"I have more questions," Butch continued, "but they can wait. You've given me plenty to start with." He stood, signaling the end of our meeting. "We'll use what you've shared to verify Victor's statements. See if he's feeding us bullshit."
I rose quickly, relieved the interrogation was over. As I turned to leave, Butch's voice stopped me.
"Liam."
I looked back, tensing slightly.
"What you did—watching, documenting, staying alive when everyone else didn't—that took courage. And bringing this information to us instead of running when things got hot..." He shook his head slightly. "That's loyalty I don't take lightly."
I didn't know how to respond to that. Courage wasn't a word I'd ever associated with my existence. Survival, yes. Necessity. But not courage.
As I slipped out of the office and headed toward the kitchen where Rooster waited, Butch's words echoed in my mind. Perhaps there was more to my years of hiding than simply fear. Perhaps watching and remembering when everyone else forgot was its own kind of strength.
The thought settled uncomfortably in my chest as I walked away, neither embraced nor rejected—just another piece of myself I was only beginning to understand.
* * * *
I didn't expect the second summons to Butch's office. The first had been necessary—urgent even—as they sorted through the aftermath of the attack. But this call, coming just after breakfast the next morning, caught me off guard.
Rooster squeezed my shoulder as I stood from the kitchen table, his eyes conveying reassurance I wasn't sure I deserved. Whatever Butch wanted, it felt different this time. Not an interrogation, but something else. Something that made my heart beat faster for reasons that weren't entirely fear.
The walk down the hallway seemed shorter than before. My fingers still traced nervous patterns against my thigh, but my shoulders weren't hunched around my ears as they had been yesterday. I'd survived one meeting with the MC president. I could survive another.
When I knocked on the heavy wooden door, Butch's voice immediately called for me to enter. He was seated behind his massive desk again, but this time the surface was covered with stacks of papers rather than just a few notes. The laptop was closed and pushed aside, all attention focused on whatever these documents contained.
"Come in," he said, gesturing to the chair across from him. "And close the door behind you."
I did as instructed, noting that my assessment of the room remained the same—one door, one window, hiding spot behind the filing cabinet if needed. The knowledge settled my nerves, as it always did. Escape routes identified. Safety confirmed.
"We spent most of the night interrogating Victor," Butch said without preamble, pushing a stack of papers toward me. "These are the transcripts. I want you to read them and tell me if his story matches what you've observed."
I stared at the pages, momentarily frozen. No one had ever asked for my opinion like this before. No one had ever treated my observations as valuable. For fifteen years, staying unseenhad been my only goal—my thoughts and knowledge kept hidden along with my physical presence.
Butch watched me with unexpected patience, apparently understanding my hesitation. "You saw things we didn't," he said simply. "You've been tracking these bastards for years. Your perspective matters here."
My perspective matters. The concept was so foreign I could barely process it.
With slightly trembling fingers, I reached for the pages. The top sheet contained a formal-looking header: "Interrogation Subject: Victor Markus. Date: April 15. Time: 22:47."
Below that was a transcript of questions and answers. Bear had conducted the initial questioning, his blunt style evident in the terse, sometimes profane questions. Victor's responses were measured, calculated, revealing just enough to appear cooperative without giving away anything truly significant.
I turned to the second page, then the third, my eyes scanning rapidly. Fifteen years of survival had taught me to process information quickly, to identify patterns and inconsistencies that might mean the difference between safety and capture.
As I read, something shifted in my focus—the world around me fading as my attention narrowed to the words before me.
Victor claimed his operation began three years ago, after his uncle's death.
Lie.
He stated they'd only targeted two previous communities—one in Idaho and one in Colorado.
Lie.
He described their approach as "purely scientific," claiming they tranquilized subjects before collection, ensuring no unnecessary casualties.
The bloodiest lie of all.
Without conscious thought, I reached for the pencil Butch had placed beside the papers. I circled Victor's statement about the timeline, then wrote in the margin:"5+ years. Started earlier. Wyoming wolf pack, 2021."
