Next to his claim about only two previous targets, I noted:"Nevada foxes 2022. California bears 2024. Idaho wolves? Colorado unknown—possible additional sites?"
When I reached his description of their collection methods, my hand pressed so hard against the paper that the pencil lead nearly broke. I underlined his claim about humane treatment three times, then wrote with stark clarity:"False. Wyoming: 4 adults shot resisting. Nevada: entire family executed after sampling, including infant. California: 3 elderly bears killed on site, deemed 'unsuitable specimens.'"
My hands moved faster now, confidence growing as I analyzed the document. Victor's careful lies began to unravel under my scrutiny. He'd altered locations, confused timelines, combined separate operations into single events. But the patterns were unmistakable to someone who'd watched his organization evolve from the shadows.
I flipped to a fresh page and quickly sketched a more accurate timeline, marking known operations with precise dates and locations. Then I added a second layer—the evolution of their tactics over time. Each attack had refined their approach, their extraction methods becoming more efficient, their containment procedures more sophisticated.
When Butch shifted in his chair, I looked up, suddenly aware that I'd been completely absorbed in my analysis. I'd forgotten to be afraid, forgotten to monitor the room, forgotten everything except exposing the truth buried in Victor's lies.
"Find something?" Butch asked, his voice neutral though his eyes were sharp with interest.
I nodded, then pointed to a specific paragraph where Victor claimed his operation maintained strict scientific protocols with oversight from legitimate research institutions.
My fingers rapped against the paper impatiently, then I wrote:"No oversight. Field operatives make collection decisions based on predetermined criteria. Specialized interest in rare shifter types. Higher value placed on young specimens with unusual abilities."
I'd seen their field notes. Had retrieved them from an abandoned observation post after the Nevada operation, when they'd been forced to evacuate quickly due to an unexpected forest fire.
The clinical language couldn't disguise the horror of what they'd documented—shifters ranked by potential research value, marked for collection or elimination based on cold calculations of scientific utility.
Butch leaned forward, studying my notations with growing intensity. "You're certain about these dates? These locations?"
I nodded emphatically, then flipped through my notebook until I found the relevant pages—my detailed documentation of each operation, complete with dates, locations, and tactical approaches. I'd been meticulous, recording everything from team compositions to equipment specifications.
Nothing like the sanitized version Victor was presenting.
As I compared the interrogation transcript with my own records, my hands became increasingly animated, pointing out discrepancies, connecting related operations that Victor had deliberately separated in his account. I underlined key phrases, circled obvious lies, and filled the margins with corrections.
Without words, I was painting a comprehensive picture of Victor's true operation—larger, older, and far more deadly than he was admitting.
"He's protecting someone," Butch observed, watching me work. "Compartmentalizing information to shield higher-ups?"
I looked up, surprised by his insight, then nodded. I sketched a quick organizational chart showing Victor as just one node in a larger structure—not the architect but a key lieutenant.
Above him, I drew a question mark, then wrote:"Funding source. Someone with significant resources. Military connections?"
"You think there's military involvement?" Butch asked sharply.
I hesitated, then qualified my response:"Tactics suggest military training. Equipment is military-grade. Access to restricted areas indicates possible government connections."
Butch ran a hand through his hair, his expression darkening as he processed the implications. "So we've got a bigger problem than just Victor and his team."
I nodded grimly, then tapped the papers spread before us, trying to convey the scope of what we were facing. This wasn't a rogue operation that would end with Victor's capture. It was systematic, well-funded, and deeply embedded in structures that would survive the loss of any single operative.
Butch studied me for a long moment, his expression thoughtful. "You know, when Rooster first started leaving food out for you, some of the guys thought he was wasting his time." He gestured to my notations covering the transcripts. "But he saw something in you the rest of us missed. Turns out he was right."
I ducked my head, uncomfortable with the implicit praise.
"You've got a mind for this," Butch continued, tapping the papers. "You see patterns, connections. And you've got experience no one else here has."
I hadn't thought of my years of solitary survival as valuable experience before. I'd considered it just existence—breathinganother day, avoiding capture, moving on before anyone looked too closely. But Butch was right—I'd developed skills during those years. Skills that were proving useful now.
"I'm going to need your help deciphering the rest of his statements," Butch said, reaching for another stack of papers. "If that's alright with you."
It wasn't a command from an MC president to someone at the bottom of the hierarchy. It was a request—a recognition of agency I wasn't used to being granted.
I nodded slowly, something warm unfurling in my chest at the realization that I wasn't being tolerated here. I was being valued. For the first time in fifteen years, my existence wasn't defined by what I needed to hide from others, but by what I could offer them.
My fingers reached for the next transcript, no longer trembling but steady with purpose. The atmosphere in the room had shifted completely from our first meeting—no longer an interrogation, but a collaboration between equals with different but complementary knowledge.
