coiled and released, propelling me upward with fluid motions that felt as natural as breathing. Branch after branch, I ascended with lynx-like precision, barely disturbing the needles around me.
This was who I really was—not the cowering figure they'd first met, but a survivor who had learned to use every advantage, every skill my shifter nature afforded me.
From thirty feet up, the compound spread below me like a diorama. Victor's men had established a perimeter, their tactical positions revealing professional training.
Two groups had breached the main building from opposite sides. Three snipers had taken positions on neighboring rooftops, their rifles trained on exit points. A command vehicle idled behind the tree line to the east—Victor's position, I'd bet my life on it.
More concerning were the four figures moving toward Gearhead's garage—directly where we'd emerged. They'd be on us in minutes.
I descended even faster than I'd climbed, dropping the last ten feet to land silently beside Rooster. His eyes widened at my approach, clearly startled by how quickly I'd moved.
I pressed my finger to my lips, then pointed in the direction of the approaching men, holding up four fingers. Bear nodded grimly, understanding immediately. I gestured for them all to stay low, then indicated a path that would take us deeper into the woods, away from the immediate threat.
We'd barely made it twenty yards when a voice called out behind us.
"Gunner! Rooster!"
Butch appeared from between the trees, half-carrying a club member whose leg was soaked with blood. Three more injured men followed, supported by Percy and Treat.
"The fuckers hit us from all sides," Butch growled, lowering the wounded man to the ground. "They knew exactly where our defenses were weakest."
Bear moved forward. "How many still inside?"
"Maybe ten of ours, holding the central rooms," Butch answered, his face grim in the moonlight. "Victor's on a goddamn walkie giving orders. This isn't some random attack—it's a fucking military operation."
I glanced back toward where I'd spotted the approaching figures. We had minutes, maybe less.
Butch seemed to read my concern. "We need to split up," he said decisively. "I'll take the wounded to Henry's clinic—they need medical attention now. You three follow the kid." He nodded toward me. "He seems to know what he's doing."
Rooster looked at me, a question in his eyes. I nodded once, though anxiety churned in my stomach. What I was about to show them was my most closely guarded secret—the network I'd spent months building around their territory.
I hesitated only briefly before leading them deeper into the forest, away from the approaching threat. The others followed silently, trusting me despite having no reason to. The weight of that trust pressed against my chest like a physical thing.
After ten minutes of careful navigation through the underbrush, I brought them to the first of my observation posts—a hollow log positioned with precise sightlines to the eastern approach of the compound.
To casual observers, it looked like a natural deadfall. But I'd carefully hollowed it to create a sheltered viewpoint, complete with a small cache of supplies hidden in a waterproof compartment beneath.
Bear crouched to examine it, his massive frame dwarfing my carefully constructed hiding place. "What the hell?" he muttered, running his fingers along the smooth interior where I'd painstakingly carved away the rot.
I didn't wait for further questions, just continued leading them through my network. Twenty yards north was a platform nestled in the branches of an ancient oak, positioned to overlook the main road. Beyond that, a small depression beneath a rock outcropping that gave clear views of the clubhouse's southern exposure.
At each location, I'd stashed essentials—water, protein bars, a first aid kit, matches sealed in wax. Not enough to live on permanently, but sufficient for surveillance or emergency retreat.
"Jesus Christ," Bear muttered as he examined the tree platform. "This is professional-grade work. Military level observation post." He turned to stare at me with new eyes. "Who the hell taught you to build something like this?"
I tapped my temple. Necessity. Survival. The best teacher I'd ever had.
Gunner circled the platform, his tactician's mind clearly assessing its strategic value. "How many of these do you have?"
I held up both hands, fingers spread. Ten. Ten observation posts surrounding their compound, positioned for optimal surveillance of every approach.
"How long?" Rooster asked quietly, his eyes meeting mine. "How long have you been watching us?"
I hesitated, then held up seven fingers, followed by a circular motion. Seven months. Longer than any of them had realized. Since before Rooster had first noticed me scavenging from their dumpsters, before he'd started leaving food at the picnic table.
"Seven months," Rooster repeated, his voice barely above a whisper. Understanding dawned on his face. "That's why you knew about the surveillance devices. Why you could find them all. You've been..." He trailed off, struggling to find the words.
