My heart hammered against my ribs. That notebook contained everything—every observation, every pattern, every weakness I'd spotted in both the MC's defenses and their enemies' tactics. It was my survival manual, my insurance policy, my most private thoughts rendered in drawings and sparse notations.
I could have snatched it back. Part of me wanted to. The part that had survived by keeping secrets, by letting no one see the full extent of what I knew or what I could do. But another part—the part that had placed Rooster's hand over my heart in the garden—hesitated.
Rooster looked up at me, a question in his eyes, seeking permission.
I gave a small nod, my throat tight with an emotion I couldn't name.
He turned the page slowly, revealing my documentation of Victor's men from their first appearance three months ago. I'd sketched their faces with precise detail—the scar on the tallest one's jaw, the distinctive gait of the radio operator, the left-handed draw of their leader.
Beside each figure, I'd noted their weapons, their communication patterns, even small behavioral habits that might be exploited in combat.
"Jesus," Rooster whispered, turning another page to find a hand-drawn map of their vehicle placements during their surveillance operations. I'd recorded times, dates, shift changes—building a complete picture of their operational security through weeks of patient observation.
Bear and Gunner moved closer, drawn by Rooster's reaction.
"What is it?" Gunner asked, peering over Rooster's shoulder.
"It's... it's everything," Rooster replied, his voice hushed with something like reverence. "Everything about Victor's operation. Details I wouldn't have noticed if I'd been staring right at them."
Bear let out a low whistle as Rooster turned to pages documenting the surveillance devices we'd dug up yesterday. I'd sketched their internal components, noted their broadcast frequencies based on similar devices I'd examined in other locations.
My fingers twitched at my sides, fighting the urge to grab the notebook and run. I'd never allowed anyone this deep into my private world—this glimpse of how I'd survived when everyone else had perished.
Rooster must have sensed my discomfort because he looked up, his eyes softening. "This is incredible, Liam," he said quietly. "You've been building a case against them for months."
I shook my head slightly. Not months. Years.
As if hearing my unspoken correction, Rooster turned more pages, moving deeper into the notebook's history. His breath caught as he found the older entries—the ones documenting the destruction of other shifter communities.
Wyoming. The wolf pack. Twelve members, all taken in a night raid similar to the one happening below us now. I'd sketched the aftermath from my hiding place in a lightning-struck tree—the methodical collection of blood samples, the tagging of bodies like specimens, the careful documentation of each shifter's type before they were loaded into unmarked vans.
Nevada. The fox shifter family. Seven of them, from elderly grandmother to infant. I'd watched from a distant hill, unable to intervene as the same team executed the same playbook. Same tactical approach, same equipment, same clinical aftermath.
Northern California. The bear shifter community living deep in the forest. Fifteen members who thought their isolation protected them. I'd tracked the hunting team for days before they struck, documenting their preparations while staying just out of their detection range.
Each attack meticulously documented with dates, locations, tactical diagrams, and the most damning detail of all—the survivor counts that dwindled to zero as the operation refined its methods.
Rooster looked up from the pages, his face pale in the moonlight. "You've been tracking them across the country," he said. "All this time, you've been..." He seemed at a loss for words.
Gunner leaned in, his tactician's mind quickly processing what he was seeing. "These are professional after-action reports," he said. "Military grade intelligence gathering." His eyes met mine with new respect. "Where did you learn to do this?"
I tapped my temple. Nowhere. Everywhere. Survival didn't come with formal training—only brutal lessons that killed you if you failed to learn them.
Bear's expression had transformed completely from the skepticism he'd shown earlier. He studied the pages with the somber recognition of someone who understood exactly what he was seeing—a war journal.
"You're the only survivor," he said quietly. "From any of these attacks."
I nodded once, the weight of that truth settling heavily between us. I hadn't just been running all these years. I'd been witnessing, documenting, carrying the evidence of systematic extermination that no one else had lived to report.
Rooster turned to the final pages—my observations of the Soldiers of Fortune MC from the first day I'd spotted them several months ago. My initial assessment had been clinical,detached: strengths, weaknesses, threat level, potential value as temporary territory.
But as the pages progressed, something had changed in my notations. The day Rooster first left food on the picnic table was marked with a simple asterisk. The entries after that contained more details about him specifically—his routines, his habits, the way he never looked directly at the woods where I was hiding when he left the food, giving me the dignity of privacy even in his act of charity.
I felt heat rise to my face as Rooster lingered on these pages. They revealed more than I'd intended anyone to see—the gradual shift from observing potential threats to something far more personal.
I reached for the notebook and Rooster handed it back without hesitation. Our fingers brushed during the exchange, the brief contact sending a familiar warmth through my hand.
Flipping to a clean page, I wrote quickly:"They always follow the same pattern. First surveillance, then infiltration, then elimination. We're at stage two."
