My stomach drops. "It wasn't me."
"We know that now." Doc nods. "But back then? It was enough to convince him you'd left by choice. That's when the real destruction started."
"What do you mean?"
"Bar fights. Drunk driving. Taking risks that should've killed him." Doc's voice is matter-of-fact. "Vulture almost took his patch. Then one night, we got word about a trafficking operation moving girls through our territory. Falcon volunteered to lead the raid." He meets my eyes. "They found six women chained in a basement. After that, he had a purpose. Channeled all that rage into hunting traffickers."
The irony is a knife between my ribs. While I was living the nightmare, he was saving others from it. Because he thought I'd abandoned him.
"You changed his life," Doc says quietly. "Twice. Once by leaving, and again by coming back."
Before I can respond, the clubhouse door bangs open. Voices rise in the hallway, tense and urgent. Doc rises, moving toward the commotion. I follow, hanging back in the doorway.
Vulture stands in the center of the room, surrounded by patch members. His expression is grim as he spreads photos across the table.
"Another shipping container," he says. "Port authority got an anonymous tip, but by the time they arrived, it was empty. Signs of recent occupation, though."
"They were warned," Falcon says, his voice hard. He's standing slightly apart from the others, arms crossed. He hasn't noticed me yet.
"Had to be," Vulture agrees. "Question is, by who?"
"Or they're changing their MO," suggests Ice Pick. "After we hit that last container, they'd be stupid to use the same method."
As they discuss theories, I study the photos. Something about the container configuration looks familiar—the ventilation setup, the specific dimensions. It triggers a memory so visceral I have to grip the doorframe to stay upright.
Voices outside the container. Men arguing about placement. "The Chicago route is blown. We need to move them through Burns Harbor now. The buyers are getting impatient."
"It's a new route," I say before I can stop myself.
The room falls silent, heads turning toward me. Falcon's gaze is like a physical weight.
"What did you say?" Vulture asks.
I step forward, forcing myself to stand straight despite the instinct to shrink from so many male gazes. "That container setup—it's for longer transport. They're changing routes. Using the Burns Harbor instead of Chicago Port."
"How do you know that?" Ice Pick asks, eyes narrowed.
"I overheard the guards talking. After your club hit another operation, they discussed alternative routes." I approach the table cautiously. "That ventilation system is specific to longer journeys. They don't bother for short hauls."
Falcon is watching me, his expression unreadable. "Burns Harbor is Reapers territory."
"Exactly," I say, meeting his eyes directly for the first time in days. "They're adapting."
Vulture exchanges looks with the others. "We need to verify this. Condor, reach out to our port contacts. Ice Pick, check port authority schedules." He turns to me. "Anything else you can remember? Timing, specific locations?"
I shake my head. "Just fragments. They were careful about what they said around us."
"This helps," Vulture says, surprising me with what sounds like genuine gratitude. "Thank you."
The club members disperse, assigned tasks driving them to action. Only Falcon remains, still watching me with that impenetrable expression.
Now or never.
"Can we talk?" I ask, my voice steadier than I feel. "Somewhere private?"
For a moment, I think he'll refuse. Then he nods once, sharply, and leads me through the clubhouse to the garage. The space smells of oil and metal, his motorcycle standing gleaming in the center. Tools line the walls in precise order—Falcon always was methodical.
He closes the door and leans against his workbench, arms crossed like a barrier between us. "What is it?"
