"You've been protecting us," Bear finished for him, incredulity coloring his tone. "All this time, we thought you were just some homeless kid Rooster was feeding. But you've been watching our perimeter, tracking threats."
I shrugged uncomfortably under their stares. It hadn't been entirely selfless. Their territory had become my territory by proximity. Their enemies potentially mine. Protecting them had been protecting myself.
But even I knew that wasn't the whole truth.
The four men stood silent around me, the hardened bikers studying me with new eyes. In their expressions I saw something I hadn't expected—respect. Not pity, not the cautious concern they'd shown the traumatized mute who flinched at sudden movements. But genuine respect for a fellow survivor, a watcher, a protector.
"Well, I'll be damned," Gunner said finally, breaking the silence. "Looks like our stray cat's got some serious claws."
Rooster's hand found my shoulder, the weight of it warm and steadying. I didn't flinch away from his touch this time. Something had shifted between us—between all of us—in the revelation of my secret surveillance network. I wasn't just Rooster's damaged mate anymore. I was someone with skills they needed, knowledge they valued.
For the first time in fifteen years, I felt like I might belong somewhere. And it had taken an attack to reveal it.
The distant crack of gunfire reminded us that revelations wouldn't keep us alive. We had work to do.
I led them higher up the ridge to my most strategic observation post, a natural depression between two boulders that offered perfect sightlines to the entire compound while remaining virtually invisible from below.
The moon cast enough light for the others to follow my silent steps, though I doubted they could appreciate just how carefully I'd selected this location—how I'd spent days testing visibility angles, calculating blind spots, ensuring multiple escape routes. This wasn't just another hiding place. This was my command center.
"Down," I mouthed silently, gesturing for them to crouch as we approached the edge of the outcropping. They obeyed immediately, veterans of enough combat to recognize the authority in my movements.
Below us, the clubhouse burned in sections, tactical flashlights cutting through smoke as Victor's men methodically cleared rooms. Their movements betrayed professional training—coordinated, disciplined, ruthlessly efficient.
I reached for a stick nearby, then cleared a patch of dirt between us. Without hesitation, I began to draw, my hands moving with practiced precision. First the clubhouse, each window and door placed exactly where it stood. Then the garage, the fence line, the tree line.
My fingers worked quickly, adding details most would overlook—the slight depression near the east gate, the drainage ditch that offered concealed approach from the north, the blind spot behind the propane tank.
Bear leaned forward, his breath catching as I marked Victor's team positions with X's—twelve men total, divided into four three-man teams. I indicated their movement patterns with arrows, showing how they'd systematically herded the MC members toward the central rooms while cutting off escape routes.
"Jesus Christ," Gunner whispered, studying my dirt map with growing astonishment. "This is Special Forces level tactical analysis. How the hell do you—"
I held up my hand for silence, continuing to add details. I marked their likely extraction routes, the command vehicle's position, the snipers' fields of fire. Every detail rendered with military precision, informed by years of watching similar operations unfold. Years of being the invisible observer as communities like this one were methodically destroyed.
When I finished, I sat back on my heels, giving them time to absorb what I'd drawn. They crowded around the dirt map, their expressions shifting from confusion to grudging respect as they recognized the accuracy of my assessment.
"This is how they knew our blind spots," Bear muttered. "They've been planning this for months."
Rooster's eyes met mine across the drawing. "But why? What do they want with us?"
I reached into my pocket and pulled out the small, weathered notebook I carried everywhere—the one I'd had long before Percy's gift. Its pages were filled with observations, maps, sketches compiled over years of silent witness. I flipped to a specific page and held it out.
Gunner took it carefully, angling it toward the moonlight. His eyes widened as he studied my detailed sketch of another compound—a wolf shifter pack in Wyoming I'd stumbled across two years ago.
The drawing showed an attack pattern identical to what was happening below us now—same team formations, same approach vectors, same systematic sweep.
"This... this is the same tactical approach," Gunner said, his voice tense. "Same team composition."
I nodded, flipping to another page—a fox shifter community in Nevada. Then another—bear shifters in northern California. Three separate attacks, months apart, hundreds of miles distant. All executed with the same precision, the same methodology.
But it was the fourth drawing that made Bear curse under his breath. My sketch showed the aftermath—bodies arranged in clinical rows, blood samples being taken, distinctive markers indicating scientific documentation rather than simple slaughter.
"This isn't just an attack," Bear whispered, horrified understanding dawning on his face. "It's a collection. A harvest."
I nodded grimly, then pulled out my pencil and wrote in the margin of the page:"No survivors found in previous attacks. All bodies removed after documentation. Special interest in rare shifter types."
"Like Preston Markus's experiments," Rooster said, the connection clicking into place. "This is the same operation, just under Victor now."
I flipped to a blank page and wrote rapidly, my pencil nearly tearing the paper with urgency:"This isn't random. It's systematic extermination of shifters. Been tracking for years. You're the only ones who fed me. Only ones I warned."
