"Take your time," he said, his tone still firm but with an undercurrent of patience I hadn't expected. "Write it down if that's easier."
I stared at the blank page, my heart still hammering against my ribs. The pencil felt awkward in my fingers as I picked it up—I was more accustomed to the small stub I kept in my pocket for emergency notations. The first few lines I wrote were shaky, barely legible even to me.
"5 years tracking. Started in Wyoming. Wolf pack."
I frowned at the inadequate words. How could I possibly convey the horror of what I'd witnessed through such simplified notes? Frustration built inside me as I crossed out the words and tried again, my hand still unsteady.
Butch watched without comment as I struggled, neither rushing me nor showing impatience. After a few failed attempts at written explanation, I flipped to a fresh page and began to draw instead.
The lines flowed more easily as I sketched a rough map of the western United States, marking locations with small X's. Beside each X, I drew crude representations—a wolf for Wyoming, a fox for Nevada, a bear for California, and finally, a motorcyclefor the Soldiers of Fortune MC. Then I started adding dates, creating a timeline that spread across two pages.
As my hands found their purpose, my anxiety receded enough for clearer thought. I added more details—surveillance patterns, infiltration methods, extraction techniques.
With each stroke of the pencil, my confidence grew. This was something I knew. Something I'd studied with the intense focus of someone whose survival depended on understanding predators.
"These all followed the same pattern?" Butch asked, leaning forward to study my drawings.
I nodded, then continued sketching. Three phases for each target:
Surveillance—cameras, planted devices, perimeter watchers.
Infiltration—agents inserted into the community or nearby towns.
Extraction or elimination—coordinated night raids, clinical collection of "specimens," no survivors.
Butch's eyes narrowed as he processed the information. "And you witnessed all of these personally?"
I nodded again, then wrote beside the Wyoming X: "Watched from lightning-struck tree. 200 yards distance. 12 wolves taken."
Beside Nevada: "Hill observation post. 7 foxes. Youngest was infant."
California: "Forest blind. 15 bears. Collection team used tranquilizers before blood sampling."
Each notation carried the weight of memories I'd tried to bury—the silent screams as shifters were loaded into unmarked vans, the clinical efficiency of men in tactical gear as they documented their "specimens."
"Jesus Christ," Butch muttered, studying my timeline. "They've been doing this systematically. Testing methods, refining their approach."
I tapped the MC's location on my map, then added a final notation: "Only ones who fought back. Only ones I warned."
Something shifted in Butch's expression as he read those words—a recognition that went beyond the tactical information I was providing. He looked up from the papers to study me directly, his gaze more penetrating than before.
"Why us, Liam? Why warn us when you didn't warn the others?"
The question hit me like a physical blow. I stared at the notepad, the pencil suddenly heavy in my hand. There were practical reasons, of course—this group was larger, better armed, with escape routes I'd mapped through their hidden passages. My chances of successful intervention were higher. My risk of capture lower.
But those weren't the real reasons, and something in Butch's steady gaze told me he wouldn't accept such a calculating answer.
I wrote slowly, the words coming with difficulty:"Rooster left food. No one ever just... gave before. No demands. Just gave."
Butch nodded, something like understanding crossing his features. "Simple kindness," he said quietly. "That was all it took."
I shrugged uncomfortably, not wanting to acknowledge how completely that simple act had transformed my existence. Instead, I returned to the safer ground of tactics, adding more details about Victor's operation—the rotation of surveillance teams, the communication protocols I'd observed, the equipment they used for tracking shifters.
As I worked, I felt a strange sense of unburdening. For years, I'd carried these observations alone, my notebook the only record of communities that had been systematically erased. Now, finally, someone else was seeing what I'd seen. Someone with the power and resources to potentially stop it.
"This is good work," Butch said finally, gathering the pages I'd filled. "Better than good. Military-grade intelligence gathering." He studied me with new respect. "Rooster was right about you. There's more to you than meets the eye, kid."
I ducked my head, uncomfortable with the praise. My skills hadn't developed through any noble purpose—just the brutal necessity of staying one step ahead of those who would cage or kill me.
