A knock interrupts my thoughts. I open the door to find Maggie, expression serious.
"Burns Harbor operation hit a complication," she says without preamble. "Several injured, including Falcon."
My heart stutters. "How bad?"
"Not critical. They're bringing them back now."
Relief washes through me, followed immediately by resolve. "I want to help."
Maggie nods as if she expected this. "Doc can use an extra pair of hands."
As I follow her to help prepare the medical area, I realize something important. The girl Falcon lost is gone forever. But perhaps the woman I've become still has something to offer—to the club, to other survivors, to myself.
I'll never be the same girl. But maybe, just maybe, that's not the end of my story.
Chapter Six
FALCON
The clubhouse materializes through the fog like a mirage, neon signs buzzing in the twilight. I grip the handlebars tighter, ignoring the white-hot pain radiating from my left shoulder. The bullet only grazed me, but it left a furrow deep enough to need stitches. Nothing compared to what Condor and Ice Pick are dealing with.
Behind me, the rumble of engines announces the rest of our crew limping home from what should have been a simple recon mission in Burns Harbor. Instead, we walked straight into an ambush. Someone knew we were coming. Someone talked.
I guide my bike into the compound, noting Vulture's grim expression as he helps Condor off the back of his Harley. Blood has soaked through the makeshift bandage on Condor's thigh, and his face is gray with shock. Ice Pick doesn't look much better, clutching his ribs where a Reaper's steel-toed boot connected with enough force to crack bone.
"Get them inside," I bark to the prospects rushing out to meet us. "Doc's waiting."
The clubhouse door bangs open as brothers pour out to help the wounded. The mission was a disaster from the moment we crossed into Burns Harbor territory—Reapers waiting at every turn, as if they'd been given our exact route and timeline. Three of our guys in the lead truck took shotgun blasts through the windows. We're lucky to have gotten out with no fatalities.
I dismount slowly, each movement sending fresh fire through my shoulder. Adrenaline is fading, leaving nothing but pain and questions in its wake. Most pressing: who sold us out?
"You need medical," Vulture says, appearing at my side. Our president looks like hell—split lip, bruised eye, but no major injuries. "Don't give me that look. You're bleeding through your cut."
"Others first," I reply, following him inside. "We need to talk about what happened."
"Later," he says firmly. "Get patched up, then we'll figure out who's got a death wish."
The medical room is chaos—Doc moving between three tables where the worst injured lie. Hustler is assisting with supplies, face pale but hands steady. And then I see her—Cara, sleeves pushed up, applying pressure to Condor's leg wound while Doc works on removing shotgun pellets from Hawk's back.
"Pressure here," Doc instructs her without looking up. "Don't let go, no matter how much he cusses at you."
She nods, focus absolute. Her hands are smaller than I remember, but they move with confidence. This isn't the traumatized victim I carried from that container. This is someone else—someone I don't know how to categorize.
"Falcon," Doc calls, still working on Hawk. "You're third in line unless you're bleeding out."
"I can wait," I say, leaning against the wall. The room spins slightly, but I grip a shelf to steady myself. Blood loss is making me lightheaded, but I'll be damned if I show weakness now.
Cara glances up, catching my eye for the first time. Something flickers across her face—concern, maybe. Or just recognition of another task.
"I can help him," she says to Doc. "The bullet just grazed him. Clean and stitch."
Doc assesses me with a quick look. "Any other injuries I can't see?"
"Just the shoulder."
"Fine," he agrees, turning back to Hawk. "Cara, suture kit's in the cabinet. Local anesthetic. Don't let him talk you out of using it."
She washes her hands quickly once Hustler takes over with Condor, then gathers supplies with an efficiency that raises questions about what exactly she learned during five years of captivity. I follow her to a smaller exam table in the corner of the room, shrugging out of my cut with a wince.
